In Search of Lost Time

Days without an update: 18

Wow, time flies when you’re on drugs. At least I think that’s the case for my opioid addict boss, Hundo, who didn’t realize that it was no longer August. He was blind-sided by the Jewish New Year and took off for the holiday, leaving me a few work days without visiting every Duane Reade in the city. Happy New Year!

I haven’t behaved much better than (allegedly) Hundo has, with my alcoholism lapsing into black outs all over the city. Thus the lack of updates, time for both blackouts and recovery is all my social calendar can handle.

About a week ago I cleared time in my social calendar to meet with Georgia Ann, Times Square and a few other friends that I’d been neglecting. We all met at El Rey Del Sol on 14th and enjoyed ourselves, along with a pitcher of margaritas. Part way through the evening we began to notice that the seasons were slowly changing from summer to fall, that we’re all becoming more accustomed to the city, and that the guys sitting behind me were very attractive.

Ten minutes later I had become BFF with Carlos and whatever the other guy’s name was, and found my conversation at their table leading very promising places. My gaggle of friends decided to move on to Flannery’s (love it) and I decided to stick around for ten more minutes and a cigarette (which is practically unveiled code for “let me seal the deal first”).

The next thing I know, its 6:30 in the morning and I’m on the E train in Queens. No cell phone, no iPod, and no idea how this all happened.

After only an hour and a half of sleep in Harlem, the Harem awakens me and informs me that moving day is upon us, just like autumn weather and the winter of my discontent. I pushed through a brutal headache and managed to drag my roomies belongings down the steps of our fifth floor walk-up and into the moving truck before nearly passing out on a subway train to our new home in Brooklyn. Unfortunately surviving one headache meant sucumbing to a new one- Straight Boyfriend’s bed was too big for our staircase and could not be pushed up the one flight of steps into our new (huge and awesome) apartment.

There was a brief moment when I pulled the box springs over my head that I worried I might faint, but when Straight Boyfriend literally threw his bed and I caught it by the loose fabric and pulled it over our second story balcony everything turned out ok. Then I immediately collapsed on our new couch, physically exhausted from moving and mentally not quite sure what happened the evening before.

Eventually the clues fell into place- my friends had called all night because I had simply disappeared (though I lost my phone and couldn’t call them), my hangover never included the slightest twinge of nausea, my memory lapsed for an epic 8 hour span, my bar tab never increased during the night, and I only had two drinks of the margaritas…. at 9 pm! That does not explain feeling entirely out of your own body at noon the next day.

Too confused and perturbed to venture out on Saturday, I chatted with a friend over mimosas and goat-cheese omlettes about my night. The conclusion: rohypnol. Perhaps GHB. Either way, fantastic.

Less than a year in a city and I already can’t remember the boys I’m going home with.

Jokes aside, the entire event does shake your confidence. Nothing of the evening was out of the ordinary, nothing incredibly dangerous or unwise, just incredibly bad luck and the complete ignorance/naivety of a midwesterner attempting to meet new people and have some margaritas. The strange marks on my arm have healed, I’ve retrieved my phone after a lengthy time out of touch, and my friends have forgiven me for disappearing. I have all my money, I am disease free, I was not forced to ingest anything illegal, and I wasn’t sold into black market slavery (that would RUIN my night). I am pretty lucky for all of that, though. The next few weeks have brought a sense of normalty, and the new apartment is coming along nicely. I’m *this close* to buying a real bed! Party.

It’s a shame for the boys though, I would’ve spent the night without the drugs. Bummer.

[everything it seems i like is a little bit sweeter, a little bit fatter, a little bit harmful for me]

The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe

Day 46

I have long suspected that “cougars” are having the best year ever. It’s self evident- Desperate Housewives is still a hit show, Kim Cattrall is still getting acting work, and I received a very special birthday card wishing a “happy birthday to a very special cougar”. While I am not a cougar by the standard definition (or any other definition), I use this card as further proof that cougars are more en vogue this year than rehab. And rehab has had one helluva year.

My birthday itself was very enjoyable, a special thanks to all those who wished me well. My first spirit journey formation anniversary here in NYC, and it was brought in with some new friends at a new bar. Just a few blocks from my current apartment is a lovely little place called Wicked Willy’s, which is normally populated by 9 to 5 preppy douchebags who like to play beerpong and pretend it’s 2002 and they’re still in college. However, one any given weeknight Willy’s also hosts karaoke, which means my birthday was spent drunkenly soliciting dedications. I even indulged by celebrating myself with a rousing rendition of “You’ve Lost that Lovin Feelin”, because you can’t beat the Righteous Brothers when drunk. The night quickly escalted into my fifth (yes, 5!) blackout in less than 7 days. Birthday was great, but having a birthday on the same week as the 4th of July is rough on the body.

Blackout aside, I can recall enough foggy details to truly recognize the enjoyable party that The Mess threw for me, and most of my fellows showed up to wish me well, which was awesome. The night took an unexpected turn when our friend, Times Square, won a Broadway karaoke contest (think “Hakuna Matada” with a conga line of drunken strangers) and was rewarded with a 50 dollar bar tab that had to be spent that night. At 1:30 in the morning.

I spent the next day napping instead of eating lunch, and forcing down only a banana for the daily meal. Large billion dollar television networks frown upon visible hangover. Fortunately I look good in a tie. Unfortunately, there was one physical flaw that my boss couldn’t help but notice.

My eyebrow is shaved.

Not completely, but still, enough that she noticed. In honesty, it has nothing to do with birthday festivities at the bar (or the diner we headed to afterwards). Before the birthday evening began I ran a few errands and popped in for a hair cut at a low end hair-cuttery place. I’m not too picky when it comes to buzzing off a layer of curls. However, this bitch isn’t too picky when it comes to buzzing off layers of anything, and nicked half my face and took part of my eyebrow off in the process while attempting to buzz the side of my head. The worst part was when I looked in the mirror and said “Oh, this is awkward… you cut off part of my eyebrow”. The woman looked at me intently, as if waiting for a “magic eye” image to appear in my pores, turned me around in the swivel chair, and said “No I didn’t.”

Now, I’m not always the most observant person, but I’m pretty sure I can tell when my eyebrows are too different lengths. Mainly because I have vision and a mirror. Sparing unnecesary details, calling your stylist a “dumb bitch” will get you kicked out of a hair salon quite quickly, but it may also save my face from unwanted trimming. I want my eyebrow back. Dumb bitch.

However, all of this was far out of my hungover mind when my boss, Jersey Queen (the one who cannot possibly be a drag queen because she lives in the garden state) approached me and said “Hey, Burkeman, you got buzzed last night”. I was stunned. Granted, my wrinkled clothes and the fact that I wore glasses to work might signal a hangover, along with showing up half an hour later than usual, but I thought I looked inconspicuous. I scanned myself over quickly to be sure there was no glarring bar stamp on my hand when my boss interjected “I meant your hair cut, but apparently you had a few drinks, too.”

It was too late to bother stammering an obvious denial.

Waking up the day after your birthday with half an eyebrow and a visible hangover isn’t always the worse. I could be waking up to all of this in a sketchy ass apartment in Brooklyn. I’m actually quite fond of Brooklyn, I just have been to a few too many sketchy ass apartments there- mainly the one I visited directly after my birthday. I was excited by the multi-national roommate line up, but when one “come here to study acting” and another is a professional framer at an art gallery, it became clear that none of us were planning on living in luxury. The apartment was painted pink and purple on the inside, but the room was really quite spacious, I was a fan…. until I shut the door, and the doorknob literally fell off. Half an eyebrow, admittedly hungover in front of the boss at work, and considering paying hundreds of dollars to live in a shady neighborhood, I saw my life slowly swirling to a stop along with that brass doorknob. At least it was sad funny.

I’m still considering taking it. Who needs a doornob when you’ve got a doorknob sized hole in your door?

Other apartments have been better, which is a good sign thus far. Certain parts of Brooklyn are looking quite nice, I must say. Same with Jersey, Queens, and even WAY uptown parts of Manhattan. I’ve even begin to weigh the merits of Staten Island, which isn’t such a bad place if you don’t mind a ferry ride (which includes a daily dose of the Statue of Liberty). I even consulted my boss, who’s lived in New York forever, but something about mentioning Staten Island made her oddly blurry eyed and I immediately escaped the awkward situation. I mentioned it to a person who knows our boss well and she played it off by simply saying “Well, you know, she’s a bit off sometimes.” I said sure, who isn’t. She casually replied, “She’s having rough family times. You know she’s actually a man, right?”

Suddenly the phrase “the doorknob fell off” is extra sad funny. And though I had a birthday, I’ve just met the most special cougar yet.

[no one back in traffic school had told us- there're signs that can't be learned]