A Christmas Miracle

Part I: Get Drinkin’, Son

It was a dark night, a sunless night, a Saturday night; built of air and black skies and probably some stars and a couple of street lights off at the far end of the yard. The kind of night that breeds alcoholism and fornicative urges. A night for calculated recklessness and desperate stupidity. A night for miracles.

But focus on that night no longer. Focus on the magic that was happening below that night. An apartment driveway two canopies wide, two long, with about as many plastic tables in both directions as well; bereft of parked cars and littered instead with three grills, two kegs and inebriated twenty-somethings of all genders. Also, litter.

Draw your attention now not to the girl doing a keg-stand, with her shirt around her shoulders and strange men’s hands upon her abdomen, nor to the old man trying to bum cigarettes from people who don’t smoke in a language they don’t speak, but to the young man at the angled juncture in between these two scenes. Where the driveway meets what passes for the lawn. Christ. The fucking corner. Right, so, focus on this young man, the one smelling of charcoal and beer, in blue jeans and a dark t-shirt, at this intersection of yard and asphalt. No. Not that one. That one, nursing a red Solo cup of cheap beer. Oh, come on, now. That’s not even a dude. What the fuck. Are you even trying? There, fucking there. Barefoot, sprawled on a plastic chair and talking to himself. Yes, him. Finally. Jesus. That's me.

“Dude.”

I was having a crisis.

“I know, man, I know.”

I live on the second floor of the building towering over the bacchanal. I could see my living room from where I was sitting, could hear my toilet flushing on the breeze. Which actually alarmed me a bit, but it’s an oddly shaped property, and the wind does some fucked up things sometimes, so I just shrugged it off and went back to my crisis.

In the course of a man’s life, there comes a time when he must face his demons, must reconcile it within himself to do something dark and sinister simply to survive. That time was this night, that demon was manifesting itself to me as a felt puppet named Peter Frampton, and that horrible something was my neighbor.

“It’s been a fucking year. Twelve long, lonely, sordid months.”

“Yeah, but...”

“She wants you.”

“I know.”

“She wants to have sex with you.”

“I know.”

“I fail to see the problem here.”

“She lives downstairs. You do realize that, right?”

“What’s life without a little drama?”

“Drama? That’s going from ‘Hey, howya doin’’ to ‘Let’s move in together’ in a single move.”

“It wouldn’t be that bad.”

“Yes it would. And you know it.”

“A fucking year, dude.”

“I don’t like her.”

“She’s not unattractive.”

“There are times I can hardly even tolerate her.”

“A solid calendar year.”

“Are you even listening?”

“No.”

“Screw you, man.”

“Screw her, screw her.”

“I hate you, Peter Frampton.”

“And I still don’t care.”

Peter Frampton did have a point, however. Well, kind of. I was a man, a young man, with primal needs, and the neighbor was a woman, a young woman, with breasts and probably a vagina too, and, as such, I did what any man would do in this situation. I downed what was left in my cup, lifted myself from my chair, zeroed in on the neighbor girl in question, walked right past her, raided someone’s cooler and began dual-wielding Yeunglings. Two at a time until I couldn’t stand.

“What the fuck is this, man?”

“I’m not nearly drunk enough to attempt this yet.”

“That is complete bullshit. You’re plenty drunk.”

Just then, a horrific laugh, full of misunderstanding and sinus ripped through the driveway, echoing off the building and into the lawn region. People winced, paint peeled, a small dog’s head exploded.

“Oh my God.”

“Yep.”

“Get drinkin’, son.”


Part II: Beer and Foul Language

There I was, beers in hands, biding my time until I was trashed enough to rationalize sleeping with the neighbor girl. Mind you, she’s a lovely young woman, just not my type. At all. Let me also abruptly add that none of the people I invited showed up; I was angry, sullen, embarrassed, and kind of desperate for human contact at this point. Not that any of that factored into my decision-making process or my need to drown reality in cup after cup of cheap booze or anything. I’m just sayin’ is all.

Anyway, back to the drinking. That’s what I’m doing: drinking, drinking, drinking. But I don’t stumble or shuffle, don’t even stub my toe on that part of the walkway that everyone’s been tripping over all night. The part that smelled of beer and foul language. I am, however, buzzed enough to be charming and sociable. I’m talking to guys and girls I don’t or only kind of know; people are chirpy and talking to other people of equally quaint, happy adjectives; the place is rocking, the inanimate objects are groovy; hell, everything’s absolutely fucking wonderful.

Now, if I remember my science correctly, any solution, left alone and given time, will eventually separate back into its original, primary substances. And if it turns out that’s wrong, replace “science” with “sociology,” “solution” with “social system,” and “substances” with “caste-determined hierarchy.” And if that still doesn’t make sense, I fucked your mom. Any way you slice it, I end up hanging out with Downstairs Neighbor, her friends, and some other assorted misfits on the grassy part of the property while all the cool kids play beer pong, talk about how having good jobs and too much money isn’t satisfying enough, and have sex in the driveway. Or whatever else it is attractive drunk people do.

My plan at this point is still to get ridiculously drunk and nail Downstairs Neighbor. I mean, why the fuck not. She seems game, Hot Upstairs Neighbor (her friend and confidante) is egging me on, what’ve I got to lose.

Enter the girl. We’ll call her Lydia. I’d met her once before and thought she was pretty cool. I’ve been talking to her all night and now I know she’s really cool. But, of course, she’s in on Downstairs Neighbor’s plan to take advantage of me and isn’t going to get in the way of her friend. And, as any man knows, the Wall of Girl Friend ain’t exactly an easy barrier to breach. Seriously. It’s built of grudges and horrifically dirty insults and it scratches and pulls hair.

So that was that.

Or was it....?


Part III: Like a Fucking Ninja

A Mustang guns its engine, flies down our crowded, short street and comes to a perfect Driver’s Ed. stop at the curb. Out steps Date Rapist. Which is probably a bit of an exaggeration, but I reaaaallly wanted to kill the motherfucker by the end of the night, and, well, let’s face it, it’s damn near impossible to prove you aren’t a rapist. Seriously, try it. The more you plead you haven’t violated anyone, the shadier you look. Freaky shit, man.

Anyhoo, Date Rapist is a friend of Hot Upstairs Neighbor; hugs and hellos and off they go to party with the cool kids, leaving us outcasts to entertain ourselves. Which is easy enough, really. We’ve got a kiddie pool shaped like a frog, a collective wit strong and sharp enough to overthrow the government, and lots and lots of alcohol. By this point, people are hitting the “one too many” phase and starting to act retarded. Entertaining as all hell, let me tell you.

So I’m sitting there, feet in the pool, between Lydia and Downstairs Neighbor, with a half dozen others scattered round in a vaguely circular seating arrangement, and we’re all trading stories of one sort or another. Downstairs Neighbor is in the middle of hers and grabs my leg for emphasis or attention or because of a convulsion or something, so I turn to my right to acknowledge her, because, well, I’m weak and still considering letting her take advantage of me so I should at least pretend to pretend to pay attention. Of course, almost immediately I hear Lydia say something, so I turn to my left and there’s Date Rapist with his arm around her.

I swear to whatever god you want, I did not hear him, did not see him; he was just there. Like a fucking ninja. Only without weapons. Or honor.

Lydia, having just downed her first two shots of tequila ever, was a little dizzy and preoccupied with describing the taste it left in her mouth (“like licking a locker room clean”) and didn’t see what the douchebag was up to.

I did. So did two relatively sober lesbians. One of whom honestly did border on your man-hating, angry dyke stereotype. She, Alison, unleashed a volley of horrible words and thoughtful suggestions. The other one glared. I glared. And, sure, my moral outrage was tinged, if not fully distorted, by undue jealousy, but it didn’t lessen the impact of my hate. Date Rapist’s eyes widened at our terrible trio and, finding only slightly less righteous anger in the remainder of our circle, he took off.

Downstairs Neighbor had been clawing at me for the duration of the above paragraph and, oblivious to said paragraph, was still clawing at me. Alison saw this, gave me a look that conveyed more understanding of my situation than even I had at that moment, and wished me luck. She and I were the best of friends for the rest of the night.

And because I’m aware that there might be some confusion as to how I’m on the side of justified feminist rage and he’s at its mercy, let me clarify: Date Rapist is actively looking, scouring, for a naive drunk girl to have his way with. I’m passively getting inebriated so that a stubborn, calculating drunk girl can have her way with me. This is what makes me a good guy and him an abomination to mankind.

Right, so. An hour or two goes by fairly uneventfully. Date Rapist makes another couple of passes at Lydia but he’s gotten rid of somehow or other, nothing overly impressive or involved. At some point the kegs are killed and we misfits moved on to whatever alcohol we could find in Downstairs Neighbor’s apartment. I mean, some of us were there already but now we were actually allowed to be raiding her private stash.

Talking, talking, drinking, drinking, we move our group inside, more talking, more drinking. It’s the wee hours of the morning now and people are flat-out fucked up. Date Rapist takes this opportunity to show up again and offers to get the only technically conscious Lydia another beer. He’s chased out, to his God damn car, by, like, everyone. It was spectacular.

Downstairs Neighbor is all over me now, and it’s fucking obvious. Anything I thought I might’ve only inferred before, any doubts about misread signs, gone. So very gone. I’ve got to either sleep with this girl or avow to a room full of strangers that I’m gay. I mean, there’s no way of tactfully getting out of this. I’ve been hanging around her all night, leading her on; I’m not about to incite the wrath of Alison (even though she knows it’s not my fault entirely), and, most importantly, I’m very, very nearly drunk enough to allow this to happen. I mean, it is really looking like a good idea at this point. Finish this beer and it’ll be so long, good night and the two of us off to my apartment.

And then, then something wonderful happens. Lydia turns to me, rests her head upon my shoulder and looks up at me with these unbelievable dark brown eyes... then convulses and vomits in my lap.


Part IV: The Vomiting

“Oh sweet and merciful gods,” cry the womenfolk. (The menfolk, save for me, are either passed out or looking for more beer.) “We are too drunk to help her; we are too intoxicated to be of use in this particular situation. Whatever shall we do? She is clearly in need of some assistance. Lo, she vomits again! Who, who, who will rise to the occasion and help this fair damsel?”

I gently lift the girl’s head from my crotch, help her to her feet and, in a deep, commanding voice that stirs the heavens, say, “I’s cool, I got ‘er,” then proceed to walk her to the curb and hold back her hair as she produces a half-pound of digested ground beef and pretzels.

For the record, my vote had been to bring her to the toilet or the bathtub, but Downstairs Neighbor had apparently enacted a strict No Puking in My Apartment policy just moments earlier.

We’re only outside for a minute or two before we’re swarmed by the panicking womenfolk. They wrest Lydia from my care and proceed to help her themselves, alternately moving her farther up the street and forcing water down her throat. Again, neither of these was my idea.

Alison and I watch from the sidelines, pontificating as to how moving Lydia half a block up the street, directly under someone else’s window, is supposed to help. Eventually our mild amusement turns to mild concern as we realize the girls don’t know what they’re doing. We hatch a plan wherein Alison distracts the other women and I move Lydia inside so she can calm down, stop regurgitating water, and get some rest that doesn’t involve sprawling upon the sidewalk.

The plan goes off without a hitch, and I whisk Lydia away to Downstairs Neighbor's bedroom. Of course, once I get her there, I can plainly see she’s covered in vomit and is going to have to get changed. Which is when it dawns on me that I’ve now got to get a drunk girl out of her clothes. And since I still cling to remarkably outdated beliefs on what being noble and a gentleman constitutes, this becomes a more difficult task than one might think.

Thankfully, Lydia’s starting to come around. Well, she’s at least coherent now anyway. We rifle through Downstairs Girl’s dresser, find her some clothes, and I turn my back while she gets changed. She tells me she’s decent and I turn around to begin the equally difficult task of getting a drunk girl into bed.

Except, she’s more than decent, she’s unbelievable. Maybe it’s the 20 or so beers finally kicking in, maybe it’s the sudden death of all my impure thoughts allowing me to see the grace and perfection in everything, maybe it’s the fact that she’s not really wearing pants, who knows. That’s for the historians to debate and ignore in favor of something more marketable. What is important is that there are fairies flitting around her shoulders and the sun is shining down on her even though we’re indoors and it’s 3 or 4 in the morning and she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Even when she crumples to the floor and starts crying.

“Hey, whoa, you alright?”

“Yeah, I guess, I’m sorry, I’m just... embarassed. Scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“I don’t want to throw up again.”

“Look, everyone gets violently ill once in a while, it’s nothing to be worried about. No one’s going to remember. Half of them are probably too drunk to even know what’s going on.”

Through the door, we can hear Downstairs Neighbor berating her guests.

“Lydia is SICK. She’s fucking SICK. Covered in her own vomit and gonna do it again if you don’t shut the fuck up. You should all be quiet.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

Lydia starts crying again. I put my arm around her and throw a pillow along the base of the door.

“Look, Lydia, don’t worry about her. She’s loud, you know that. Just ignore her.”

It sounds like she’s agreeing with me but then there’s just more crying.

I get her up off the floor and lay her down on the bed. I can tell she’s still pretty agitated so I hold her hand and tell her every embarrassing story of debauchery and disgorgement I can think of until she stops shaking and sobbing and falls asleep.

And that's that. Abrupt? Anti-climatic? Sure. But that's life.

With my job done and my life still free of unnecessary drama, I go back upstairs to my own apartment, which, incidentally, is full of strange people sleeping on my kitchen floor, and go to bed alone.

The end.