City Lights/An excerpt from "The Best Way to Do Shots"

City Lights*

After shots, at least eleven, at various bars on the strip, I sat on the corner, cars and lights whirring by, blur of blurs, feeling sick, fighting the urge to vomit, I made a promise to myself I knew I wouldn’t keep. I lied down, went to sleep. A man in a uniform shook me awake and told me he could bust my ass for a P I. I told him I live down the street. He told me that he was feeling generous, so he’d let me walk my ass home. I thanked him, turned, and began to stumble in the direction of my apartment complex.

When I made it to the intersection, I stared up into the red light above me. My stomach was churning. Shots of vodka + tequila + whiskey + a couple of fru-fru cocktails, holy shit. I was trying to count in my head, remember how many shots it was. And where the hell were my friends? The light went green, the little green man, frozen in step, started flashing. Already? That was quick. I started to cross the street and I could feel a tingle in the back of my neck, hairs standing. I couldn’t hold it in anymore and began puking with each step.

I managed to get across the street. I was only about a block away from home. An SUV slowed to the curb. I could see it in my blurred peripheral. First headlights, then the mass. I heard a woman’s voice, asking me if I was okay. I waved her off without looking at her. I was hunched over, clutching my stomach.

She asked me if I needed a ride. I looked up and said no, I live a block or so away. She said that she saw me drinking at one of the bars, that I looked familiar. I had no idea who she was, but she wasn’t pretty. Thin, straight blonde hair. Blue eyes. Big tits. Skinny waist. Bird legs. Plain. Boring. She was standing next to her vehicle. Smoking. Watching me as I wretched into a trash can.

I used to buy coke from you, she screamed. That’s it! You got any? I told her that I didn’t do that anymore, that I’d grown out of the rebellious spirit that one taking up that kind of profession must have. She just glared emptily at me. I don’t want to get busted on account of dumb rich teenagers, I said, blowing slobber from my lips. Oh, she said. Oh? Really? That’s it? Oh? Typical of these spoiled broads who do nothing all day but pamper themselves on their parents’ dime. I continued, ambling in the direction of my apartment.

She shouted some profanities at me and I could hear the car door slam shut, followed by the SUV screeching past me. I laughed, and then, bearing ahead faster, staggering each step, the city lights faded as I passed ‘neath the trees, closer to where I lived, my bed, invoking me from afar.

By Patrick Patterson-Carroll

*excerpted from "The Best Way to Do Shots" inspired by the short stories of William T. Vollmann