Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget - Sarah Hepola
I’m in Paris on a magazine assignment, which is exactly as great as it sounds. I eat dinner at a
restaurant so fancy I have to keep resisting the urge to drop my fork just to see how fast someone will
pick it up. I’m drinking cognac—the booze of kings and rap stars—and I love how the snifter sinks
between the crooks of my fingers, amber liquid sloshing up the sides as I move it in a figure eight.
Like swirling the ocean in the palm of my hand.
I’m in Paris on a magazine assignment, which is exactly as great as it sounds. I eat dinner at a
restaurant so fancy I have to keep resisting the urge to drop my fork just to see how fast someone will
pick it up. I’m drinking cognac—the booze of kings and rap stars—and I love how the snifter sinks
between the crooks of my fingers, amber liquid sloshing up the sides as I move it in a figure eight.
Like swirling the ocean in the palm of my hand.
THE LIFE YOU’VE ALWAYS WANTED My apartment in New York was on the southern edge of Williamsburg, back when rents were almost reasonable. I had a view of the bridge into Manhattan, strung up with lights like a Christmas tree. I had painted my living room in red candy cane stripes. When Stephanie came over to visit shortly after I moved in, she said, “You’re never leaving this place.” And I was so proud to have impressed her for a change. Paris had been devastating, but also a onetime deal. A private disaster is easy to rewrite for public consumption. “How was Paris?” / “Amazing!” And people nodded, because how else would Paris be? Besides, I had better views in front of me. Here I was. I was here. A writer in New York: the phrase that compensated for nearly anything. Dreamers plan their lives long before they live them, and by the fall of 2005, mine was finally catching up to the script. The details were a little off. I wasn’t 23 when I moved to the big city; I was 31. I wasn’t exactly writing Catcher in the Rye. I was writing hack profiles and advance blurbs for Lego Star Wars: The Video Game . And I wasn’t nestled in the tree-lined Valhalla of literary Brooklyn. I was scraping by in a borough where razor wire was giving way to ironic T-shirts. But I loved my big, rambling apartment. The owner of the building was a small Dominican woman in her late 50s, with a tight bun and a stern demeanor. She spoke little English, and I refused to speak Spanish with her, because I didn’t want to cede what little comfort zone I had, so we were reduced to curt nods in the hallway. Her entire family lived in the building. Her heavyset single daughter, who stopped by to discuss noise complaints. (I had a few.) Her sketchy son, who smoked on the front steps while talking on a cell phone. Her six-year-old twin granddaughters, with heads of kinky curls. “Is your cat home?” one of them would ask from the hallway, lisping through her gap teeth. This question would crack me up. As though sometimes my cat were at work. My first year was mostly good. Promising. And having finally settled the bullet points of my life, I was ready to finesse the details. Less furniture pulled from curbs. Better skin care products. A little personal improvement. I had this great idea: I should learn to cook. My mother had tried to teach me a few times in my early 20s, but I blew her off. Women don’t need to know this stuff anymore , I told her, like she was instructing me in stenography. But 12 months in the city had made me question this tack. Too much of my paycheck was being handed over to deliverymen. I also hoped cooking might forge a healthier connection to food and drink, which I badly needed. How had I determined that not learning a skill was a position of power? My cooking experiments began with promise. Me, in that empty kitchen, slicing and dicing like a mature, grown-up adult person. I would open a bottle of wine to enjoy while I did prep work. But wine made me chatty, so I would call friends back in Texas. And I’d get so engrossed in the conversation, I didn’t want to cook anymore. I’d lose my appetite after the second glass, and I’d bundle the food and stuff it back into the refrigerator, trading asparagus spears for half a dozen Parliaments by the window.
When the bottle was drained, I’d slip out to the bodega and pick up two 24-ounce Heinekens. The equivalent of four beers, which I had titrated to be the perfect amount: just enough to get me to the edge without pushing me over. (The only recipe I knew.) Around midnight, when hunger came on like a clawing beast, I’d throw some pasta in a pot of boiling water, slather it with butter and salt, and devour it while I watched cable. Didn’t Wolfgang Puck start this way? My friend Stephanie actually married a chef from the Food Network. Bobby. They lived in an elegant Manhattan apartment—two stories, with a standing bar and a pool table upstairs. Visiting her was like stepping into the Life You’ve Always Wanted, but the thing about Stephanie was, she wanted to share it. She paid for our dinners, floated my cab fare, and made the world lighter with a million other tiny gestures that had nothing to do with money. Stephanie was in a Broadway play in the spring, and I went to the opening-night party at Bobby’s Midtown bistro, which was like taking straight shots of glamour. Naomi Watts was there. Supporting actors from Sex and the City. I stood in line for the bathroom behind Bernadette Peters (from Annie!), and I had a cigarette with the guy who starred in the second season of The Wire. I texted a friend, “I just bummed a smoke from Frank Sobotka!” In our circle, this was like splitting an ice-cream sundae with Julia Roberts. Kids who crave fame often imagine New York will be like this. One big room full of celebrities and cocktails. Stephanie’s party wasn’t too far from my own childhood fantasies. Except this time, I was in it. I went back to Bobby’s restaurant as often as I could after that. One night in the fall, I was having a drink there with a bunch of Stephanie’s friends, including a saucy redhead I liked. Around 8 pm, our friends peeled off for dinner plans and more responsible lives, and the redhead turned to me. “You want to go to another bar?” she asked. And that was an easy question. “Sure.” We rambled on to a trendy spot in Hell’s Kitchen and bonded over the miseries of the single life while slurping down $17 martinis. I remember what they cost, because I had to do quick math. How many of these can I squeeze on my last working credit card and still afford the cab ride home? The redhead had been out of work for a while, a fact she was very open about, and I couldn’t figure out how she managed to stay in her Upper West Side apartment and afford $17 martinis. I wanted to ask her, but I never found a polite way to introduce the topic. So we sat there discussing our favorite sexual positions. At midnight, we walked to the corner to catch a cab. My heels were in my hands, my bare feet slapping on the gummy sidewalk. By the time the taxi dropped me off at home, I had an insane hunger. I boiled water on the stove and threw in some pasta. I flopped down on the futon and turned on that VH1 show where talking-head comedians make fun of Milli Vanilli and Teddy Ruxpin. The next part is confusing. A banging at the door. The landlord’s sketchy son with a fire extinguisher in his hands. Gray smoke churning over the stove. The earsplitting beeping of the alarm. “Open the window,” he said. Sweat was dripping off his face as he worked to secure the kitchen. I stood behind him, arms dangling at my sides. “Your alarm’s been going off for half an hour,” he said, and he moved the pot of charred spaghetti stalks off the burner. “I must have fallen asleep,” I said, a much gentler phrase than “passed out.” But I wondered if they knew. Surely they’d seen all the cans and bottles in my recycling bin.
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- Page 41 and 42: DRESSING IN MEN’S CLOTHES I start
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- Page 45 and 46: you to imperil our amazing friendsh
- Page 47 and 48: I FINALLY GOT a boyfriend near the
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- Page 55 and 56: ehind me, and told him I was moving
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- Page 67 and 68: OF COURSE. OF course I’d gone to
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When <strong>the</strong> bottle was drained, I’d slip out <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> bodega and pick up two 24-ounce Heinekens. The<br />
equivalent of four beers, which I had titrated <strong>to</strong> be <strong>the</strong> perfect amount: just enough <strong>to</strong> get me <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong><br />
edge without pushing me over. (The only recipe I knew.) Around midnight, when hunger came on like<br />
a clawing beast, I’d throw some pasta in a pot of boiling water, sla<strong>the</strong>r it with butter and salt, and<br />
devour it while I watched cable. Didn’t Wolfgang Puck start this way?<br />
My friend Stephanie actually married a chef from <strong>the</strong> Food Network. Bobby. They lived in an<br />
elegant Manhattan apartment—two s<strong>to</strong>ries, with a standing bar and a pool table upstairs. Visiting her<br />
was like stepping in<strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> Life You’ve Always Wanted, but <strong>the</strong> thing about Stephanie was, she wanted<br />
<strong>to</strong> share it. She paid for our dinners, floated my cab fare, and made <strong>the</strong> world lighter with a million<br />
o<strong>the</strong>r tiny gestures that had nothing <strong>to</strong> do with money.<br />
Stephanie was in a Broadway play in <strong>the</strong> spring, and I went <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> opening-night party at Bobby’s<br />
Mid<strong>to</strong>wn bistro, which was like taking straight shots of glamour. Naomi Watts was <strong>the</strong>re. Supporting<br />
ac<strong>to</strong>rs from Sex and <strong>the</strong> City. I s<strong>to</strong>od in line for <strong>the</strong> bathroom behind Bernadette Peters (from Annie!),<br />
and I had a cigarette with <strong>the</strong> guy who starred in <strong>the</strong> second season of The Wire. I texted a friend, “I<br />
just bummed a smoke from Frank Sobotka!” In our circle, this was like splitting an ice-cream sundae<br />
with Julia Roberts.<br />
Kids who crave fame often imagine New York will be like this. One big room full of celebrities<br />
and cocktails. Stephanie’s party wasn’t <strong>to</strong>o far from my own childhood fantasies. Except this time, I<br />
was in it.<br />
I went back <strong>to</strong> Bobby’s restaurant as often as I could after that. One night in <strong>the</strong> fall, I was having a<br />
drink <strong>the</strong>re with a bunch of Stephanie’s friends, including a saucy redhead I liked. Around 8 pm, our<br />
friends peeled off for dinner plans and more responsible lives, and <strong>the</strong> redhead turned <strong>to</strong> me.<br />
“You want <strong>to</strong> go <strong>to</strong> ano<strong>the</strong>r bar?” she asked.<br />
And that was an easy question. “Sure.”<br />
We rambled on <strong>to</strong> a trendy spot in Hell’s Kitchen and bonded over <strong>the</strong> miseries of <strong>the</strong> single life<br />
while slurping down $17 martinis. I remember what <strong>the</strong>y cost, because I had <strong>to</strong> do quick math. How<br />
many of <strong>the</strong>se can I squeeze on my last working credit card and still afford <strong>the</strong> cab ride home? The<br />
redhead had been out of work for a while, a fact she was very open about, and I couldn’t figure out<br />
how she managed <strong>to</strong> stay in her Upper West Side apartment and afford $17 martinis. I wanted <strong>to</strong> ask<br />
her, but I never found a polite way <strong>to</strong> introduce <strong>the</strong> <strong>to</strong>pic. So we sat <strong>the</strong>re discussing our favorite<br />
sexual positions.<br />
At midnight, we walked <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> corner <strong>to</strong> catch a cab. My heels were in my hands, my bare feet<br />
slapping on <strong>the</strong> gummy sidewalk. By <strong>the</strong> time <strong>the</strong> taxi dropped me off at home, I had an insane hunger.<br />
I boiled water on <strong>the</strong> s<strong>to</strong>ve and threw in some pasta. I flopped down on <strong>the</strong> fu<strong>to</strong>n and turned on that<br />
VH1 show where talking-head comedians make fun of Milli Vanilli and Teddy Ruxpin.<br />
The next part is confusing. A banging at <strong>the</strong> door. The landlord’s sketchy son with a fire<br />
extinguisher in his hands. Gray smoke churning over <strong>the</strong> s<strong>to</strong>ve. The earsplitting beeping of <strong>the</strong> alarm.<br />
“Open <strong>the</strong> window,” he said. Sweat was dripping off his face as he worked <strong>to</strong> secure <strong>the</strong> kitchen. I<br />
s<strong>to</strong>od behind him, arms dangling at my sides.<br />
“Your alarm’s been going off for half an hour,” he said, and he moved <strong>the</strong> pot of charred spaghetti<br />
stalks off <strong>the</strong> burner.<br />
“I must have fallen asleep,” I said, a much gentler phrase than “passed out.” But I wondered if <strong>the</strong>y<br />
knew. Surely <strong>the</strong>y’d seen all <strong>the</strong> cans and bottles in my recycling bin.