Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget

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.