Public Drunkeness & Meeting ButterMilk Brown

It was the kind of Saturday night that I'd been itching for. I had been in New York for a complete week now. Aside from Rope, the $1 beer spot we hung out at on Monday, I hadn't really been anywhere yet. Molly and I left the house for Atlantic Plaza so I could make a return at Old Navy. Of course we stopped in Marshall's. How can any sane person pass up such reasonably priced designer clothing? We browsed around for thirty minutes or so, stopping by the fitting rooms to try on our finds. Molly's boyfriend, Ralphy called to let us know there was a party on Church street at his friend's friend's house. So I settled on a top and decided to change into it before we left since all I had on at the time was my favorite Hello Kitty top that D got for me in Houston. Fortunately I'd done my hair; my long shaggy bangs were obscurely falling into my eyes and my short asymmetrical bob was flat ironed and hair sprayed, so I felt secure knowing I was presentable enough to party. We shook it out of Marshall's and onto the train to get to Chris (the friend) house so everyone could meet up. Eventually Raphly, Marshall and Los (Carlos) showed up and we congregated. Molly and I had stopped to get food on the way and were munching on respectively on a sandwich and a vegetarian Jamaican plate. I was so impressed with my Jamaican plate that I took a picture and sent it to D. "Jamaican food made by real Jamaicans...." I text him.

After deciding on a taxi we pulled up to the front of the house and waited around for Chris to park and walk over. Of course we couldn't just go in. We had to wait for our "friend" to come in with us, otherwise we'd just look like a bunch of strangers wondering into a random house party.

It was a three bedroom walk up. The living room was almost empty when we got there. A small group of people were gathered around the keg in the kitchen and everyone else was sporadically placed in the living room. I noticed a bar in the corner, and used shot glasses lining the edge of it. The music was mild hip hop beats, just loud enough to compel you to bob your head.

I sauntered over to the kitchen and waited in line at the pump. I filled my cup conservatively and began sipping. I sunk into the couch in the living room next to Molly and Lori and talked to them for a little while . We all chatted for a second and sipped on our beers. I noticed someone had plopped down close by me on an ottoman and was talking to a girl with gorgeous crinkled dread locks. He was a tall, light skinned dude the color of sugar cane with a page-boy hat on. As he waved his hands in conversation, I noticed a Vietnamese symbol between his right wrist and index finger. As he spoke I realized that his eyes were greenish grey. "Cute" I thought to myself.

As the night progressed, everyone became more familiar as people tend to do at parties. I found out that the girl with the gorgeous dread locks was Jasmine, and she claimed she "absolutely loved" being able to get up and do nothing to her hair. I met a girl behind the bar who was thrilled to play bar tender and concocted a fruity, dangerous mix of dark rum, strawberries and orange juice. The mix wasn't quite dangerous enough so we tried adding Patron, making sure that no one saw us chug half the bottle into the blender. We passed the brew around and the guy with the hand tattoo came up and requested one. "Let me see what mess you two have made."

I pretended to be offended, "Ummm, I think by mess you mean geniusness.." I handed him a cup of our proud endeavour and he tasted it, smacking his full lips together and darting his eyes in search of the right words. "It's alright." He said. But as soon as I started laughing he joined me and poked my arm in jest. The drinks continued to flow.

Throughout the night I remember making my rounds. I went up to the attic and played my very first game of Beer Pong, a right of passage in New York. I ended up drinking two glasses of beer and me and my partner (a guy named Mario) got too drunk to play; our balls just bounced off the walls and everyone was rolling with laughter. I wandered downstairs and chatted with Chris in the hallway. He told me why he wants to be a cop and we discussed the violence in today's video games. I talked to Marshall about my first game of Beer Pong and he tried to contain himself as I'm sure my excitement was amusing to a Brooklyn native. I wondered over to the hand tattoo guy and finally introduced myself. His name was Craig and he formerly worked for Def Jam and was now a free spirit slash club promoter slash graffiti artist. I told him I was unemployed which somehow was hilarious to both of us. We indulged ourselves in another drink and continued talking. I stood by the door as he said goodbye to some guests that were leaving. I snapped a few pictures and eventually around 2 am our group decided to call a cab and head home.

Craig waited with me in the entry way of his building, while everyone else was just outside on the steps. I remember being very close to him, but not hugging or kissing; just speaking very closely. Maybe we thought we were talking too loud. Either way, before I left we'd made each other promise to call and go out soon. "Your FUN!" He kept saying to me with a wide, grey-eyed smile.

Ralphy, Molly, Marshall and I rode home buzzed from the drinks and the energy. We pulled up to our apartment in Bed-Stuy and walked in. I wasn't even thinking about sleeping arrangements. "Marshall's staying over." Ralphy said out of the corner of his mouth, then disappeared into the room with Molly. Marshall and I were left staring at each other. But I was in too good a mood to object. Too buzzed to even mind. I fell asleep fast and the four of us woke up to pancakes and Advil.

On Trying Not To Drink

I'm not going to say that I'm some kind of lush. I've never spent money I didn't really have on a drink, nor have I ever hurt anyone physically while intoxicated. I've never had a DUI or been cited for being drunk in public. I'd say officially, I have a pretty clean slate. But I know that I can drink too much. And as long as I know; that's really all the convincing I require.

Like that time that me and D went to time square. It was one of those days that you wish would stretch on and last, but instead it rushed by so quickly. We decided not to spend it dodging tourists and bumping into people on the sidewalk. So we ducked into a pub and ordered some drinks to warm us up. I had a Vodka martini, dirty with my favorite, Grey Goose. I sipped it cordially as D called a friend to see if he wanted to meet us. Then we fell into flirtatious conversation and without even noticing; my drink was depleted. He automatically ordered me another. By the time our friend arrived I was on my third; this time because the bar tender offered to make me the best I'd ever had. I don't know if he was right, but it sure had more alcohol than the first two. This one I drank slower, and then realized that I had to use the restroom. I excused myself long before I actually started to toggle off of my stool. I straightened by blouse and smoothed down my jeans. Then glared at the obstacle ahead of me. I started towards the bathroom, which was inconveniently located across the large room, down a flight of stairs and around a long winding hallway. I made it to the staircase without embarrassment.

After relieving three glasses of Vodka and olive juice, I primped in the mirror. I still looked pretty hot, so maybe no one noticed how smashed I was. I wobbled back to the bar only managing to bump into an empty chair on the way. Here comes the bad part. So me and D decided to leave the bar, and part ways with the friend. D suggests instead of hiking it to the subway and making our way back to my Brooklyn apartment, we get a room in Times Square and enjoy ourselves. I think this is a marvelous idea, especially since I'd rather not walk the four blocks to the F train in my four inch calf high boots.

The next is a blur to me. I remember trying the W, but no they were out of rooms. I remember sauntering into the Marriott who had a room, only one left; a King suite which D accepted promptly and paid for. I remember getting into the elevator followed by Cynthia Nixon (Miranda on Sex and the City) and her wife. I remember being in awe and hoping that it was really her, because what a tease for it to just be some stranger who looked exactly like her. I remember getting so emotional that I'd seen her that I cried in front of the concierge, who handed me a tissue and a bottle of Evian. I remember going up to our room and struggling to take my booths off by the window. I recall a shower with D, although not clearly. And I recall waking up the next morning void of cloths.

I slid my hand over to D to see if he was clothed or not. Not. Which was rare, because even after we'd gotten busy in the past he always managed to put his shirt and boxer briefs back on while I remained glowing, nude and quite pleased with myself. The fact that his clothes were off told me that last night was a wild one. I walked over to the window and took in the view. Times Square was lit up against the morning sun, the streets were already busy with people rushing and dragging their children on leashes. I tried to remember the night. Tried to sample an image that I could hold onto after D left. After he was on his plane and back in California. But nothing. Not even a morsel of a memory brushed my mind. Flashes of images came, like being in the shower but only for a second. I looked around and tried to piece it together. My clothes were piled on the floor near the bed. His shirt was by the sofa, and our shoes were thrown about. The bed was a mess and there were two towels strewn across a chair by the desk. I started to nudge him, but I knew it would be another hour until he woke. So I took a picture of the room and of D sleeping and kissed his forehead.

When he woke he was disappointed to know that I didn't remember. A knowing grin spread across his face as if he was grateful that one of us remembered the night. A night that may surely be our last. I felt so ashamed that I'd let it slip through my fingers.

So since then, I've counted my drinks. Paid close attention to my consumption. I don't want to let another priceless memory disappear beneath an empty glass of wine or a shaker of vodka and ice. I'm far from being a lush indeed, and I'd like to keep it that way.