thirsTAY by Tayah Groat

El concepto de “ser” es un dialelo rotundo, es la repetición de la posibilidad el hecho de haber desdibujado los límites entre los muertos y los vivos; la capacidad de vivir entre los muertos, como ellos, -ellos como nosotroscon ellos y ellos con nosotros… En ese sentido somos huesos que sostienen la armazón fenoménica que aparece frente a nuestros ojos, somos aroma a carne viva… piel entregada. Grasosa Acuosa Apestosa Porosa Perfumada Podrida Eriza Cicatrizada Bañada Acariciada Lastimada Fría Cálida Palpitante De hielo Muerta Sudorosa Muerta y existente en un mismo eterno aparecer/se.

thirsTAY

fiction by Tayah Groat

There was a time when I thought a great deal about alcohol. But it wasn’t me. It was her, and she was me but I sure wasn’t her. Her alcoholism was was typical , the only atypical part of her alcoholism was that I was underneath. It started as simple, innocent, wicked opportunism. This youthful child was reckless for all the regular reasons, so when alcohol was offered she experimented with the substance just like everyone else. And she loved it. She’d thirst for alcohol, crave the burning in her throat, she had an opposite of drunk feeling, stress like, buzzing until she had at least half her first drink. She’d reach for a glass after a stressful week, and then when she felt things she didn’t want to, and then all the time. She usually didn’t have to look very far, it’s not hard to get alcohol underage, but it always felt great to get what she wanted, like beating another level in a game. She was so confident she had it under control, that she could play with fire and never really get burned. She started going to class buzzed. She made me her home and it was terrifying. I’ll forever be afraid that she will come back.

You see, me, I’m just kid. Going on 20 years old, but still pretty much a kid: the kid part with potential and ambition anyway. I have everything going for me, really. I got grades that got me into college and I got to go because my parents have the money. I’ll probably get a decent job. I want to go overseas and teach English. I’ll probably meet someone special at some point. I could settle down and have a couple kids. I might go back to school and become a professor to teach about teaching, to inspire. I could go on to mentor somebody. I could change many lives, make a difference, live a really good life.

If it wasn’t for her. My first sip of alcohol was from my mom’s wine glass at age seven. The smell

113

114 drove me away, but wine by definition is a ‘forbidden fruit’: just very aged fruit, that’s not always so sweet. Like any child, I nearly spit it out. I didn’t understand why someone would drink such a wretched flavor. Most of the time, when I saw people drinking they were not drunk; it was just social. They did it at parties to have fun together. But when they were drunk they were funny and honest when they slurred their words. The bottles behind the bar were pretty and shimmered with glare. It seemed like a good idea, it worked well for everybody else. The first time I drank, I was iffy, it was like meeting a stranger. I had been cautioned, of course, and have always been the nervous type (but not quite nervous enough not to drink at all). This was in fact an illegal activity at age 16. My first drink was an expensive Bahamian rum and Coca-cola, rum and coke. I was housesitting for my uncle and saw my opportunity: a full stocked cabinet of alcohol and nothing holding me back. I made myself food (carbs) because I heard it was bad to drink on an empty stomach. I didn’t really get drunk, in fact I barely felt anything, just a little weird. Honestly I had this fear I would be an emotional drunk, angry or depressed (it is a depressant, I researched). I wanted to meet her. I thought if I met her maybe I’d like her or if I got to know her I could protect myself. It was just experimentation, a try, a meet and greet. The first time I got drunk, I had just finished my finals of junior year and felt far from confident of my performance. I was stressed: the kind that buzzes throughout your body but is highly unproductive. All my mind said was “!!!” and all the world did was spin. I drank as an emotional response, I turned to alcohol to make me feel better. This was a mistake. I dumped a bottle of peppermint schnapps in a glass of Pepsi, as if the drink wasn’t revolting enough and downed it on my kitchen floor. And so we met and she was the savior of my bad day. In this instance, she made me feel better. She danced around the house, singing, then crashed and took a nap. It was then I was convinced, and really it might have been better if I was not, that she was great. I decided though she had flaws of stupidity and outspokenness that I liked her anyway. At least she didn’t hit kids or spew profanities. She ceased to be the uptight over-thinker I was sober. She was not scared or the least bit anxious. She sings in public, says what she thinks and does what she wants. She was super me. And knowing all

this, encouraged her. The next time I saw her was among some flames at the end of the summer. Bonfires are beautiful things, not for the city folk, but appropriate for all walks of life. It’s the sense of community that comes from standing around a fire at night. She was among friends and got tipsy on Peach schnapps learning beer bong. She bonded, we bonded and I felt bonded. Guys passed around fruity cigars. The next morning I was late for work, I had completely forgotten and ran out without shoes. I skipped breakfast and paid for it later, the alcohol felt as if it was melting the lining of my stomach. If you send an American seventeen-year-old to Germany, they will have a drink. It was the first thing she did when the chaperones let us go; straight to the Biergarten. She began drinking the guy next to her ‘under the table’ and her friends seemed impressed. The beer tasted just as awful as beer does but her tongue became numb to it. But then they started recording her and offering to buy drinks, it was fun until it wasn’t. Flowers of red bloomed in my cheeks and it wasn’t because of the heat my drink was giving me. She still recalls a friend challenging her to walk a straight line to him. She couldn’t do it. And though she laughed it off in the moment, it struck a nerve that brought forth shame. Nobody liked to be that girl. The last night, I had planned a night of drying out before I saw my parents, but that’s not what happened. She agreed to bar crawling. She doesn’t remember what she drank exactly or how much. My head was still spinning the next morning, I peed a lot and went home hungover. After that, I’d say I didn’t know what I was driving into but I’d probably be lying. Going in, all I knew was that my ex was drinking and invited me to their friend’s house. It was 10pm. I guess I should’ve assumed the get-together was a party, but I was still convinced high school parties were a thing of movies. When I got there, I quickly figured it out. I was honored to be invited and she was was stoked. With jello shots in the fridge, a huge bottle of Svedka and good company she knew it’d be a good night. She poured herself a drink and another without realizing how strong it was, drinking it quickly to catch up as everyone else was already intoxicated. Not chugging but taking a swig in every pause in conversation. Besides her ex, there was one of my good friends but everyone else was merely acquaintances at the time.

115

116 And then came shots; don’t ask her how many. There was jello shots, she’d never had them before and they tasted great. She, with invitation at least, ended up on the hostesses lap displaying PDA I’d always sworn against. I had been crushing on them and this event didn’t positively affect the timing trouble we had been experiencing. When she was touching them, it was much different than I would have. Sloppy and numbish she felt disconnected from her body when she didn’t want to be but it was still fun. The next morning at breakfast, I had to be told exactly what happened. She did nothing unprovoked but was described as aggressive, which bothered me deeply. For the first time someone else’s words had to describe something she had done for me to remember it, but it wouldn’t be the last. To not remember things you did, to not have mental images of your own actions is terrifying. I was not the type of girl to blackout and not be bothered by it. The memories I could elicit consisted of passionately (aggressively) making out and making foolish decisions. But there was no real harm done, this time. I never planned on going to senior week. But she thinks whoever invented senior week knew what was up. The only pain was worrying beforehand and the massive and unrealistic amount of cash it took. No pain in being hungover if you drink it off the next morning. The whole week blurred together and she fell in love. She ate nothing but hot pockets (unless you count jello shots) and drank nothing but vodka. With a mind of her own, she pulled up her shirt and Snapchatted my friends. It was clear she was having a great time but I deserved judgement. The only rule was don’t get arrested. I wore minimal clothing all week. I went for a bike ride buzzed from the night before, spent too much time in the sun and had the most atrocious sleep schedule. My friends lost their virginity and she didn’t mom them. Coming back from that felt like the end of of a great party and the splitting of a family. My mom asked me after if I drank at senior week. Inside, she scoffed, as if I could answer that honestly and not scare the living crap out of her.

College parties are everything she’d expected amplified times ten. She’d run the circuit; been to many kinds, on every street. She’d been to house parties and frat houses, every drinking game in the book and nights of boxed wine. She’d squeeze in the doorway avoiding eye contact with the young man in control of the door that let her in free because of her gender. She batted her eyelashes at guys distributing beer, “ladies

first.” She danced around in over-crowded, over-heated, disgusting and dark basements every weekend. She gained the alcohol tolerance of a 6’2” wrestler but damn she looked and felt pretty good doing it. And then afterwards she’d get pizza or chinese and spare her liver a portion of alcohol for a few hours. Finishing the night she’d stumble back to her apartment, joking with her neighbors that were still up, drink water and slip into a death-like sleep until she awoke for a thirst of an ocean. She’s tried to explain to me. How she feels like she’s swimming, floating, swaying when she’s standing still. Like her body itself is heavy but her spirit is so light. Her eyes wander and her fingers fumble. Her mind gets simpler, just one thought at a time. And with her courage, she could do anything. Unfortunately her ambitions limit her to words and who she wants to make out with at the time but it feels like freedom. It’s her bliss and I’m a slave to it. But not every night went flawless. There were nights when she sipped past buzzed, chugged too much ‘drunk’ and found herself showing off the liquid contents of her stomach for the world to see. She wouldn’t call it getting sick, she’d say she over did it. And after she over did it she’d go right back out there and keep going. Because sick is painful, a bug causing you to reject food. Overdoing it is just your body having had enough but you’re too drunk to remember the event. One night, she hooked up with one her friends. She wasn’t sure who had taken advantage of who. Luckily their friendship survived but only for their shared love of getting entirely too intoxicated. Most of time, by an act of God, she got home or at least in a friend’s bed or a friend’s floor. She clearly got her fair share of hangovers. I had always thought they were simply a headache before I met her. I learned. It’s not just a headache. It’s the sun feeling like a desk light that follows you. It’s the need for the rare commodity that is water. And a reason to pig out on carbs. It’s a random girl on her floor asking if she’s hungover and then telling her to take better care of herself. It’s a pang of regret. But unlike everyone else, (people usually prefer getting high over drunk because of hangovers) I always felt like we deserved them. To take it easy the next day. Or to drink it off, rinse repeat. Guilt ate me. Drinking brought dishonestly to my lips with every sip. The fact I got away with it all was only more sad. It was the fact her alcoholism was never even

117