Shitfaced

By Sean O’Brien

Squiggly nerves broke the blades of little knives that sliced the back of my neck. A machete, not quite cutting my throat but bleeding me out over a double lifetime, neat. I’ll have another, please. One cube, two fingers, three times. My eyes popped out of my head like they do when a female in a tight shirt approaches me. Vices tightened around my veins as a horrendous headache hiked her way up my spine like a mini skirt might. My lips kissed sand, my tongue touched bile, and my mouth filled with maggots. I spat ’em out and screamed.

Nothing.

My hell was personal. My hell was allergic to superlatives. My hell was intimate. Sweat ignited the flames that scorched my flesh. The fire alarm clock sounded and rang my hell. I struggled to move. I struggled to think. I struggled in Molasses swamp.

I was burnt and I wascrashed.

Oxygen suffocated me. Carbon failed me. I was still exhaling cigarette smoke six hours later like I had stepped out into 20-degree weather. Clouds of poison. The weather of war.

The space surrounding me evaporated into a thermometer, the one over there. The one that reads broken. I began to recollect collections of corrections and reimbursed my memories mind’s eye. I know exactly what I did last night, although I can’t remember a single noun about it. It was the verbs that did most of the damage.

Those fucking verbs.

I slithered into the kitchen, through a dilating hallway to cop my caffeine fix, already an hour late for my date. I affixed my cape and poured a tall glass of liquid makeup, black, to clear my throat and powder my face. Not enough. Never enough. I needed more. I’m a whore. I poured another into a rocks glass. That one more cavity driven, to sweeten my thoughts. I’ll admonish myself later for what I had done last night. I mean fuck em’ if they can’t take a research paper, right? I won’t allow more than an hour of admonishment per day. Any more is wasteful. And I do not waste anything. I live mindfully.

I had to walk Allie. I passed out in the bathroom last night. She had been sitting at the foot of the toilet licking my face when I came to. Allie’s been sitting there patiently. She is such a good girl, so obedient and proper, so archaic and demonic. Big hazel eyes and an inflamed smile, just the way I like ’em. Allie was an African Wild dog. I’m not sure what an African Wild dog is but it doesn’t sound like it should be domesticated, which is perfect because I’m not domesticated either. Those domesticated dreams are drugs for day folk, which I am not.

Allie is a brownish-red short-haired athletic dog of the swarthy persuasion. She’s a street dog that I rescued from Union Square. Allie has a voracious appetite. She’ll eat anything. And I mean that, ‘anything.’ I was playing Scrabble one evening with a friend and had designs on an open A in the top left-hand corner of the board. When my turn came, I emptied my scrabble shelf onto the board spelling the word ‘anything.’ 221 points. “Fuck yeah!” I screamed. You don’t want no smoke, honey. I told you this.” This blow took the wind right out of my friend’s sail. She requested a cigarette break and sucked in her gut. I told her, “It’s just a game, don’t get salty. Keep your double chin up.” She punched me. We moved to the terrace for a smoke, sands Allie, she doesn’t smoke. When we returned, Allie had trounced the Scrabble board and was destroying the word ‘anything.’ “She’s eating anything!” I yelled. Damn, this is gonna fuck up her digestive system, and my win. Keeping a dog healthy in N.Y.C. can be expensive. Thank God I was dating this broad Christy. She worked as a veterinary assistant at the animal hospital up on Avenue B and gave Allie and me the family discount. A situation like this would have cost an arm and two legs if I had to pay retail. Sometimes it really is about who you know and who you blow.

Walking a dog while nursing a hangover is a terrible way to begin your day. The pounding of your head, the barking of your dog, the brightness of the lights, and the smell of shit when you’re picking it up is brutal. But I rescued her, she didn’t pick me, so I had to get my shit together and take her for a walk. No biggie, I was a pro at walking Allie while hung over. I’m no alcoholic but I have done this practically every day since I got her. Maybe I am an alcoholic, and that’s okay. At least I’m not sober. That’s got to count for something. I don’t get shitfaced every night, but last night I definitely tied one on; I got fucking hammered. Maybe I am an alcoholic. I pretty much overdo every and anything. My gums bleed when I brush my teeth, my skin burns when I tan, my heart breaks when I love and my face paces when I smile. I even over walk Allie. Yeah, I think I might be an alcoholic. I make sure Allie gets an excess of exercise. Exercise is good. Excess is good. It’s kind of selfish because half of the time I do it, I do it because I know she will be exhausted afterward and will leave me alone for a few hours. It sounds horrible, but it’s not. It’s not like I’m putting whiskey in my infant’s bottle, that would be wasting my whiskey. Yeah, I am an alcoholic. Shit.

Allie isn’t the best-trained dog either, should she be? She’s an African Wild dog. I don’t waste time trying to conform an African Wild dog to the ridiculous norms of dog life on the Lower East Side. She and I simply do our best to avoid lawsuits, drifting bike messengers, tourists, and chicken bones. Allie loves people. She likes to jump up on people and lick them. She sees it as affectionate, strangers don’t. I have to walk her up and down the stairs instead of taking the elevator because of her affection for others. We avoid certain blocks and stay away from popular parks. Allie and I enjoy going to Franklin Delano Roosevelt (FDR) Park along the East River. There is ample space there. Six baseball and two soccer fields of space to be exact. I usually bring a tennis ball and wing it as far as I can. Allie tears ass after it, kicking up dirt everywhere. She retrieves the ball and gallops back with the ball in her mouth, so proud of herself. It’s awesome to watch. After forty-five minutes of this, we’ll then run along the East River down to the Williamsburg Bridge or even the Manhattan Bridge, depending on my hangover. Then we’ll scoop back around, back up to Houston Street, and head home. Today, however, we would have to settle for a walk up First Avenue to Saint Mark’s Place and back. Twenty-five minutes tops. Sometimes we’ll stop by One on One for a drink and a bite to eat. Allie is welcome there too, outside on the sidewalk at least. The waitress always brings her a bowl of water and a steak bone to munch on. We also like to stop by this Pakistani place on First Street for falafels. I was hungry and was fixing to stop there today. I had to feed this hangover.

I leashed Allie and took a couple of poop bags, some treats, a cold beer, and a fresh pack of Marlboro reds. We started down the stairs towards the lobby for our first breath of fresh air. In the lobby, we passed our doorman, James. James is a nice but strange guy. I think he was retarded somewhat. He wore old-school gold-plated gazelles that were thick. His eyes crossed and set back in his head. James never sees anyone or anything coming, you can walk right up to him and he doesn’t notice you unless you scream his name. Even then, his reaction is delayed. He usually responds by cocking his head, squinting, and raising his arm halfway, almost like he is blocking a punch. He waves and bellows out hello. It sounds more like a surprised and stammered “whooaa whoa.” It’s endearing and comical. I could probably walk past him with an AK-47 in one hand and a bloody duffel bag in the other. He wouldn’t see anything and he wouldn’t say anything. Old neighborhood rules. Doormen like James rule.

After we passed James, his slightly raised arm wave and awkward hello, we headed out the double artsy doors of the Red Square. It had to be at least 90 degrees and was only 8am. New York City was experiencing another heat wave. Allie felt it immediately as she let out her last air-conditioned breath, then scowled, “grrufphh.” She looked around, glanced at the street and its passing cars, peeped the gutters for chicken bones, and finally looked back at me. I gave her an austere gesture and she responded accordingly. She headed for the wall and began sniffing out territory. She located a spot and squatted. Allie makes such a cute face when she pees. It’s a mix of embarrassment and go fuck yourself. After a long pee, we started heading west on First Street towards First Ave. Yes, First and First, we were headed to the Nexus of the Universe. I was dead set on stopping by that Pakistani joint for a falafel. The owner of the Falafel shop, who is always there, is a bit of a dick but there’s this sexy Middle Eastern woman who works there. She likes Allie, too. The owner, not so much. He’s an asshole. I walked Allie around first hoping she would take a dump. Allie has a tell when she getting ready to take a shit. She does these little circular hind-legged jig things and then positions herself and lets it rip. With her legs akimbo, she looks away to do her business. I look away too, as she gets embarrassed and appears to experience shame. Watching her pee is one thing but shitting is another. She’s a lady mind you.

Time was ticking and Allie wasn’t shitting, so we headed over to the Pakistani joint. I tied Allie’s leash to a parking meter. The owner was watching us as we did it. He was always watching. Hip to my Middle Eastern courting tactics, he came running out and down the steps in hopes of thwarting me.

“Is that your dog?” He asked, pointing to Allie. He knows it’s my dog, he sees us almost daily.

“Yes, it is. I got my eye on her partner, don’t stress it, she’ll be safe,” I told him.

“I’m not worried about her safety, I don’t want her pissing and shitting all over my sidewalk,” he replied.

“Your sidewalk?” I asked. “That sidewalk my friend is public property, you do not own it. If she shits there, she shits there. She’s a dog. I’ll clean it up,” I said as I pointed to my poop bags.

“If that vile dog shits on my sidewalk, I’ll kick her across the street!”

I turned to the Middle Eastern woman who was watching through the window and waved hello. I turned back toward the shop owner.

“If you touch my dog I will rape and torture your whole family. I’ll destroy your asshole with a 13-inch dildo and force your kids to watch. You wit’ me. homeboy?”

His pupils dilated, his blood pressure spiked and his face turned purple. I thought he was going to shit himself.

He didn’t. Allie did.

“Motherfucker,” he screamed.

I turned around and saw Allie squatting in her position taking a dump. I wasn’t wearing my glasses, I rarely did, but from what I could squint, it looked rather large, chunky but runny, and steamy. The owner started pacing back and forth with his arms flailing like an inflatable tube man does out in front of a car dealership. He screamed obscenities in Urdu. I tried to reason with him and calm him down but it must have been his day of rage. He switched to English and screamed, “You piece of shit dog I’m gonna kick your face!” I almost lost my cool but realized the best thing for me to do was clean up the shit and get the fuck out of there. I leaned down and started cleaning up her poop. What a doozy it was, too, mushy, chunky, and smelly. As I mushed the shit into a plastic bag, trying to do a good job, the owner kept mouthing off. I tried to block out his insults but it was hot and humid and I was on my knees picking up dogshit. I begin to twinkle, that dark, crazed golden twinkle.

“I should smash your face in it you cocksucker,” is the last thing I heard him say. I sprung to my feet with the bag of shit in my right hand, as he was still popping off in Urdu and English. I was only hearing a Charlie Brown teacher voice at that point. My demeanor changed into a calm before-the-storm demeanor.

“You gonna smash my face in it, that’s what you said isn’t it?”

A short pause interrupted the morning’s noise and silenced the inner chatter.

“Me and you scumbag!”

He stepped toward me. I cocked my right arm back and let the bag of shit fly. It smashed into his face and exploded everywhere. A big chunk went into his mouth and the rest splattered all over his face, hair, and chest. He stood there, speechless and shitfaced. The Muslim girl smiled at me through the window. I shot her a well-timed wink and untied Allie from the parking meter. Homeboy was still standing there, covered in shit, and dumbfounded. Allie barked and I spat on his sidewalk. We headed west again toward First Avenue.

“You hungry girl? Yeah, you’re hungry. Shit, you’ll eat anything. Good girl.”