1971: "Root is sick!" I exclaimed to my parents and our party hosts Ma Tante Nuena (the old one) and Mon Oncle Francis. "She'll be fine, Michael," they assured me. But I went and nursed my aunt, stroked her shoulders and held back her hair as she barfed again into the bucket beside her bed. "Root..." I cried, "Don't be sick...get better!" Ruth groaned and assured me she'll be okay. Everyone was so sure she'd be okay, I thought, but she sure didn't look it. Could it be they knew this would happen from drinking those beers?
1977: Michael Drolet and I steal a few packs of Newport Menthols from the neighborhood convenience store. To celebrate we smoke as many as we can as fast as possible. I soon turn several shades of green and puke my guts out. I never touch another cigarette for the rest of my life.
1978: One Saturday while Mom and Dad are at work I sneak into the locked liquor cabinet by prying the fiberboard backing off. I empty half the bottle of vodka into a large glass and replace the missing fluid with water. An hour later, after I've drunk my vodka, I return to empty the half full bottle of JB scotch. I don't bother to "cover my tracks" by refilling the bottle with anything. I spend the next 2 hours in the bathroom hugging the toilet for dear life as I throw up what seems like every ounce of my insides.
1979: At a staff pool party for Bijou employees, I am offered, and accept, several Planter's Punches. I soon have to excuse myself to enter the basement bathroom and immediately puke up my drinks in the toilet. After flushing and composing myself, I get back out there and down some more. Damn, I'm not about to let a little nausea get in the way of my fun!
1981: After our usual "choir practice" at HoJo's, a couple of my waitress friends and I continue the party for a couple more hours. Our drink of choice that night: Taqueray and grapefruit juice. It's a school night so I bow out and ask for a ride home by 4:00am. A few hours later I'm walking to school and suddenly it hits me. I have to duck into the back yard of the nearest house. I puke a pile of gooey yellow-greenish slime and immediately realize I'm not going to make it into school today. I can't go home since my Mom is home so I decide to take the RIPTA bus to Providence and I hang out at the downtown Providence McDonald's 'till it's safe to go home.
1983: During a special visit along with Michael P. and his friend Marc Aubin at a premier gay club in Boston, I had "one too many" and I barfed all over the floor near the main bar as I was trying to hit on some guy. Not cool. We all left soon after and I think it was the last time I went out to the clubs with Michael.
1986: While out with my friend Linda, I quaff down 8 martinis in record time. After visiting the restroom to pee, I suddenly have no idea where I am or who I'm with. I find my car in the parking lot and manage to get in but as I back out of my parking space I smack lightly into the rear of another car. The occupants of that car demand compensation. I ignore their negativity and walk away. They call the police. I walk back to my car in order to escape this madness and find that I've locked myself out with the keys in the ignition and the car idling in park. I walk to the nearby train tracks, find a stray brick, put it in my overcoat pocket. I return to the lot and the police are there. By now, Linda has found me and as I tell the police officer that I didn't hit anything, she helps to defend me by providing an alibi. The party that called the cops cannot prove that the dent in their car was caused by me and the cop leaves. Though I'm totally plastered, I acted sober enough to fake out the cops. I use the brick to break the driver's side window to unlock the door and drive away. With Linda and her then BF Ed behind me. After getting to her house, I decide it's best to stay there for the night since my house is 10 more miles away. I silently vomit the contents of my stomach into her upstairs toilet late that night.
1991: New Year's Day. I had spent the night before playing cards, drinking champagne and eating shrimp cocktail with my parents at Ma Taunt Connie and Mon Oncle Emile's house. I was awoken by Emile screaming at me. I was sleeping in one of the guest beds upstairs and the twin bunk bed in the room had a sludgy pile of vomit all over it. I guess I puked in the bed I was sleeping in and made a quick, unconscious retreat to the other one. Emile rustled me out of bed and though I was suffering greatly with one of the worst hangovers ever, I dared not defy him. He was scary. He made me pull up the dirty bedding and hang it on the clothesline in the backyard. I then had to spray it all down with the hose. All in sub-freezing temperatures.
2004: Though I had puked many times over the course of the years, I'd by now gotten so used to it, that it was not worth mention. But now, one night in my little house in New Orleans, after fighting off the urge to buy alcohol, and it being too late to do so now, I decided to get fucked up with what I had. I drank a whole bottle of generic-brand Listerine-like mouthwash. I woke up the next morning and discovered that I had pissed in the oven and threw up on the stove top. I interpreted it as not a failed attempt to make it to the bathroom, but rather a sublime condemnation of my overeating which was making me fat.
2009: Vomiting after drinking is just so natural now, I don't even keep track, even if I do remember it. But most times I don't. It's by the grace of this function that I'm not bigger than I am. My teeth are soiled and stained from this. I don't want to look at them in the mirror anymore. At least it's relatively easy to clean up. As long as you don't let it dry up. Then it's a bitch.
1977: Michael Drolet and I steal a few packs of Newport Menthols from the neighborhood convenience store. To celebrate we smoke as many as we can as fast as possible. I soon turn several shades of green and puke my guts out. I never touch another cigarette for the rest of my life.
1978: One Saturday while Mom and Dad are at work I sneak into the locked liquor cabinet by prying the fiberboard backing off. I empty half the bottle of vodka into a large glass and replace the missing fluid with water. An hour later, after I've drunk my vodka, I return to empty the half full bottle of JB scotch. I don't bother to "cover my tracks" by refilling the bottle with anything. I spend the next 2 hours in the bathroom hugging the toilet for dear life as I throw up what seems like every ounce of my insides.
1979: At a staff pool party for Bijou employees, I am offered, and accept, several Planter's Punches. I soon have to excuse myself to enter the basement bathroom and immediately puke up my drinks in the toilet. After flushing and composing myself, I get back out there and down some more. Damn, I'm not about to let a little nausea get in the way of my fun!
1981: After our usual "choir practice" at HoJo's, a couple of my waitress friends and I continue the party for a couple more hours. Our drink of choice that night: Taqueray and grapefruit juice. It's a school night so I bow out and ask for a ride home by 4:00am. A few hours later I'm walking to school and suddenly it hits me. I have to duck into the back yard of the nearest house. I puke a pile of gooey yellow-greenish slime and immediately realize I'm not going to make it into school today. I can't go home since my Mom is home so I decide to take the RIPTA bus to Providence and I hang out at the downtown Providence McDonald's 'till it's safe to go home.
1983: During a special visit along with Michael P. and his friend Marc Aubin at a premier gay club in Boston, I had "one too many" and I barfed all over the floor near the main bar as I was trying to hit on some guy. Not cool. We all left soon after and I think it was the last time I went out to the clubs with Michael.
1986: While out with my friend Linda, I quaff down 8 martinis in record time. After visiting the restroom to pee, I suddenly have no idea where I am or who I'm with. I find my car in the parking lot and manage to get in but as I back out of my parking space I smack lightly into the rear of another car. The occupants of that car demand compensation. I ignore their negativity and walk away. They call the police. I walk back to my car in order to escape this madness and find that I've locked myself out with the keys in the ignition and the car idling in park. I walk to the nearby train tracks, find a stray brick, put it in my overcoat pocket. I return to the lot and the police are there. By now, Linda has found me and as I tell the police officer that I didn't hit anything, she helps to defend me by providing an alibi. The party that called the cops cannot prove that the dent in their car was caused by me and the cop leaves. Though I'm totally plastered, I acted sober enough to fake out the cops. I use the brick to break the driver's side window to unlock the door and drive away. With Linda and her then BF Ed behind me. After getting to her house, I decide it's best to stay there for the night since my house is 10 more miles away. I silently vomit the contents of my stomach into her upstairs toilet late that night.
1991: New Year's Day. I had spent the night before playing cards, drinking champagne and eating shrimp cocktail with my parents at Ma Taunt Connie and Mon Oncle Emile's house. I was awoken by Emile screaming at me. I was sleeping in one of the guest beds upstairs and the twin bunk bed in the room had a sludgy pile of vomit all over it. I guess I puked in the bed I was sleeping in and made a quick, unconscious retreat to the other one. Emile rustled me out of bed and though I was suffering greatly with one of the worst hangovers ever, I dared not defy him. He was scary. He made me pull up the dirty bedding and hang it on the clothesline in the backyard. I then had to spray it all down with the hose. All in sub-freezing temperatures.
2004: Though I had puked many times over the course of the years, I'd by now gotten so used to it, that it was not worth mention. But now, one night in my little house in New Orleans, after fighting off the urge to buy alcohol, and it being too late to do so now, I decided to get fucked up with what I had. I drank a whole bottle of generic-brand Listerine-like mouthwash. I woke up the next morning and discovered that I had pissed in the oven and threw up on the stove top. I interpreted it as not a failed attempt to make it to the bathroom, but rather a sublime condemnation of my overeating which was making me fat.
2009: Vomiting after drinking is just so natural now, I don't even keep track, even if I do remember it. But most times I don't. It's by the grace of this function that I'm not bigger than I am. My teeth are soiled and stained from this. I don't want to look at them in the mirror anymore. At least it's relatively easy to clean up. As long as you don't let it dry up. Then it's a bitch.