Drunk in the Street Part I

I can sense people walking by me – it was very warm New York night, the first of the season, and everyone and their brother is out on the street. I drank too much. I admit it. It’s Friday, I went out after work with Todd; it’s Cinco de Mayo… Need I say more? But the sad part is that Todd left me around 6pm to go a previously planned dinner and I stayed at the bar – surrounded by three gorgeous men in their late 20s. The margaritas kept flowing.

It gets sadder. After about 9pm, they all left, and I stayed LONGER. Until finally, when I decided to leave, I realized I couldn’t walk. I barely made it out the door and around the corner before I not-so-gracefully lowered myself to the ground, my high-heeled feet in the gutter, my legs splayed out in my short office skirt, my once-brushed hair hanging down into the asphalt as I hung my head below my knees. I watched the street buckle and wave and move sideways. Shit. I’m in trouble. How the hell am I going to get home if I can’t even stand up and get a cab?

All of a sudden there was a guy above me, some foreign guy who said “Pretty lady? Are you all right? Shall I take you home?”

I didn’t say any thing. Maybe he’d go away. I reached up and touched my shoulder to make sure my bag was still there. It was. I followed the strap from my shoulder down to the bag, and rested my arm there like it’s a sling.

“You ok, pretty lady?”

“Yesh.” I said, never raising my eyes off the gutter. “’M fine.”

I heard a man walking by say “Wow, she’s drunk.”

“I hate that feeling,” a lady said.

“Well,” the man said, “At least she’s got a friend.”

“I hope she actually knows that guy,” the lady said, “or she could be in a bad situation.”

No! I don’t, the little sober part of my brain said! What came out was a garbled “no.”

“What did you say, pretty lady?” the annoying guy above me said. “You want cab?”

“No. G’way.”

“You want to come with me?”

“No.” I tried to be forceful. I even tried to stand up, but I pitched forward and landed on my hands with my ass sticking up like some yoga pose, so I quickly bent my knees. I felt my skirt moving down my hips so that my g-string was now exposed. Damn it. I came to some sort of standing position. I tried to pull my skirt up but my purse strap slipped down to my elbow, pulling my shirt with it. Crap. Now my bra is probably hanging out. I leaned against a signpost. I was still standing in the gutter. “No.” I said again this time trying to stare at the foreign guy in the eyes (all four of them), but keeping my focus for that long brought on feelings of nausea and the world turned sideways. I got back down in some squatting position and stared at the ground.

I heard my phone ring from my purse. My arm was tangled in the strap as I tried to yank the purse back up to my shoulder and to the middle of my stomach. I tried, unsuccessfully, to slide the zipper open across the length of the bag it until the foreign guy bent down and unzipped my purse, took out the phone and held it in front of me.

I tried to be graceful. “Shanks.” I felt my head wobble. I focused, aimed and moved my hand toward the phone. I missed. I tried again. I grabbed it. It stopped ringing. I closed one eye and read Missed Call. “Shee’.” I tried to press the menu button but quickly gave up and dropped the phone back into my purse. It didn’t go into my purse but fell on the ground with a nice clack. See? There is one good reason to be squatting in a New York gutter; if you drop your cell phone, it won’t break. I shut one eye again, aimed with my hand and picked up the phone. I smiled as my head wobbled up to look at the foreign guy and said “She? Imma’n thas drun.” I started laughing because I know what came out of my mouth made no sense. Laughing and squatting was a bit much for my balance so I grabbed on to the signpost. I felt my skirt moving below my g-string again. “Ah, fug’it.”

“What pretty lady?”

“G’way, “ I said. “G’way and leeme ‘lone.”