County fairs, tequila, and ecstasy. I was always afraid. The first time I had ever gotten so drunk I puked. I had an infection that didn’t stop itching, but it didn’t stop me from fucking. It wouldn’t go away because I wouldn’t stop fucking. The doctor said it looked as if I sat on a chainsaw.
New York humid. We jumped into the fountain hours after the park had closed and ran soaking wet from the cops. Crawled in through fences to private beaches to bury each other in the sand. Stoned and singing Jimi Hendrix.
The room was spun, and sheets bunched, came off the corners of futons seeped in sweat and whatever else we spilled. I loved them. I thought we all loved each other. The four of us—Joe, Drea, Kristijan and me. The pressure to feel one with our little summer Stand By Me crew of self-proclaimed adults made it easy to swallow a pill or two regardless of the consequences. We were living on our own with each other and it was magic. I lost count of the times I spent sick in that Pepto-Bismol bathroom, guts gone, back wet, and no end to the heave. We played Uno, Truth or Dare, watched every bad movie we loved over and over and smoked so much we couldn’t see.
By the time Halloween cooled the air I was replaced by someone who could handle her liquor, who didn’t cry during the next day’s crash, someone who wasn’t afraid of snakes.
Bio: Bernadette McComish
