by Hazel Parker
Yeah, I had moments where I tried to smack myself for apparently being stupid. I was warned that my Ivy-League-educated brain could rationalize many awful behaviors, and perhaps this was a case of such a thing. I probably could have rationalized to myself that doing drugs was a good thing because it would have made me better at my job on Wall Street.
But I wasn’t that caught up in my own bullshit. And it wasn’t even like I was planning on having twenty drinks Friday night. I just didn’t plan on keeping myself sober. Whatever happened, happened, and I didn’t think that I was going to suffer at all as a result.
And then, Friday night came.
* * *
When I left my apartment, I informed Marcel that I would just walk to Brooklyn Repairs. It was a decent walk, probably about twenty-five minutes or so, but I needed the time to clear my head so that I could enjoy spending time with him.
The events from Sunday—and, much as it pained me to admit, seeing Tucker on Monday—had cooled things a little bit. I still liked him. The sex from Saturday night was still fresh in my mind.
I just needed to get that spark back. I suspected that seeing him in person would do that; it usually worked that way for me in the past.
As I turned the corner to Brooklyn Repairs, I saw a bunch of guys standing outside, smoking. Marcel was not among them, but thankfully, neither was his creepy uncle. I saw one guy who looked a little like Marcel, but he was smiling too much for it to be him. It hit me a second later it was Biggie.
I got closer and heard music thumping. I got a feeling of deja vu that I was returning to a nightclub, except instead of being around guys in suits and ties, I was around guys in black sleeveless cuts and bandanas. The attire had changed, but the attitude had not.
It brought a smile to my face. I’d castigated and shamed myself for enjoying that, which had only made me feel shame about myself and my actions. Not judging myself was one of the best things I had done for my mental health, and I had a feeling that would shine through tonight.
“Hey, pretty lady!” one of the guys yelled. “You coming over here tonight?”
“Hey, watch it; that’s my brother’s girl,” Biggie said.
The first guy who’d yelled looked like I had just stabbed him in the chest. I smiled with confidence as I walked over.
“Is Marcel here?” I said.
“Oh, yeah, he’s in the office,” he said. “Dealing with some stuff with Uncle. He’ll be happy to see you.”
“His uncle is with him?”
His brother nodded.
“Wouldn’t worry about it, though. They got into a tiff over you. All is well now.”
“A tiff?”
His brother laughed.
“It’s how Stones resolve their issues,” he said. “We’re a bunch of hot-headed fools, but we love each other at the end of the day. I’ll walk you in if you’d like.”
I accepted his offer. My curiosity growing, I asked if Marcel had a nickname.
“Nope,” Biggie said. “Marcel is Marcel. I think he’s always preferred it that way. He’s a simple man of simple tastes, and a nickname just makes things complicated and confusing.”
I was going to say something about how a nickname could make it easy for people to remember Marcel, but then Biggie opened a door on the side of the room. Inside, Marcel and his uncle, Uncle Reggie, sat at a table, going over something.
“That’s my cue to head out,” Uncle said. “Christine.”
I folded my arms and didn’t say anything to him as he and Biggie left the room. At least he was smart enough to not eye me up and down like a creepy idiot.
“Hey,” Marcel said, nervousness in his voice.
Like I said before, there was a certain dull feeling I got during the week when I had to speak to him on the phone and when I thought about him. But now, with me before him, in his presence, the same hot rush came back that had been there Saturday night. Energized by his presence, aroused by his body, and excited to have no shackles with him tonight, I rushed up to him and planted a kiss on his face.
“Now that’s pleasantly unexpected.”
“It’s been a crazy week like you wouldn’t believe,” I said.
For half a second, I decided against suggesting a drink, if only because I wanted not to let myself drive how much I drank. But then I decided that it would be better for me to be in control, not hand it off to Marcel.
“We gonna get a drink or what?”
“A drink? I thought—”
“I can handle it,” I said, putting a hand on his arm. “Trust me. I’m not a little girl. I know how to handle my booze.”
Marcel looked like he was going to say something to the contrary, then smiled as he headed to his desk. He reached down and pulled out some vodka.
“I was wondering if you’d have that brand,” I said as the gray-colored geese flew across the circumference of the bottle.
“If you’re going to drink, might as well do a shot, right?”
As Marcel poured two shots, though, a voice in my head spoke very prominently against what I was doing. It warned me that once I went over this boundary, I would officially have screwed myself over. All that time—now close to eighty days, I believed; I’d stopped keeping track earlier in the week—would have to begin anew. The progress I’d made would go down the drain. Did I really want to do this?
Marcel lifted both shot glasses, handing me the one in his left hand. I looked down at it cautiously, like he might be handing me poison. Which, in some ways, he was. I took it. It felt... normal to the touch, yet I knew it meant so much more than that. It wasn’t just a shot of liquor; it was a shot to everything I’d tried to stand for in the last three months.
You’re right there. One hundred days is less than a month away. And then, it gets much easier after that. Are you meaning to believe that you won’t be able to control yourself around this, Christine?
I gulped. Everything for how tonight would go would be decided by this. I figured it would have been easy to take the shot, to do what I’d done all too often on Wall Street. I figured that once I committed to it in my head, the shackles would fall off, and taking a shot would be as easy as putting on a top.
Now, though…
“You ready?” he said.
God, no, I’m not. I’m not.
But if I want us to be anything, if I want us to have a good time…
Is that what you want?
“What are we toasting to?” I said, trying in some way to delay the action of taking the shot.
Marcel chuckled, but there was nothing funny about what was going on.
“Whatever you want. To us.”
“To us,” I repeated.
I hadn’t meant the repeating to sound like I was agreeing, but Marcel clinked my glass and raised his shot glass to his lips. It moved in slow motion. This was my last chance.
Christine… for all that we’ve worked for…
Which life do you want?
“Fuck it.”
I threw it back, splashing some on my face, but feeling the liquor go into my mouth and down my throat all the same.
What…
What the fuck had I just done?
There was no turning back now. Eighty-plus days, gone, just like that.
I didn’t feel free. Instead, I felt bogged down by shame unlike anything I’d ever felt before.
“Nice!” Marcel said. Sure doesn’t feel nice. “Hold on; I’ll get you a beer. Damn, you take shots well. Didn’t even fucking flinch!”
I was numb standing there. The worst of it was, it wasn’t Marcel’s fault. It would have been if he’d put me in a headlock and forced me to take a shot, but he’d done no such thing. I’d wanted to take that shot from basically Sunday night on. And now, I had.
I had failed.
Fuck it. You failed. Might as well fail hard.
Marcel handed me a beer. I must have had a look of utter shock on my face because Marcel’s smile faded.
“You all right?” h
e said. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just thinking. We’re good.”
“Bout what?”
I smiled and put my hand on his arm.
“Thinking about how much I missed your sexy ass.”
He smiled right back, taking the bait hook, line, and sinker.
“Shall we turn this into a real party, then?”
I didn’t say another word as I fell into his arms and made out with him. If not for the fact that there were plenty of windows to see into the office, I might have just had sex with him right then and there.
After all, I’d already gone into the deep end with my decision to drink.
I couldn’t decide if it was fortunate or unfortunate that we didn’t do anything more than kiss and grope each other a little bit, given my desire to fail hard. Marcel eventually told me we had to get out to the party, and so with something resembling begrudging acceptance, I backed off him and went back to my beer. I then proceeded to gulp the entirety of my beer in the span of less than a dozen seconds.
“Hot damn!” Marcel said admiringly. “I thought you said you had a problem with drinking.”
“Something like that,” I said. “But we’re not here for problems. We’re here for a good time!”
It’s already starting. It’s too late to turn back now.
So you’d better forgive yourself and get going with the party then, Christine.
Well, over the course of the next two hours, I kept telling myself that I had forgiven myself. I kept saying that I was good with what I was doing. That didn’t do much of anything, though, for actually feeling like I was forgiving myself.
Every shot was filled with regret. Every beer was spent moping, wondering if this was worth it. Every mixed drink had mixed emotions, everyone looking at me thinking I was finally letting loose, me looking at everyone else wondering if this is what I really wanted.
To feel free? Or to recognize that I would forever have the stain on myself of having been in AA? This wasn’t like I once had a blister and it healed and would disappear. AA was something that, even if I didn’t follow, I’d have to carry for the rest of my life.
Gradually, I went from feeling a little loose and fun to especially flirtatious and kissy with Marcel. I’d forgotten just how sexually aggressive I got when I drank, and when I backed into him, I reached for his cock, feeling underneath his jeans. I’d pull him down and whisper all the things I was going to do to him.
If I had stayed in that stage, maybe that would have been the end of my drinking. I would have woken up filled with regret, but I wouldn’t have had to deal with any other fallout. But that’s the curse of the alcoholic, isn’t it? We always say, “if I had just done this” instead of “because I just did this.” Our “because” turned into our “if.”
And just after midnight, I went from an extroverted version of myself to an out-of-control one. Gone was Christine, the waitress who was normally an introvert but, through the power of drinks, had become a sexual fiend. Now here was Christine, the girl who couldn’t keep her balance.
“Is she alright?” I heard Biggie say at one point, though it sounded as if he spoke from across the room, even though he was probably right next to Marcel.
“I’m,” I said, pausing to burp. “Fine.”
I giggled a little, but when I looked at Marcel, I did not see anything resembling happiness.
“I should get you home,” he said. “You look like you’ve had some things pent up.”
“Well, yeah, you left me confused Sunday. But it’s all good; we’re making up for it! Aren’t we, Marcel?”
Marcel put his arm around me, pulled me close, and then said something to Biggie I couldn’t hear. I didn’t listen, though; instead, my focus was on the pounding of his heart and feeling the bulge in his pants.
“You’re gonna give it to me good, aren’t you, Marcel?”
He chuckled lightheartedly and didn’t respond. His arm still around me, he took me out to the street, where his bike was parked.
“Get on and hold on to me tight.”
“Whaaaaat, we’re not going to walk?” I said, stumbling.
“You can’t walk two hundred feet without help,” he said. “And I don’t trust anyone else to get you home safely.”
“But haven’t, haven’t… haha, sorry. Haven’t you drunk a bit too?”
“I’ll be fine,” he scoffed. “You’re the one that needs help.”
I am. God, I am, aren’t I?
“I shouldn’t have drunk so much, so much tonight… huh?”
“It’s OK. I’ll get you home safe and then we’ll talk in the morning.”
“OK,” I said, but then it made me realize something. “No sex?”
Marcel just looked at me in disappointment.
“I can’t afford to take any risks right now,” he said. “Can’t do anything that runs the risk of getting me in jail.”
What… what does that mean? What?
But I didn’t get the opportunity to ask because he grabbed my helmet, got on the bike, and patted the seat behind him. I swung my leg over, kicking the rear tire at first before correcting myself. Marcel had to help me get my helmet on, which caused me to laugh.
I wasn’t sure if I was laughing at the situation or at myself for devolving into such a hot fucking mess.
Nevertheless, as soon as the engine ignited, I wrapped my arms around Marcel more tightly than I ever had before. Funny how a loud noise or an extreme stimulus can sober up a person real quick.
Marcel drove the motorcycle forward. I was sure he was going slow, but in reality, it felt like I’d gotten on a roller coaster that would never end. I tried to fight the nausea rising in my stomach, but it seemed inevitable.
We drove for about two minutes.
“Marcel,” I said, but speaking too loudly—
He stopped abruptly.
“Shit,” he muttered.
I saw it before I heard it.
A police car.
“Don’t move,” he said.
I looked back at the cop, his lights blaring. He thinks DUI. Shit. The officer approached.
“Evening,” he said. “License and registration.”
Marcel produced those quickly.
“I saw you two leaving the party back there,” the cop said. “How much have you had to drink, sir?”
“Three drinks worth, but I’m in the legal limit.”
The cop, still analyzing the papers, arched an eyebrow. It did feel pretty bold of Marcel to admit the number of drinks he’d had, especially since it was above the typical “two or so.” I just hoped he didn’t ask me how I felt, because…
“Step off the bike, please, and—”
I removed my helmet to breathe.
And then I lost it right there.
I vomited all over the officer’s shoes. Marcel leaned against the front of the bike, burying his head in his hands. I coughed some, looked up, muttered, “Sorry, officer,” and got off the bike, sitting on the curb.
What a fucking terrible mess I’d become. And to think, I actually thought I could handle my liquor. I really thought that that was possible!
“OK, ma’am, after I’m done with him, we’re going to take you home.”
I nodded and didn’t look up. I didn’t want to see what Marcel was going through. I heard them doing the nose test and walking in a straight line, but I couldn’t bear to look up at Marcel. Play with fire, get burned.
Once again, the people I care about get near me, and they get hurt. I just need to be around people I don’t care about. That way, it won’t really matter if they get hurt.
“Ma’am?” the cop said. “Get in the back of the car. I’m going to drive you home.”
I nodded, keeping my head bowed. The cop escorted me to the rear of his car. Thankfully, it was only about two minutes of driving, which is probably why he did it. I assume that Marcel had requested it or something to that effect.
I knew Marcel was next to me. I
could see out of the corner of my eye that he had cuffs on. So I hadn’t just hurt him.
I’d probably sent him back to prison.
“We’re here, according to your boyfriend’s statement. Is this the place?”
I looked out of the corner of my eye.
“Yes.”
I got out, not saying a word to Marcel. I didn’t have the right to say a word to Marcel. I’d ruined his life because of my failures.
I hadn’t just gotten burned. I’d burned down the forest and everyone in it as a result.
Like I said, I guess I should have just hung out with people whom I didn’t care about. If it was inevitable that I was going to hurt someone, then maybe I could at least earn some money on the way.
Maybe I needed to go back to my old life for real this time.
Chapter 17: Marcel
At least it was familiar.
At least I knew what the interior of a jail cell looked like. At least I knew the procedures, the holding, all that jazz.
But this time, I got lucky. A procedural error meant that I got to walk out at three that morning. God bless Biggie for coming to get me at that hour. At least he wasn’t stupid enough to risk getting on a motorcycle after the party; he had come in an Uber.
I didn’t feel any special sense of relief, though, for avoiding jail time because of a procedural error. I instead felt like an enormous idiot.
I knew Christine had drinking problems. Had I been a gentleman, had I listened to her, had I actually cared about her and not just seen an opportunity for sex, I wouldn’t have given her the shot glass and the beer. Was I a Savage Saint, or was I just a fucking savage?
Did I really like this girl, or did I just like her pussy?
She probably thought I hated her guts. In her spot, I probably would have thought the same. But I didn’t. I hated myself more for letting her get to that spot.
I hated myself for not trying to better understand her drinking problems so I could account for them when I helped her. I hated myself for putting her on my bike and in a spot where she could look bad. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t trust NYC taxi drivers, but if that was the case, why didn’t I just get in the car with her and make sure she got home safe?
