The Most Puke I Have Ever Seen

    A couple of weeks ago, my friend Gary has a party at his place, and it's pretty awesome until I downed a Jagerbomb and smoked a spliff.  I had been dry for a whole month before this party, and I took it to my low tolerance's limit.  When I left Gary's, there was no time to peace out.  My girlfriend, Lenora, led me to a bedroom where we sat and slurred our speech for a couple of minutes before I bolted out of the room and marched through the front door. 

    The first wave of puke rises and shoots from my mouth as I step off the stoop into the lawn.  I take several steps and puke on a tree.  Before I hit asphalt, I puke a third time.  I am fertilizing his yard with vomit.  I stagger to Lenora's red Honda and blow chunks right in front of it.  After puking four times, you would think you'd feel better.  I didn't.  This tells me that I am going to throw up more.  After about five minutes, Lenora comes out of the house, no doubt tromping through the fields of my regurgitation.  She steps around the fourth puddle in front of her car and sits next to me on the curb, swaying a little.

    At some point we hop in her car and roll out.  By hop, I kind of mean fall.  I don't remember much of the night, but I remember making Jeff(Horatio of old) promise me something. 
My hand on his shoulder, I look him straight in the eyes, and implore him to, "Promise me.  Promise me you will never drive drunk.  Man, you could die!"
He promises and Lenora adds that I made her make the same promise a long time ago.
I don't remember much of this night, but I remember this.  And I remember, while we are driving back, Lenora saying, "Hunter, I just want you to know," as if it was a good time to tell me, "that I am breaking my promise to you right now.  I just want you to know.  I have to get you home."  I get the impression that we might die.  Concerned with more important matters, like rolling down the window so I can puke again, I dismiss the possibility of death and begin to pass out. 

    Lenora says something, questioningly, either to keep herself awake or check up on me.  She does this intermittently and every time I respond.  Whereas getting to her apartment was, from my perspective, an instantaneous journey, from her perspective things were much more difficult.  She later tells me that, while she was driving, she was forgetting that she was driving, and she had to ask me questions to stay awake.  She had to talk, and she didn't expect me to respond.  But in my puke-addled haze, I always mustered the strength to blurt a half-assed, "Yeah" or "Cool," thinking I was contributing to our safety by doing so.  My other contributions include opening my eyes to see the road, getting car sick, and throwing up on out of the car. 

    When we get back, I fall out of the car, stand up and take a look at her car.  There are three distinct orange streaks trailing from the inside of the car, out, and back from the windows.  I say "Shorry," And tell her I will clean it up later.  We go inside.  I pass out on the bed.  I am awakened minutes later to food being stuffed down my throat. 
You have to eat this, she tells me. 
No, I tell her.  I take the food anyway.  It is an English muffin with cottage cheese on it.  It greatly resembles barf.  I down it as quickly as possible and drink some water out of a blue cup that is being pressed into my face.  I put the cup on the window sill.  I pass out again.

    Feeling victorious for getting us home safely, Lenora goes and fixes herself a plate-sized quesadilla.  She comes back and sits on the bed.  Through the veil of my blackout, I hear the sound of smacking lips.  Her chewing wakes me up.  Though I don't remember being pissed, I am apparently pissed. 
"STOP!"
"What?"
"CHEWING"
"Sorry."
"It's okay, it's just going to make me throw up."  It doesn't and I pass out again. Lenora passes out next to me.

    Imagine this next scene.  Try to visualize it with me.  My eyes open to the ceiling, my body shocked out of deep REM sleep.  My legs and waist are moist.  I look up and there is vomit covering my legs and my waist and stomach.  The smell is vile, and I see little salsa chunks caked in two spots on the bed.  Paralyzed by sheer amazement, I am only able to observe my surroundings.  I look to my right, where there is retch splattered on the wall like blood from a gunshot wound.  Something straight out of Hollywood.  

    To my horror, the story does not end there.  There is a trail of puke leading to the bathroom, where Lenora is now taking a shower.  I take my clothes, which are covered in quesadilla, off and join her.  We clean off and then strip her bed. I clean everything up that I can with my three-AM hangover handicap. I take down the dust ruffle from her window because it is tainted.  Hidden behind the dust ruffle is the crowning achievement of the night.  There, on the windowsill, is a blue cup overflowing with gooey, chunky throw up.   Not thinking, I dump it into the sink and not the toilet.  The next couple of days, the sink is clogged. 

    In the aftermath, Lenora is passed out on her completely stripped bed, with her completely stripped body wrapped in three different towels, one wet, as blankets.   Yellow, pink, blue.  And the memory of orange streaks on white walls, and orange streaks on her red honda.  And the floors, two blankets, the bed covering, the curtains, and dust ruffle. After everything that had happened, she is passed out and I am on the corner of her bed, finishing the last fourth of the humongous quesadilla, stuffed with salsa, beans, an inordinate amount of cheese, sour cream, and a shit load of hot sauce.

Post Script
Awesome party, by the way, Gary.  Sorry I had to leave so early and couldn't help lead the Blackout Brigade.