The aftermath of a 21st birthday

At a certain news publication that I happen to work for, I pitched a story to my boss. No big thing, but I was turning 21 soon and I figured it'd be a good time to write/run a story about how 21st birthdays are the one night when binge drinking is socially acceptable by one and all.

"Do one better," my editor said. "Write a column about it."

Done and done. Just one problem: After I wrote it, antoher editor said we couldn't run it. Something about it promoting binge drinking.

Funny, I thought that was the point.

Anyway, they never ran it. They just kind of keep ignoring it. And whenever I bring it up, they change the subject. So here it is:

My phone vibrates in my pocket, waking me up. I reach for it and do my best to utter a hello.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re alive,” the voice on the other line says. I think it’s my sister. “You can go back to sleep.”

I hang up before she can say anything else. It’s 12:34 in the afternoon, and I’m lying on top of my sheets — still fully clothed from last night — with no recollection of how I got home. At least I made it here, I figure. Must have been some celebration. Hell, you only turn 21 once, right?

Suddenly I realize there’s no hand poking my brain — I have a headache, and it sucks, and it won’t go away — but that’s what it feels like. A poke here, a poke there, and the laughter of the 3-year-old responsible for my torment somewhere out there in the nonexistent distance.

I remember a few things: the beer at Mr. Moe’s, the 190 Octane at Fat Tuesday, the Superman at Wet Willy’s, the Jaeger bomb at Moe’s, and a slice of pizza somewhere in the mix. There were shots, too. And more beer.

Mostly, I remember showing the bouncer at Moe’s my ID and telling him it was my birthday before he had a chance to reject me. That I definitely recall.

“Happy birthday,” he mumbled. I think he was sincere.

When I proudly thrust my license in the face of the guy over at Wet Willy’s, he told me to show the bartender. I’d get a free small drink, he said. No thanks. By the time I’d reached his establishment, my stomach was already in shambles and, 21st birthday or not, my friends had already thrust a drink in my hand. I wasn’t ready to vomit. At least not yet, anyway.

I struggle to get out of bed and venture outside my bedroom. My friend Parness isn’t passed out on the couch like I’d assumed he’d be. He must have woken up and driven home early.

My phone rings again. It’s him.

“Where’d you go?” I prod.

“Where’d you go?”

I can’t remember.

“I think you hopped in a cab and left. I figured you would have stayed out later on your 21st birthday.”

Some celebration, indeed. I hang up the phone, go back to sleep and try not to worry about it.

At least I’m alive. Although death doesn’t sound too bad right now.