My mouth woke me up. It was wide open, resting on old carpet decorated with last night’s party, covering the floor of a decades-old RV in the middle of a desert. For reasons related to the mess on the floor, the camper’s door, like my mouth, was wide open and the sands of the Mojave had let themselves in, taking the liberty of feeding me an early breakfast. I was lying in misery, too paralyzed to move, as the buzz left my body so quickly you could smell it.
It was freezing and the wind was slapping the open door off the side of the RV. My head was thumping and I didn’t have a blanket. Or a shirt. My pants were missing too. Dawn was slowly taking over night and the stars were punching out for their shift as I scrambled to make sense of what was happening and just where the fuck I was.
Water. Pee. Advil. Clothes.
I didn’t care what order they came in, but I was desperate for all of them. Any of them. Pee won. It was too much of a journey to walk three feet to make my way outside, so I just stumbled into a standing position and shot it out the PHFWAPPING door hole. Mid-stream, I assessed my situation. The camper was a mix between a murder scene and a gay orgy. Bodies strewn amongst bottles and trash – two half-naked dudes sharing a small mattress with no sheet in the back and another sprawled face first on a couch with his legs somehow still on the floor.
Thank God – I knew these people. I’d never in my life been as excited to see a half-naked man. Ben, on the couch, was snooling, which is when you’re snoring out of your nose, while simultaneously drooling out of your mouth. I was relieved that I wasn’t alone and impressed that he was hydrated enough to actually drool.
Mmmm. Drool. Need. Water.
I shook, reholstered and pinpointed the Advil, along with the first Solo cup I could
find. In the battle to quench my thirst, I made that liquid disappear faster than a Dyson on a late-night infomercial. Unfortunately, it was straight gin. I surged for the door, knowing that the booze I had just put down was about to rise much faster than the sun. However, Ben’s pasty, naked-man legs got in the way, tossing him from the couch to the rug and and sending me flying out the door while projectile vomiting. Luckily, the ground where I landed was soft and I had plenty of puke saved up from last night’s’ drunken power-grazing to break my fall. Unluckily, I landed on my ribs, knocking the wind out of me, in the spot where I had just peed.
It was like an arts and crafts project where glitter sticks to the glue on paper — but a drunk naked man was the paper, dirt and sand were the glitter, and a you-call-it mix of vomit, urine and a dabble of blood as the glue,. I flailed around the sand as though I were wrestling a snow angel, trying to catch my wind while still puking. My lungs were imploding and my stomach was exploding. Noises like that cannot be replicated. It sounded like Chewbacca was fucking an entire petting zoo as I fought the violent panic of not being able to breathe.
“You okay, man?”
I recognized the pasty man-legs in the camper’s doorway as Ben’s, and I finally inhaled for the first time in what seemed like a week. I tried to stand, but immediately collapsed back into my wet, chunky, bright-orange sand mess. It was evident that I had been the one who ate all the Doritos.
Read the rest of this raucous tale in SN8:Nightmoon, coming out on November 12th.