were drugs involved here, and I didn't like it that my “date” was apparently OD'ing. What if she died? I was the one who'd paid for the weed, I could be charged with something.
Colleen was sitting on the toilet with her pants up and her head between her legs.
“I can't get up,” she said.
“Yes, you can. Just take a deep breath and we'll get out of here.”
“I can't. I have low blood pressure. Every time I stand, I feel like I'm gonna faint.”
The woman who'd tracked me down asked if she should call an ambulance.
“No!” I snapped. “She'll be okay.”
I turned back to Colleen. She was pale but calm.
“Has this ever happened before?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. When I had my car accident, remember?”
I was going to have to carry her right through the restaurant. It would be a scene. I was too stoned to handle a scene.
I found a fire exit next to the restroom, but it had an alarm handle, so I tracked down the manager, a guy about my age with thick George Burns-style glasses and a ponytail. I explained the situation: My date was in the throes of food poisoning. “Throw out your goddamn potato salad and open the back door!” I screamed.
I carried Colleen over my shoulder, past the jeering blondes, past the panicky manager. He shut the fire exit door with a sheepish wave and I laid Colleen down on the sidewalk. Again she put her head between her legs. I tried to get my bearings, but the Beverly Center is a big mall and I had no idea where we were in relation to where we had parked.
When Colleen assured me she was stabilized, I sprinted about a quarter mile around the side of the building, looking for an entrance to the parking garage. I finally found a brightly lit escalator, but it wasn't the one I'd ridden down before. I ran up it anyway, then tried to remember if I'd parked on the second or third levels. Or was it the fourth? I tried the fourth first, figuring I'd work my way down, but nothing up there looked vaguely familiar, so I went down to the third, which looked even less familiar and brought me to the second, which I knew for a fact I had never before laid eyes on. All three levels were packed with cars yet strangely void of people and, being as stoned as I was, I felt as if I was losing my mind and was overcome with an irrational, ineffable fear. I was thirsty and my heart shook against my ribs, and I was sweating and out of breath and my fingertips were numb. I thought of my dinner guest arriving with no one there and Colleen down on the street with no bloodpressure and suddenly I had to take a shit and my tongue got drier and drier and I stopped running because my throat was making a clicking sound every time I tried to swallow and the stomach cramps got worse and for the first time I realized this wasn't about finding a car, it was about
survival
, because if I didn't get something to drink soon, I would surely choke to death. I'd been fighting an adrenaline rush for about forty-five minutes now, and for the first time, I felt I was losing. My esophagus was starting to spasm and I was afraid it was going to close entirely and that's when I saw the Coke can sitting on the pavement next to a concrete pillar. I picked the can up; it was warm and sticky. A half inch of spew swished at the bottom. I looked around. No witnesses. I made one last effort to work up some spit, to coat my throat, to save myself from doing this.
over my shoulder as I read the note pinned to my door. Four words: HENRY. CAME. WENT. JENNA. Heartsick, I flopped Colleen onto the bed, then walked down the street for a six-pack of Mountain Dew and a bottle of Listerine. Colleen guzzled three sodas in front of me before I went out front in my boxers and sipped half the Listerine. I tried to look on the bright side—I finally knew her name. And she seemed levelheaded. She hadn't threatened me or made any snide remarks. She was smart, secure. Why not, though? For all she knew, I could've had a terrible accident.
When Colleen
Colleen was sitting on the toilet with her pants up and her head between her legs.
“I can't get up,” she said.
“Yes, you can. Just take a deep breath and we'll get out of here.”
“I can't. I have low blood pressure. Every time I stand, I feel like I'm gonna faint.”
The woman who'd tracked me down asked if she should call an ambulance.
“No!” I snapped. “She'll be okay.”
I turned back to Colleen. She was pale but calm.
“Has this ever happened before?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. When I had my car accident, remember?”
I was going to have to carry her right through the restaurant. It would be a scene. I was too stoned to handle a scene.
I found a fire exit next to the restroom, but it had an alarm handle, so I tracked down the manager, a guy about my age with thick George Burns-style glasses and a ponytail. I explained the situation: My date was in the throes of food poisoning. “Throw out your goddamn potato salad and open the back door!” I screamed.
I carried Colleen over my shoulder, past the jeering blondes, past the panicky manager. He shut the fire exit door with a sheepish wave and I laid Colleen down on the sidewalk. Again she put her head between her legs. I tried to get my bearings, but the Beverly Center is a big mall and I had no idea where we were in relation to where we had parked.
When Colleen assured me she was stabilized, I sprinted about a quarter mile around the side of the building, looking for an entrance to the parking garage. I finally found a brightly lit escalator, but it wasn't the one I'd ridden down before. I ran up it anyway, then tried to remember if I'd parked on the second or third levels. Or was it the fourth? I tried the fourth first, figuring I'd work my way down, but nothing up there looked vaguely familiar, so I went down to the third, which looked even less familiar and brought me to the second, which I knew for a fact I had never before laid eyes on. All three levels were packed with cars yet strangely void of people and, being as stoned as I was, I felt as if I was losing my mind and was overcome with an irrational, ineffable fear. I was thirsty and my heart shook against my ribs, and I was sweating and out of breath and my fingertips were numb. I thought of my dinner guest arriving with no one there and Colleen down on the street with no bloodpressure and suddenly I had to take a shit and my tongue got drier and drier and I stopped running because my throat was making a clicking sound every time I tried to swallow and the stomach cramps got worse and for the first time I realized this wasn't about finding a car, it was about
survival
, because if I didn't get something to drink soon, I would surely choke to death. I'd been fighting an adrenaline rush for about forty-five minutes now, and for the first time, I felt I was losing. My esophagus was starting to spasm and I was afraid it was going to close entirely and that's when I saw the Coke can sitting on the pavement next to a concrete pillar. I picked the can up; it was warm and sticky. A half inch of spew swished at the bottom. I looked around. No witnesses. I made one last effort to work up some spit, to coat my throat, to save myself from doing this.
over my shoulder as I read the note pinned to my door. Four words: HENRY. CAME. WENT. JENNA. Heartsick, I flopped Colleen onto the bed, then walked down the street for a six-pack of Mountain Dew and a bottle of Listerine. Colleen guzzled three sodas in front of me before I went out front in my boxers and sipped half the Listerine. I tried to look on the bright side—I finally knew her name. And she seemed levelheaded. She hadn't threatened me or made any snide remarks. She was smart, secure. Why not, though? For all she knew, I could've had a terrible accident.
When Colleen
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