jeff yen

Don’t ask.

A second heartbeat is echoing through my body when I wake up. Reedy and muffled, it is as if a small frightened dog is curled up tight against my chest. I draw my arms closer around myself slightly. It's cold, the kind of cold that slowly seeps the warmth out of you. It's brisk and refreshing, until all of a sudden you realize you're curled up, shivering, and the chill is gnawing its way up your limbs.

I pull a small pillow over to hug for warmth, and try to take stock of my surroundings. I'm lying on the living room floor, between the couch and the coffee table. My head is resting on my beanbag, my feet neatly tucked under the couch. Through the reluctantly lifting mists of sleep, I blearily wonder why I'm fully dressed. I can feel the jab of keys against my left thigh, and the press of my wallet against the right. I roll over slightly, and am rewarded with the crackle of too much hair gel crumpling against carpet, and the smell of too much deodorant. I wiggle my toes experimentally, and they slide against the hardness of leather shoes.

By now I can feel that my errant heartbeat is coming through the floor. Snatches of music and voices raised in laughter drift through the open window. Earnest voices, much too passionate for the subjects of conversation I can hear, and with a slight lilt that suggests Asian speakers, accents easing out under the influence of alcohol.

I'm awake now, but my head still feels wrapped in goose-down. Through one squinting eye, I glance up and see a tumbler with a thin layer of pale golden liquid in the bottom. Either someone has taken a miniscule piss in one of John's glasses, or I've been drinking Scotch.

A vein throbs powerfully in my temple, a painful surge of blood.

Ah, yes. Now I remember.

Yesterday afternoon, a knock sounds on the door as I'm dozing on the couch, accompanied by the television. I give my customary bellow of "Come in!" which practically nobody ever takes me up on. I hop up from the couch muttering savagely, and the door opens when I'm halfway to it. I am left with a disgruntled, sleepy expression, holding my hand out for the doorknob, in front of two college-age Asian girls that have come up from the downstairs apartment. I do my best to compose myself; I can only imagine the ghastly consequences this has on my expression.

They're having a party, they tell me, and have come up to make sure I'll be okay with a little noise late tomorrow night. It's a birthday party, they say, and the one on the left raises a hand. You should come by, they say, there'll be free alcohol. Eyebrows waggle suggestively.

I thank them, wish Lefty a happy birthday, and tell them I'm fine with the noise, and I might take them up on their offer. The door closes on three polite smiles.

The next day, all my ill-laid plans have fallen through. Luke is sick. Shaun is AWOL. John is stuck in traffic somewhere on the northbound 5. What the hell, I think. I'll stop by this party and see what's going on. The last time I saw any of the ladies downstairs, they were playing board games stone cold sober. Me and two friends barged in on them, blind drunk, put up a good fight in Cranium, and then retired upstairs in defeat to our just rewards (burnt pizza and tequila). This could be a good time to make amends.

I pull on some jeans at 7pm, watch some TV, then poke my head downstairs. Nothing. No problem. I surf the web for a half an hour, then listen at the window. No music, no voices. Shrug. Well, I might as well get started early, no point wasting a healthy head start. I crack open the stubby bottle of Dewar's, and pour it out over some ice. It makes a short single, which I sip in front of the computer as I chat with some equally unoccupied friends. I'm feeling distinctly tingly by the time I reach the bottom of the glass, which is my Asian heritage at work. I amble downstairs again, but the place is still dark.

My god, I think. Maybe they're holding a seance? Perhaps the noise later on will be them opening up an unholy portal to the afterlife in their living room?

Clearly, this possibility merits another drink.

I wander back upstairs and pour myself another single, this time out of John's Glenfidditch, which I butterfinger into a bulging double. I go back to sipping in front of the computer screen. By the halfway point, my ancestors have seen to it that I am raving madly on my keyboard, preaching the merits of Double Dragon 2 on the original Nintendo. By the bottom of the glass, I've realized I haven't had dinner yet. My wavering attention now focused like a laser on the prospect of greasy food, I make an immediate beeline for the McDonald's on the corner, where I summarily dispense with the laughable pretentiousness of "eating right." I return triumphantly to the computer screen, a triple bypass clutched in one victorious fist.

It's now 9 o'clock, and my buzz is fast disappearing. The alcohol and grease is weighing heavily on my eyelids, and I head-bob a couple of times in front of the computer. This won't do, I tell myself, so I pull myself to my feet and peek downstairs again. Dark as a tomb. The girls are probably still painting pentagrams on the floor, or whatever you do at seances. I flop down on the couch and flip on the TV, searching for something lively to watch. Ah, what's this? The history of sponges....