Worried Sick – A Houseparty, Upper West Side, March 5, 2003

“Where’s Jan?”
“I think she’s in the bathroom.”
“Is she okay?”
“How’m I sposed to know?”
He was in the middle of lighting a cigarette, and his lips seemed to fail him as he said this, sending the cigarette tumbling end over end along his sweater to the ground. He steadied himself irritably and hunched over to retrieve it.
“You’re fucking wasted!”
He stood again and propped himself against the near wall of the stoop, and with much effort, lit his cigarette.
“Goddamn,” he said to his cigarette, then looking contemplatively at the girl standing there in front of him, and after a well earned moment of silence, he said very matter-of-factly: “Yeah, well? You’re wasted too.”
Then he turned again to his smoking and dragged deep, looking off blankly at the apartment buildings across the street.
“Well Christ Jeff, she’s been in there for like half an hour, don’t you think you should go check on her?”
His companion was a comely, matronly girl, the kind of girl who you might think was a tourist in New York City were it not for the very smart, shapely fit of her clothing and her brash, twinkly manner. Her squat set cut a striking figure against his hunch.
He peeked at his wristwatch.
“So what is it? You wanna leave or something? Is that it?” he asked, still staring off across the street.
“Can I bum one of those?” she asked.
He sighed dramatically and pulled another cigarette from his pants pocket.
“What time is it anyway?” she quipped.
“So you do wanna leave huh?” he said. “Jesus Christ, I don’t even know why I take you two out.”
“And a light?” she said.
He handed her a book of matches. The sound of a helicopter pitter-pattered in the sky above the buildings.
“Your friends are really nice,” she said.
“Oh yeah?” he said, seeming to enjoy a private joke.
“What?” she asked. “What Jeff?”
He broke his long stare and rubbed his eyes, looking at her intensely now, as if she’d only just walked up.
“What what?” he asked, not unfriendly.
“What are you laughing at?”
“So you think my friends are nice huh?”
“Well they are,” she said.
“That’s spectacular Maggie. I’ll be sure to tell them first thing tomorrow,” he resumed his long stare. “Or better yet, perhaps we could shoot off a few thank-you cards to them?”
“God, fuck you!” she said. “What am I supposed to say? That your friends are a bunch of wine-guzzling hipster snob fucks?”
He rolled the end of his cigarette along the cast-iron railing.
“Hipster snob fucks?” he said. “That’s absolutely beautiful Mags. Can I quote you on that? Maybe we can monogram that on the cards.”
“Well Jesus Jeff, they are your friends, I mean after all,” she said setting down next to him.
“My gosh Maggie, but you do seem to have a way with words my dear,” he said patting her on the leg.
She swatted his hand away.
“Just ‘cause I’m telling you, don’t think you’re immune or special or anything. You’re just a fucking hipster too, Jeff. You do know that right?” she said. “And wash your fucking hands once in a while for God’s sake.”
She flicked her cigarette into the street.
“Dirty bastard.”
Both their faces were flushed and ruddy with booze and they shared the doe-eyed, thick-lipped look of people who’ve been rudely awakened or kissing intensely for many minutes. The helicopter swept the sky again leaving a heavy silence in its wake.
“I think I’m gunna leave New York goddammit,” he said finally, stretching his hands up into the air. “Yep, I’m just gunna pack all my shit up and grab Jan and we’re gunna get the fuck out of here for good.”
“You’re just gunna grab Jan and just fucking take-off!” she said. “Sure you are. I can just see you hailing a getaway taxi right now: ‘Yeah, uh, how much to Montana?’”
“No stupid, we’ll rent a goddamn car.”
“Oh, but however would you manage without your precious friends? And anyway, you wouldn’t get ten miles. You’d get lost before you got out of Manhattan.”
“The hell I would,” he said. “Fuck you. And by the way, you certainly aren’t invited.”
“See?” she said. “You are a hipster. You can’t even take a joke.”
“Sure I can. It’s not like I just dis-invited you, you were never invited. I just wanted to tell you.”
“My, what a gentleman you are!” she said. “I’m positively swooning Jeff. I don’t know how Jan controls herself, it must be absolute hell without you,” she said, batting her shiny lashes.
“And I suppose you've got your getaway all planned out too,” she said.
“Yep,” he said.
“Well, why don’t you start the charm offensive by getting Jan before she gets fucking raped by one of your friends, or worse yet, before one of them tries to push his goddamn business card on her.”
“That’s not funny,” he said, heaving himself up from the steps.
“How would you know,” she said, half to herself, as he stepped inside.

The small living room was littered with a few sleeping bodies and lots of drip-stained wine glasses and overfull ashtrays. Jeff picked a carrot slice from a fanned display of celery and beets and firmly planted it into a sloppy dish of ranch dressing. He mouthed it like a cigar and stood tapping his foot for several minutes, staring at the tiny blinking light on somebody’s cell phone. “Fuck this shit,” he muttered, walking warily, bow-legged, downstairs to the bathroom.
He cleared his throat and took a breath before knocking lightly on the door.
“Jan?”
He got no answer.
“Jaaan? It’s time to go home.”
There was the sound of muted movement behind the door.
“Jan? I know you must be having a wonderful time in there, but are you about ready?”
The toilet flushed and ran loudly. Then a scratchy, yet not unattractive voice echoed from the bathroom.
“Come in.”
“I’d love to dearest, but you’ve got to unlock the door first.”
Then came an exasperated groan followed by the slow click of the door lock.
Jan was curled up, her hands hugging her knees on the tile next to the toilet. Jeff wondered how she’d gotten back to the toilet so quickly.
Her face, usually inscrutable and fine, was puffy and bloodless.
“You look like hell,” he said washing his hands.
“Thanks,” she said pulling her dark hair back over her bird wing shoulders.
The toilet porcelain was ringed with scarlet-colored vomity confetti bits and the air was tinged sour.
“Red wine’s a killer,” he said, turning off the tap and drying his hands on a towel.
“I guess,” she said meekly. She let her head slump down over her knees. “You hear those helicopters?” she asked.
“Sure did,” he said. “They must be looking for us.”
He turned to face her and watched her back rise and fall slightly faster than usual and took note of the perfect part in her hair. Even her scalp looked pale.
“You think you can walk okay? I think we’re gunna catch a taxi.”
She groaned again, but with more urgency this time.
“Atta girl,” he said and crouched down to help her up, but just then her back heaved like a wave and she clasped his hand very hard, pulling him to the floor. She spun herself around and submerged her head halfway into the toilet bowl, one clammy hand increasing its clutch on his and the other grasping the bowl shakily. She gagged very hard twice producing a load of bilious greenish liquid that expanded like thick clouds into the toilet water. She gagged again more violently and began to breath heavily, the air whistling in her throat.
“Oh no,” she whispered steadily.“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she continued until her voice broke into a cry. “Jesus Christ,” she said clutching her forehead. Delicate strands of spit and vomit swayed along her lips. She threw her head back toward the toilet.
“I’m so sorry baby. I’m so sorry,” she said.
He began to imagine what a beautiful child she must have been; her voice sounded like a little girl’s. This is the exact same voice her mother and father must have heard when she was scared at night, or had a fever, he thought.
He ran his fingers over her back and grabbed the towel to wipe off her mouth.
“Shhh,” he said. “Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay honey. It’ll be okay.”
She began sobbing uncontrollably and her back shivered under his fingertips.
“My God,” she said and reached again for Jeff’s hand, still gagging violently. “Oh God Jeff honey. We’re in trouble,” she said. Her voice echoed weirdly from inside the toilet bowl.
“Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay.”
“No,” she said lifting her head. “It’s not fucking okay Jeff. I don’t think I can take it anymore.”
Her jaw was ticking wildly and her face was streamed with tears. She dropped her head again.
“I don’t think I can take it. I just don’t.”
“Shhh,” he said. “It’s gunna be fine.”
They sat silently for a few moments accompanied only by the sound of the running toilet. Jeff’s face had grown sickly and worried.
“Jan?” he asked. “You still …?”
But she broke in: “Promise me.”
He paused and ran his free hand through his hair.
“Promise me,” she said again.
“Okay, I promise,” he said.
“You’ve got to promise me Jeff,” she said, pulling her head up to face him. “We’re really gunna leave.”
“Shhh,” he whispered. “I promise.”