A Roofie and a Pearl Jam Sandwich, Please [MA: language]

October 9, 2017

 

 

[Originally written May 15, 2006]

 

Eddie Vedder was close enough for me to touch as he belted out the faster, more intense version of Even Flow on Friday night. From the seventh row, floor: pure, unadulterated, gleaming ROCK was what was happening up there...energy, vitality, regard, disregard...it was all there. I was too, until...wait...what the fuck is going on here?

I have no way to confirm or deny, but it is possible that something made its way into my drink, that I didn't put there. I just felt something was not right. That's the only way I can explain it. Sure, I was drinking...but trust me when I say I've subjected myself to every drug/alcohol combination, and still have never felt this way. 

My vision seemed to go to black and white. My left ear went silent. My neck felt like I had been shaken by a British au pere. My kidneys felt like someone had sucker punched them for hours. I had to get out.

I pushed through one of the exit doors and mumbled something to the woman at the door about having to check on my sitter so that she'd let me back in. I reached the street and a cold, bitter rain was steadily falling on my bare arms. "Make it to the car, make it to the car" was all I could think. After wandering around the parking lot for what seemed like 15 minutes but could have easily been two hours, I find my friend's truck by using the panic button on his keychain. I climb in the cab, and reach for my phone. 

At this point, what little memory I have of this adventure is coming in big, huge flashes, like you see in old movies when they're using the old camera, where the photographer buries his head under a dark cloth and a huge explosion erupts from the bulbs. 

BOOM! With white smoke clearing, I see a black and white picture of me searching for my phone. 

BOOM! More white smoke and I see the black and white picture of me frantically scrolling through my cell.

BOOM! Flash and white smoke and a black and white picture of a set list of people who might be able to talk me down. 

Julie....she's sleeping. Michael....he's out celebrating with Jay. Sara...she's at work. Billy....he's at another show. Simon....who the hell is Simon? I fear Drew ended up being the phone victim, but I cant be sure (sorry, dude). The next thing I remember is shutting my phone and tripping over something in the wet parking lot, jamming stones and, I'm sure, small shards of glass in my palm. My clothes are soaked, and I have reason to believe I'm somewhere near the bus station...like most cities, the bus station is always in the worst part of town. I need to find that huge arena I was enjoying myself in just two hours ago...or was it three?

The rest of the night is pretty blurry, and only comes in those BOOM moments. Just still photography shots of a drowned-rat-looking thing, pathetically stumbling through the street with a bloody hand and a cell phone. 

Literally, the next thing I knew, it was 10am, and I was at my apartment, in my bed. I looked out my window, and my car was there, in one piece I might add. My chain belt lay in a neat pile on my extra comforters, and my contacts had been taken out. An empty flask of vodka was on my nightstand.

I'm 100% sure I wasn't violated in the physical sense, even though my kidneys still feel like they've been subjected to a week of heavy dialysis. In trying to remember WHEN I misplaced my drink, the only time I can somewhat recall is when I left it on the floor, beneath my chair, so that I could get something out of my purse, or go smoke a cigarette, or go buy another beer. And there were total douche bags sitting behind and next to me. But douche enough to put something in my drink at a fucking Pearl Jam show??? Don't know. 

"Is something wrong?" she said. "Of course there is. You're still alive," she said, "Oh and do I deserve to be? Is that the question? And if so...if so...who answers? Who answers?!?!?!"

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