Monday Mornings

I awoke on the floor on a Monday morning. A chunky pile of puke lay directly beneath my mouth, slowly creeping toward the heat register. That could be bad.

My head felt like it was being bludgeoned from the inside with an oversized, slow-pitch aluminum bat.

Another long night out with some friends. On a Sunday. I seem to be having a lot of these lately—even when I don’t want to. I have trouble saying no when I get the call. If I’m alone, I’d stay in, but I’m a product of my environment, and I seem to love letting my friends and their corrosive presence dictate how my evenings go, simply because I don’t have the cojones to ignore a phone call.

Fuck. What time is it? I thought.

Sunlight caressed my neck. The blinds were wide open in my living room, which was odd, because I never close them. I despise the idea of a random passerby having the ability to look into my home.

How did I get home last night?

When did I get home last night?

I rolled onto my back and checked my pockets for my phone. No phone—but my wallet and car keys were there. That was good. Losing either of those sucks. I’ve done that before.

There’s a point when you’re drinking that, once passed, everything goes downhill. “Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.” is shockingly valid. Some people can’t make it that far. The cursed can. I am one of those.

I scanned the floor around me. My iPhone lay face up a few feet away. The screen was smashed, tiny droplets of blood speckling the floor around it.

A wave of embarrassment crawled over me. I had just bought that phone. Another casualty of grade-A poor decision-making. I seem to be an expert at that.

I flopped toward it and reached out with a pale, shaky hand.

Hopefully it’s still usable.

It was. Thank God.

Nine missed calls. Four texts.

Fuck.

It was 10:15 a.m. That made me three hours and fifteen minutes late for work—for the second time in two weeks. My boss told me last time, “One more missed Monday and you’re done, kid. Don’t care how good you are.”

Five of the calls and all four texts were from my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend would be more accurate as I skimmed through them.

“I’m happy he hit you. You deserved everything you got, asshole.”

That would explain the strange feeling in my face.

No idea who hit me. Or why.

I opened the camera app and turned it toward myself. My nose was bloody, purple shadows already forming under my eyes.

That would explain the blood.

Four missed calls from my employer. All with voicemails.

Did I even want to listen?

No choice.

I played them in succession.

“John, it’s 7:35. Where are you? Call me back.” Click.

“7:50, John. Call me back immediately.” Click.

“It’s 8:15, John. I told you I was done with this shit. Get your ass to work or find a new job.” Click.

“Last straw, John. You’re done. Don’t bother calling.” Click.

I threw my phone across the floor.

I never pay attention to the repercussions of my drinking. Maybe it’s time I start. I’m sick of the anxiety, the depression that lingers for days after. Everything always falls apart. It’s not worth it.

I think it’s time I get my life together.

That’s exactly what I’ll do.

Swear off the booze.

Get back into the gym.

But first, I need something to get rid of this headache.

I think there’s beer in the fridge.