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Rate This Contest Entry: Contest: June 30th, 2005 Author: Chad McHone Looking at the semi-solid puddle of vomit that lay on the blacktop inches in front of his face, Jonathan was momentarily perplexed by the small chunks of yellow-orange matter that seem to have clumped together at the center of this viscous pool. Had he eaten carrots? He certainly didn't remember having eaten any, but the proof is in the pudding, as they say. Jonathan could barely remember his own name, let alone what he had gorged upon throughout this particularly dreary, lack-luster day. After work, he had hopped into his rust-bucket V4 P.O.S. with three hubcaps, a duct-taped radiator hose, and a negative turn-radius and driven to his favorite bar to loosen up, relax and basically get hammered. Thirteen whiskey sours, five beers and forty-five minutes later, he was in the dark alleyway behind the bar regurgitating his last three meals in such a vile manner that it could only be compared to Joan Rivers’ yearly performance on the red carpet. "A perfect end to a perfect Monday," he muttered to himself, wiping glistening streams of drool from his lips. Hunkered over on the ground, all his weight resting on the palms of his hands and the tips of his toes, staring at this mess, Jonathan smiled. He didn't count the act of vomiting itself pleasurable, but he found that with the emptying of his stomach contents he had become sober enough to drive home. And that, of course, meant ten bucks saved on cab fare. As a rule, he tried to stay optimistic and attempted to find whatever good there was to be found in a bad situation. In this case, he could use that ten dollars he had rescued from it's impending fate in the clutches of a cabbie towards repeating that nights events the following night. Dragging his feet, Jonathan started back to his car. A walk that, through his semi-inebriated haze, seemed more like a voyage across an endless black concrete sea. His head was throbbing and his mouth was dry. He smacked his tongue across the roof of his mouth a couple of times, attempting to work up a ball of saliva. With waves of nausea rushing through him, Jonathan began mentally creating haikus about his surroundings as an attempt at distraction. At one point he thought up such a strange, off-the-wall haiku that he began to laugh hysterically, but after the laughter subsided could no longer remember a single line of it. Jonathan finally reached his car, stumbling over only three curbs across the trek. Standing next to the driver's side door, he fumbled with his keys not only because of his mental state, but also because the night was chilling to the bone. And with that cold came those clumsy, sausage fingers. He dropped his keys, which hit the ground with a jolly jingle-jangle. He bent down, picked them up, and dropped them again. Frustrated and not finding the second jingle-jangle nearly as jolly as the first, he angrily bent down to pick them up once again, this time bringing his face in a downward arc into the side-view mirror of his quasi-reliable automobile. "Son of a - !" was all he could get out as his neck snapped back in recoil. Arms pin wheeling madly, he was sent flying backwards, landing hard on the pavement. Luckily, his skull broke the fall. Tuesday morning brought for Jonathan a headache from his hangover, gut-rot from drinking too much, a headache from smashing his forehead on the mirror, a backache from "sleeping" in the parking lot all night, a headache from slamming his head on the ground, dirty clothes from puking on himself, seven voicemails from his roommates asking why he hadn't come home last night, sixteen voicemails from his boss asking why he wasn't at work, a wallet twenty clams shy of what it should be and just an all-around bad mood from all of this happening on a fucking Monday. There was a thin trail of dried blood running from his minor head wound down his forehead, across his left eyelid and half way down his cheek, resting on the spot where his dimple would be. Had he been smiling as he slept? Perhaps. The dried blood on his eyelashes had caked the two lids together, making it difficult and slightly painful to open. Once it was open, he attempted sitting upright. Bad idea. The head rush that ensued brought with it a tidal wave of lightning bolts, a pain so horrible that a mixed metaphor was required for it's description. For about thirty seconds, everything appeared red and there was a weird tingling sensation at the top of his spine, and then it passed. He decided to just go on with his day, and not dwell on the possibility that he may have just suffered some serious head trauma. After all, he was an optimist, and this was a new day. Full of wonder and possibilities, and . . . And he threw up again. Residual gut-rot crept up and got the better of him, causing him to once again start heavin' his innards, so to speak. Leaning over his newest contribution to modern art, he sort of heaved his right shoulder, like a really heavy shrug, throwing his arm beneath the car. He felt around in the automobiles shadow and found what he was looking for: the key ring. Warily, he tried standing. He was pretty confident that he didn't have anything left in him to come back up, but there was always the dry heaves. They're not so much fun, really. He rose to his feet and steadied himself by placing his hand on the "rust-colored" roof of his car. He got in the car and closed the door. Covered in puke, smelling like puke, looking like crap, Jonathan looked at himself in the mirror and grinned before hitting the gas. After all, he was an optimist. people have rated it so far. is the current average. |
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