I woke up shivering in the middle of a dark construction site with headlights from a roaring tractor pointed at me. My head was throbbing and my left arm was sticky and damp. It appeared that I was about to be run over and pulverised into the foundation of Tribeca’s newest luxury residential high rise.
“Hey buddy! Move your ass!” barked a meaty looking construction guy. I tried to call out to him but a mouthful of dirt made this rather impossible.
I contemplated the simplicity of being run over versus the complexity of trying to stand up and find my way home.
“Hey! Move it!” he barked again.
The construction guy seemed hell-bent on making me live through this. What a hassle.
I managed to roll out of the way and use my good arm to prop myself up with a bollard. Fuzzy memories of the preceding events were scattered around my mind like a pile of leaves on a windy day. A few memories started to take shape.
Me and the guys partying at South’s.
An argument with Michelle when I missed date night. I think something along the lines of “It’s me or the booze” came hurling out of her mouth at top volume.
My phone was dead. According to the meaty construction guy it was 4am on Monday. I was out with the guys on Saturday. Jesus, what happened to Sunday? I wanted to dive in front of the tractor and offer my body to the foundation of whatever they were building. Instead, I walked on and realised I had nowhere to go so I came here – back to South’s.
I’ve got a few bucks. For God’s sake pour me whiskey to wash down all this dirt and blood. No ice.