Nj Bingo Report: Fill & Download for Free

December, 2005, a few months after back surgery, the long bed-ridden venture having left me a 90 pound weakling (remember that part).My mother's cancer had returned, unexpectedly extending my one week visit in New Jersey into an open-ended one. Immediately upon my arrival in NJ, my cousin, who was closer to me than a brother, dropped dead, suddenly. My mother and I were to go to the funeral in LA until, at the last minute, her pain got much worse and they decided to start chemo right away, instead of radiation the following week.As soon as we got back from the first chemo day -- which took place during the funeral it was killing me to miss -- an online woman who’d been making mincemeat of my heart made a long overdue reappearance, only to kick me in my cyber face and prove my suspicions that she's a selfish, lying manipulator.The consequence of all this was that I decided to get drunk and go see King Kong on opening night. Seemed like a good plan.I intended to go to the 10:45 pm show, Friday night, after I'd put my mother to bed. I knew better than to drive drunk, so the plan was to drive to the giant multiplex, park the car, find some place to throw back a large amount of booze, quickly, walk to the theater, and force a huge bucket of popcorn into my stomach which was shrunken from having had no time all day at the hospital to fill it.I was proud to have such a fine plan, a plan anyone with sense would admit indicated a healthy desire to take care of myself. Just in case, since I hadn't slept in days and the movie's so long, I popped one of my A.D.D. mother's Ritilins.But my mother stayed up later than expected, I got a phone call just as I was leaving, and it took longer to get to the theater than I thought, so it became evident I'd have to drink faster than I'd hoped. Cool. Better yet. Things were looking up. I had a plan, which counts for a lot during times of excessive impotence.The multiplex, which seemed the only worthwhile place to see the Kong man, was in Edgewater. When I was a kid it felt like going back in time to drive through that almost non-existent Hudson River village, so near New York City, with an up-close view of it across the river, but still maintaining the feel of a middle-of-nowhere tiny old burg. Recent years had brought endless malls and high-rises to the area, so that if there ever was an actual town, it had long since been swallowed.My phone rang as I approached the gentrified takeover, and I complained to the caller that, soulless as the place had become, there may not be a bar around, and why the fuck hadn't I brought a joint for the parking lot instead? I started to get a little frantic about having time to drink at all, and was also on the lookout for a liquor store from which to smuggle in a bottle, but that didn't seem to exist, either.When I got to the theater, the tremendous parking lot was snow and ice-covered and packed. I slid around the edges, desperate for a sign of possible degeneracy, without any luck. There weren't any people, either, until I came across an actual fucking valet parker who didn't speak English. Not only could I come up with enough Spanish to ask the whereabouts of the closest bar, but I suspected I could muddle through that in ANY language. He told me there was a restaurant with a bar, up the stairs? ramp? ladder? Up, anyway. Go up to drink. Sounded good.I parked the car in Siberia, leapt into the sub-zero night, and sprinted small circles yelling, "What the fuck? Where's the fucking restaurant? I need a fucking drink! What is this shit? Are there any fucking people anywhere?" and other fuck-related sentiments. Finally I found the entrance to a chi-chi river/city view restaurant, as unlike the grungy, dark bar I craved as could be imagined.I consoled myself with the thought that they'd probably have extremely high-end Scotch, and maybe that's what I should drink. Ordinarily, I only drank red wine -- lots, sometimes, but at a reasonable pace, with food, water, and time.I was panting by the time I made it up the steep hill to the restaurant, which is generally approached by car, not desperate stealth. Minutes running out, I ran to the bar and asked, "Do you have Lagavulin?""Yeah," answered the wise-ass bartender, "do you want some?""I'd like a triple, please; neat," then realizing bartenders now take responsibility classes, and I was a tiny 90 pounds, I added,"Look, my mother's dying, my cousin's dead, and I just got my heart broken. I'm not driving, though; I'm going to the movies -- right over there -- and it's King Kong, which is 3 hours long, but it's starting soon, so can I please get that drink? And how bout a few tall glasses of water, too -- no ice."He grinned, amused by both my plight and the fact that he had the upper hand."I'll have to open another bottle for that," he said, as he slowly started to swagger away.I could see that the first bottle was far from empty, so begged, "Could you start me off with what's in there, please?"But, no, apparently, he couldn't, and wandered off, while I grumbled into the overly paid, overly dressed, underly caring yuppie crowd.By the time the bartender returned, I was madly scribbling in my journal and, well, maybe not talking to myself, maybe more like yelling to myself, yuppie scum be damned. I was busy, dammit, annoyed by how fast I was going to be forced to drink, by how slowly the amused-by-my-grief bartender was moving, and I was wishing for the painful death of all in sight.I wrote and mumbled, as he poured single malt Scotch into 3 miniature glass milk pitchers, which he then poured, sluggishly, into a fat tumbler. I didn't pay much attention, and am not used to drinking booze, so it wasn't until I thought about it the next day that I realized those weren't shot glasses but DOUBLE shot glasses. (I'm not entirely relinquishing responsibility, but why would a bartender pour 6 shots of Scotch for a 90 pound woman, without mentioning he always pours doubles?)It was a buxom tumbler, and by the time he'd poured the first two double shots, it seemed more than enough. I began to say something, but he'd already started pouring the third, and I felt ready and willing to meet the consequences, so kept my mumbling mouth shut. He handed me a tall, fat glass, filled to the brim with fermented juice squeezed out of a peat bog in Scotland."Bottoms up," he smirked."Well, here goes," I risked, scouring the crowd tentatively for a kind eye.There are very few things from which my parents' impression didn't cause the opposite effect in me. One of them is The Clean Plate Club. The only smidgen of approval I received as a child came from the fact that there was nothing I wouldn't eat -- with gusto -- whereas my older brother and sister were both picky eaters. Lima beans, Brussels sprouts? My favorites. Liver & Onions? Bring it.My parents got a kick out of thinking up exotic foods to run by the baby, and they never found any I wouldn't inhale. So, for a minute, I enjoyed a certain status. But half measures weren't my way even then, and it didn't take long for me to plump up, which caused my mother to spend the rest of my childhood mocking me for having "an ass-tray so large you could serve tea on it".Friday night I had, at most, 10 minutes to empty that $54 tub of single malt Scotch. A desire to live extravagantly beyond my means is only one of the many ways my parents' lessons backfired. My logical mind told me I'd be plenty King Kong-ready without finishing that bucket of booze, but when my Burn Money rebellion went up against their Scrimp and Save Clean Plate Club, the folks finally won out. How's that for passing the buck? Mom and Dad, you made me drink it all!I knew how to put away some alcohol. Back then I could drink wine day and night without interfering with the high speed flow of my word-play chatter. Having spent many years living with an alcoholic, however, left me overly self-conscious of the dreaded slur. When I’d catch myself needing to verbally decelerate to avoid even the trace of a slur that may not be evident to others, I’d know I'd had too much, and head for the food and water. I'm aware of the slur before it begins.My closing transactions with the bartender surprised me in their slurlessness. It was then that I realized I didn't feel drunk at all, more like I was coming on to psychedelics. Why would that be? I wondered, not taking into account that many poisons offer a psychedelic effect.I ran out of the restaurant, down the steep icy hill, and across the massive parking lot to the movie theater, amazed that I was maneuvering the ice patches so nimbly, leaping like a little gazelle, even. I was fully aware of what I had drunk and how it should have affected me, and I was equally aware that it hadn't done so. Of course alcohol can make you clumsy and stupid, but good psychedelics don't. Telepathic, insightful, otherworldly -- maybe even removed from reality -- but not clumsy and stupid.When I moved into the bright lights and crowds of the multiplex, the hallucinatory feeling became much more intense. As I floated toward the ticket line, I grinned in comfortable recognition. Under my circumstances, of course I would have eaten acid instead of drinking alcohol, if given the choice, but where the fuck would I have found acid? All I knew was -- Hallelujah to the High Gods, for knowing what's best.It was 10:36 pm, the trailers were to start in 9 minutes, which gave me plenty of time to buy my ticket, a bucket of popcorn, pee, and find a seat. It was then I noticed that the 10:45 show had sold out and they'd added an 11:15 show. Fuck! I wouldn't have had to drink so fast! Oh, well, I seemed to be handling it alright. I was getting higher by the minute, but that couldn't go on forever, and it wasn't as though I had to operate any heavy machinery.While moving forward on the line, enforced joy began to escape; the lights got brighter, the crowd more colorful, and wasn't I a lucky one to slug back a bottle of booze and come out smelling of LSD? I don't question unexplained gifts, I enjoy them.Not only was there no sign of my emotional pain, but I was feeling such a mad rush of love for humanity I could barely contain myself. I observed a couple of women on the sidelines, each holding a baby in her arms. My attention was first drawn to the fact that multi-colored sparklers appeared to be exploding around their heads. That made me grin, approvingly.Next I realized the women looked like they came from the little Mexican border town I call home, and I guessed they didn't speak English. Finally, it occurred to me that one of them held in her arms the cutest fucking baby that ever lived.That was the last straw. I sprang out of line and pounced on them, bombarding them with whatever Spanish came my way. I babbled about how cute the baby was, and asked if I could kiss her. Even though part of it came out in Hebrew, they seemed to understand, smiled, and nodded. Hoping to become more precise with my adoration, I asked in Spanish if they spoke English. They admitted they didn't, and I had an intense flash of homesickness.As I kissed the baby, her face began to come apart in brightly colored separate cute chunks. This made me very happy. I was well aware that I was tripping, and not drunk, and though it astounded me, I actually preferred it, so couldn't complain. Each time I thought, "Well, that's enough, Emily, go buy your ticket and let these people continue on with their lives," I'd start to walk away, turn for one more look, be attacked by cuticity all over again, and have to run back for more. I can't honestly say how many times that happened.But the next thing I knew, I jolted upright from my prone position, naked, on a bare metal gurney, under blindingly bright florescent lights, and was tugged back by the tube in my arm, the other side of which was attached to a metal bar on the ceiling.I looked at my watch; it said 6:00.========================================================================<<<>>> 6:00! Shit, I gotta get outta here! 6:00 AM or PM? 6:00 tomorrow morning? Mommy goes to the gym at 6 AM!<<<>>> How the hell did I sleep under this blinding light, without my eye pillow?<<<>>> She's gonna wonder where the car is. Okay, I'm attached to this fucking thing. Hmm. There's not a god damn thing in this room — where’s all my shit?<<<>>> Why the fuck don't I feel like I've been drinking at all? How the hell did I get here? I assume I had alcohol poisoning, but what the fuck happened?<<<>>> I gotta find my stuff because I gotta get outta here! Hello?!? Hello?!? Help! Anybody there? HELP!!! SOMEBODY GET ME THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!!!<<<>>> Sure feels like there was a fucking tube down my throat. Feels like my chest was pounded too. Looks like the god damn place was hosed down.<<<>>> Maybe if I climb up on the gurney I can reach to detach that bag from the ceiling. Okay, yeah, that's off, but now I gotta carry around this fucking metal bar, attached to the bag with this long ass tube in my arm? Shee-it.<<<>>> What'd they brush my damn teeth, too? Or has like a month passed? Is this a looney bin? There's like no bad taste in my mouth, I don't feel sick at all -- what the fuck? This is like that old British TV show, The Prisoner! Where Patrick McGoohan, at the end of The Secret Agent series, is kidnapped and never figures out, week after week, where the fuck he is or how he got there!<<<>>> HELLO!!! WHAT THE FUCK?!? GET ME OUT OF HERE!!! Well, nobody's fucking coming. It was Mommy's first chemo -- who knows how she's doing? That's all we fucking need, her wondering where the fuck I am!<<<>>> Did I almost die? Is everyone wondering where I am and I'm in so much trouble? Or do they all know I'm in the (drunk tank? looney bin?) and I'm in so much trouble?<<<>>> She was already worried about me, with me so fucked up not being at the funeral and shit.<<<>>> Why am I naked? If this were a hospital, wouldn't I be in a hospital gown? Did I even go into the movie? I don't think so. Fucked if I remember anything after that cute baby.<<<>>> So, let's see. I'm mobil now, carrying around this bag and bar. Better go try to track down someone who can get me my stuff.<<<>>> BUT I'M NAKED, ATTACHED TO A BAR AND A BAG, STRANDED IN A BLINDINGLY BRIGHT EMPTY STERILE ROOM. GUESS I BETTER PRETEND I'M PATRICK MCGOOHAN, AND SECRET AGENT MY ASS OUTTA HERE.========================================================================As I leapt off the table, I found myself falling into a vigilant crouch, half kidnapped Secret Agent, half William Hurt as Altered State ape on alert. Although I'm too old for The Matrix to have provided the dominant image, my mind naturally shifted to the screen, because nothing in reality had prepared me for this scenario.Not only had I been left there naked and alone, but the door to the room was wide open. I slithered up to it, and peeked out. The florescence, of course, continued, but there wasn't a soul in sight. What the fuck? "Hello! Hello?" I called into the brightly lit abyss. Still no answer. Damn. How'm I gonna get outta here?There had been a sheet draped across me, so I decided to wrap that around me, run out and survey the environs, but when I went to do so, I discovered it wasn't a sheet at all, but some sort of rag that didn't begin to cover even my small frame. I have no degree of modesty, and would have gladly run into the hall naked, screaming, if I'd thought it might help my cause, but the surrealistic nature of my creeping paranoia kept me in line with the Looney Bin theory, so I doubted bare-ass hysteria would be my ticket out of there.Think, think, I thought; think like a secret agent. The room had a barren, hosed down feel. The only thing in it was a metal rack, of the kind that might hold towels, sheets, stacked hospital gowns, or spare, uncased pillows. It, too, was empty, but upon inspection I noticed that it was pushed up against another door, a closed one. I envisioned the possibility of an adjoining room in there, housing another bemused prisoner, maybe a hairy, raving lunatic, or maybe someone with more information than I had.I grabbed hold of the rack and tried to pull it away from the door, but that damn metal bar and drip bag, attached to my inner arm, put a real crimp in my tugging abilities. While envisioning myself as a secret agent seemed like a good idea -- and I felt my mind become more shrewd, accordingly -- I also felt my body lured into animalistic frenzy.Suddenly I was tempted to gnaw through the tube of the drip bag, throw the bag against the wall, run from the room, and demand clothing, explanation, and egress. After all, by now I had to assume, whoever they were, these muthafuckas had seen my shit.But Patrick McGoohan reminded me that I didn't know where I was, why I was there or what was in the bag. What if there was morphine in it, or something else that might kill me with the large quantities which would pour into my veins once I'd done my gnaw-through?My body looked, smelled and felt surprisingly clean, aside from the dried blood from inner elbow to wrist on the arm with the bag attached. There were a couple of other holes in my arm, next to the one holding the needle. I figured this indicated they'd either tried to puncture me while I was struggling, or I'd been there long enough that this needle insertion wasn't my first. I could only hope it had been a struggle, couldn't bear the thought of my mother home, alone, chemo-sick, with me locked away somewhere for who knows how long.I carefully placed the bag around my neck to hang over my shoulder, the metal bar over the other shoulder, so that neither yanked on the needle in my arm. Then I was able to push and drag the rack far enough from the door for me to squeeze between the two. I expected the door to be locked, but it wasn't.I was surprised and almost disappointed to find no raving lunatic on the other side but a large, nearly spotless bathroom. First I peed. There was a wrinkled, used hospital gown on the floor in the corner. I picked it up, shook it out, slipped the bag and bar through the sleeve, and put the thing on, propped the bag and bar on the sink so I could tie the back of the gown.Then I stood ready to rise to the next level, to leave the room. In the back of my brain I heard the theme song, "Secret AAAgent Man! Secret AAAgent Man!"When I'd peeked out the door and seen no one, I assumed I hadn't gotten the full picture -- there must be someone, somewhere. But running out into the hall proved there wasn’t a soul about. It was a large, white-bright square, the perimeter of which was lined with other rooms, off a hallway. In the center was an island that looked as though it served as the nurse's station, a counter all the way around, with desks, computers and phones within.Now that I'd reached the next level, I didn't feel quite as trapped, and was more than ready to depart altogether. But there was nofuckingbody there, and I still had no clothes, bag, or wherewithal. "Hello! Hello!!! Anybody here?" I called. No answer, no sign of life. "HELLO?!?"A scruffy lumper in a hospital gown stumbled out of a room and began to make a leg-dragging pace around the square."Hey, buddy, you see anybody around here?" I asked him."Not lately.""HOW 'not lately'?" I wanted to know."Well, not for awhile.”This wasn't particularly helpful, and as I couldn't very well retire on this information, I gave up the loser for dead, and trudged on.We each have our roles in life. Scruffy lumper continued his silent plodding rotation, as I leapt, shrieked, and ran around in correspondingly useless circles, yelling, "Where the fuck is everybody? How the fuck do I get outta here? My mother's SICK, dammit! What the fuck? Shit!"Mr. Lump, who was freer than I, as he had no bag attached, lazily glanced my way and grinned. I wanted to smack the self-satisfaction off his snaggly face.Yeah, I understand the necessity of simply letting go when stuck in a bureaucratic quagmire; I even know how to do it. If I'd been on my own clock, I probably would have snatched paper and pen from the desk, curled up in a corner, and proceeded to describe the bombarding absurdities.But my sanity insisted I continue to work on the premise of this being 6 o'clock the next morning -- and not 6 years in the future -- so my first concern was determining whether or not my mother had tried to track me down.I had to find my phone, but how could I do that with no one about? There was a telephone on the counter of the nurse's station, so I pounced on it, to call my messages. Once I'd discovered how to reach a line out, I dialed my phone and waited for voicemail to kick in. Instead, I heard my phone ringing, somewhere. Yes! That's definitely my phone! Where the fuck IS it?Heart racing from the excitement of connecting pieces, I finally spotted a clear plastic bag on the floor behind the desk. In it I saw my bright red leather bag, from which I swore I could see exclamation marks leap, as indication that a phone was ringing inside. Although there'd been no one in yelling distance, for who knows how long, the minute I dashed behind the desk to retrieve my phone, someone leapt on my back."You can't go back there!" he yelled."But I gotta get my shit! My phone's back there, ringing, and my sick mother must be wondering where I am!"I snatched my bag of stuff as he dragged my ass back to the patient side of the counter. He didn't appear to be a doctor or a nurse, but some sort of guard, which left me still uncertain as to whether I was in a hospital or a looney bin. It looked like a hospital, but what the fuck do I know?The muthafucka was still yanking me around. "You can't be out here in this!" he yelled."In what?" I asked, honestly ignorant as to what he was referring."In this!" he snapped, pointing to my wrinkled mess of a used hospital gown. I was truly confused, and losing patience. It also seemed clear this wasn't someone who was going to have a say in my possible freedom, so I didn't hold back."What the fuck you talkin' 'bout? Ya think I wouldn't rather be in my own clothes? Wadaya mean I can't be in this? It's a fucking hospital gown -- isn't this a fucking hospital?"My current goal was to discover whether or not my mother had been looking for me. I needed to make a phone call, and this muthafucka was in my way."You can't be out in the hall with the back open.""Buddy, I tied the back -- what the fuck do you want? I suspect they've seen a whole lot worse than my ass around here! Now excuse me, but my mother's sick and I gotta make a phone call!""You gotta put one in back, too!" he insisted, and pounced on me again."One what? Get the fuck away from me!" I shrieked, as I dug in my bag for my phone, noticing, simultaneously, that not only was the bag’s zipper now busted, but the entire bag and all its contents were soaking wet.The guard threw another gown on me backwards, to cover my offending butt, grabbed the phone, metal bar, and drip bag from my hand to slip through the sleeve, and when I was properly attired, he handed them back and left me alone. Once again, there wasn't a soul on the floor but the scraggly leg-dragger pacing in his hospital gown. (How come one gown was enough for him -- was it a girl thing?)Although I was dying to find a doctor or nurse from whom to acquire some information, my top priority had to be determining the condition of my mother, and finding my way out of there.I can't express my relief in discovering my mother hadn't called me, although it occurred to me that she may have been too chemo sick to call. At least it appeared she hadn't been looking for me.Next I tried to call the two friends of mine she'd have been most likely to contact if wondering where I was. But it was only 7:00 in the morning, and neither was answering the phone. I called, repeatedly, until one friend answered. She said she hadn't heard from my mother, so I told her, if she did, to say I'd been with her all night, and I'd explain later. (I was 50 years old -- shit! I suppose your mother's gotta be dead before you can stop making up lies to protect her, huh?)That taken care of, I dug through the plastic bag of my belongings, only to discover it contained my now busted and wet purse, my pants and shirt -- both of which were also wet -- but no shoes, socks, or coat. Before putting on my clothes, I needed to find someone to get the tube out of my arm, so I ran around, ranting, until I found a giant 300 pound West Indian nurse to detach me.Not only did I have no sensation of having had any alcohol recently, but, if anything, I felt shrewdly on top of my game, my mind buzzing. As the nurse detached me, I bombarded her with articulate, high-speed questions."What day is it? Is it Saturday morning? Where am I? How'd I get here? What happened?"She didn't answer me immediately, so I momentarily stopped my bombardment and took a good look at her. There was no question about it. This woman -- at least 3 times my size -- was staring at me with genuine fear in her eyes.I didn't have time to focus on anything that didn't revolve around my escape, but I couldn't help wondering what she had witnessed to invoke such fright. Or was it simply that suddenly seeing me so take-charge, was a shock, after whatever other state she'd seen me in? The woman stared at me as though she was looking the devil in the eye, and though curiosity and a good story usually battle for first place with me, I didn't, at the moment, have time for either."How'd I get here?" I repeated."You came in an ambulance.""It feels like there was a tube down my throat, like my chest was pounded.""You were violently vomiting. Alcohol poisoning.""Is it really only the next morning? Why don't I feel as though I've been drinking?""We gave you anti-nausea medication.""Could you please find me the rest of my clothes so I can get out of here?"Fuck! Do you realize how hard it was for me to ignore my curiosity? But most of these questions weren't getting me back to Mom's any faster. Of course I hadn't told my mother that our full day in the hospital with her first chemo had been followed by me getting my heart trampled by a woman online. She was feeling guilty enough to have kept me from my cousin's funeral, without knowing I was heartbroken as well.She was worried sick about me, actually, which is why she'd insisted I go to King Kong instead of sitting around watching her reactions to the chemo.I allowed myself one more question. "Is there an ambulance report I could see?"The nurse, who continued to appear petrified of me, found me my socks, shoes, coat, and the ambulance report.The report indicated there’d been, apparently, an hour and a half between my memory of the cute baby, and the time the ambulance picked me up at the theater. According to the report, they were unable to get this 90 pound weakling into the ambulance without the help of the police.Although there is not a lot to be proud of in this tale, there is one thing I did for which I can pat myself on the back. I was delighted to discover from the report, that even in the midst of a crazy-assed, seemingly violent black-out, I had the wherewithal to refuse the cops any information at all. So they had no idea who I was, where I was from, or how to contact anyone on my behalf.To me this was even better than the realization that I remember to brush my teeth and tend to my contact lenses when on acid. I have to admit to some pride in the fact that, even unconscious, I knew better than to give cops any information. Okay, so this was one fuck of a self-destructive venture, granted. But it's at least good to know part of me was looking out for myself, right?I still had plenty of questions for the cops, ambulance drivers, doctors, and theater staff, but figured I better get home before that anti-nausea medication wore off, because it didn't seem likely I'd feel too good when it did.I fought the bureaucracy for 2 hours between the time I came to and the time I got out of the hospital. A taxi drove me back to my car, which, at 8:00 AM, was the only one in the massive multiplex parking lot. Although there'd been no message from my mother on my phone, and none of my friends had heard from her -- which made it seem as though I'd skated on this one -- I realized it was possible she'd been too sick to even contact me.The theater was a half hour from home, and minute by minute I was feeling sicker and sicker. It seemed that, at this rate, I'd be lucky to make it home without puking again. It was highly unusual for my mother to sleep past 6:00 AM, so unless the chemo had really fucked her up -- in which case I should go to hell for not being there when she woke up -- she'd have long been awake before I got home.I dreaded whatever it was I was about to face. Having just been through more shit than I'd likely ever even be aware of, I knew the necessity of keeping it to myself. It amazed me that, even though I was more nauseated by the second, nothing about me seemed to smell bad, taste bad, or seem skanky at all.I pulled into the garage, and crept up the stairs, hoping, against hope, that my mother was, possibly, still asleep. But, no, there she was, at the top of the stairs, with a big ol' grin on her face. "Well, you look like you're feeling better," she said.The irony wasn't lost on me, but falling into lie-to-family-at-all-costs was second nature, no matter how long it had been since it was necessary."Well, yeah," I said, "on the way to the movies I realized I probably shouldn't be alone, so I went to Deborah's instead. We stayed up talking all night. But I really need to go to sleep now, Ma. Are you feeling okay?""I feel fine," she said, grinning like she'd just won the lottery, "Sure, go to sleep."I adored my mother at that moment. She'd offered my chosen response, as every second was dragging me closer to more empty-stomached vomiting.Could it really be true that I'd so thoroughly skated on this? Were there really to be no consequences, but for the fact that I may not feel my best when 10 people arrived for an early dinner later in the day? Was there actually a god who was this sufficiently twisted?Apparently so. My mother's first chemo seemed to agree with her, and she seemed more than willing to let me do what I had to do, i.e., escape immediately and go to bed. Fortunately, I still had Dramamine in my possession from when I was trying to rid the side effects of narcotics from my system after my back surgery. I gobbled as many of those as would fit in my fist, and crawled into bed, obsessive tooth-brushing be damned.When I woke up a few hours later, I weighed my chances of making it back to sleep. On one hand, lifting my head seemed an insurmountable accomplishment, but, on the other, I'd not only had 8 hours of fluids pumped into me, but had drunk lots of water, besides, and it was evident my need to pee was what had woken me. Somehow, I willed myself to the bathroom, hoping my ever-deafening mother didn't hear my movements. She didn't.At this point I'd yet to allow my mind to wander, to question anything at all, as it was obviously essential that I use my energy to keep from puking. But when I made it back to bed after peeing, I found myself wondering. Wondering, first, if I had the strength to wonder anything at all. Hardly. But I discovered if I lay in bed without moving my head, I could afford some conjecture.I lay there awhile and attempted thought. Unconsciously, my hands roamed my body in search of affliction. Bingo. My chest felt severely bruised; clearly they had done CPR on me, pounded my heart back to life. Damn. I was aware that memory of this should be causing more anguish than I felt. I could tell that a tube had been down my throat, because I've had surgery before, and knew that feeling.I felt around some more. Shit, there were lumps all over one side of my head. Half of my skull was tender to the touch. What could have caused that? And my left thumb felt as though it had been bent back.Suddenly it occurred to me that, though I had no conscious memories, I'd been writing in my journal at the restaurant, and, perhaps, I'd done more of that, even in my blacked out state. Lifting my head enough to reach for my journal was nearly a deadly task, but seemed worth the effort.Sure enough, there were pages there I had no memory of writing, half of them illegible. But reading what I could, joggled some memory. There were descriptions of me sitting on the floor in the theater lobby, sobbing, as was written, into my sleeve. It indicated that I'd been somewhat hysterical with my agony -- mostly over Cyber Woman heartbreak -- and reading it reminded me, though it wasn't evident whether it was memory or reenactment that was triggered.Just before things became completely illegible, I'd written clearly, "The movie feds are busting me!" Then there were scribbles, line divisions, illegibility, admissions of extreme fucked-uppedness, and legible nonsense that seemed written in someone else's handwriting.Obviously, this would require more thought, but not as much as, immediately, it required more sleep. I gobbled another double dose of Dramamine and fell back into oblivion.When I came to the next time, my nausea, and the pain in my skull, chest, and thumb, had increased, and it was joined by pain in my upper arms, but it was the doorbell that woke me; our dinner company had arrived.Fortunately, my friend, Deborah, and her boyfriend were among the guests, and Deborah, at that point, was the only person who knew what I'd been through, as she was the friend with whom I'd set up my alibi.Oh, shit! How could I possibly face an evening of socializing? This was a job for Nature's Own Cure for Nausea and General Ague. I lit up my bong.Feeling vaguely high, but as though I'd been run over by a truck, I dressed, and headed downstairs, with a shaky grin on my face. Cat who'd eaten the canary and all. I'm not used to having to withhold broadcasting of my escapades, but living under my mother's roof made this necessary.The first thing I did was drag all those under the age of 80 into my room for a debriefing. I presented Deborah, who is an EMT -- an ambulance driver in Harlem and the Bronx -- with my ambulance report. The only part which was unclear to me was where there was a box to check for degrees of consciousness, from 1 to 3. They had checked 3 for me, and I was curious to know if that was the top or the bottom.Deborah told me this box was called "Alert & Oriented X 3" (or AXOX3) and required the answers to 3 questions to determine degree of consciousness. The questions were most commonly,Where Are We Now?,What Is the Day/Date/Year?,and Who Is the Current President?Although I don't remember any of this, knowing myself and my condition, chances are I answered,In Hell,This is dependent on the cumulation of our collective hell, divided by degree of nowness,andAss Hammer.Deborah told me that "3" indicated the high end of consciousness, and explained that the reason the box exists is for the multitudes of ODers EMTs are called on to rescue. It's necessary to know whether or not victims of unconsciousness need to be injected with "Narcan", which instantly blocks all the opiate receptor sites in the brain, and keeps them from ODing."Oh, shit!" I said, "You mean if I hadn't been conscious enough they might have injected me with that?""Probably," she said, "depending on what they determined by the size of your pupils when they pried open your eyes, and, most importantly, how well you were breathing. The reason people OD is because opiates diminish their breathing to nothingness, or they choke on their own vomit, which is also due to their lack of breathability."Fuck," I said, "What would have happened if they'd injected me with that unnecessarily?""Nothing. All Narcan does is cut off the opiates in your brain. If there aren't any, nothing happens. But they don't want to use it for no reason, so if someone's unconscious, they want to know why. They do a quick assessment of how well the brain is functioning, to determine if a person is passed out due to alcohol, a blow to the head, opiates, bleeding from the stomach, or what.""Damn," I said."But they checked '3' for you, meaning you were on the high end of consciousness.""Whether or not I remember.""Right."As the night progressed, the pain in my chest, skull, arms, and thumb did, too; in fact, every muscle in my body was throbbing. I wondered, momentarily, if the arm/shoulder/chest pain was due to having been strapped down, but I realized that would have also involved pain in my legs, which was negligible.I was too woozy to think beyond the present, but was also curious about the ambulance report, the police report, and mostly, what the fuck had happened at the theater.========================================================================Well, kids — any who’ve had the temerity to hang in — that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.There’s more, as I went back the following Friday night at the same time, not only to finally see King Kong, but to find out if any theater staff could fill in some blanks for me.Ohhh, maaan, did they ever! But since this is already so long only the overly dedicated will have made it this far, anyone who wants to hear the cracked code can read about it here:Emily Fisher's answer to Have you ever been so curious about your own drunken blackout that you actually returned to the place and asked strangers what happened?

I am making a study into the maximum operating potential of the first packet switching networks. As many of you are aware, the vehicle over which we all talk, the Internet, is a network that moves packets of information from point A to point B over semi-random paths, each link being just a bit closer to the destination. What most of you may not be aware of is that the Internet is not the first such network.The first such, and the one I study, arose in England in the 1820's as railroads spread across the nation, transporting both goods and people. I study the networks that arose in the US a bit later, and in particular one which began operations between Buffalo, NY, Chicago, IL and St. Louis, MO in 1881. It is formally known as the New York, Chicago and St. Louis RR, but most knew it by its operating name, the Nickel Plate Road. It merged out of existence in 1964, becoming a part of the Norfolk Southern RR.I also study a particular time, April and May of 1944, and a particular section, stretching from Rocky River, Ohio to the Division point yard at Bellevue, Ohio. I do so because in that time and place the Nickel Plate operated at a tempo by which they literally helped save Western Civilization. They did so despite shortages in every concievable material needed to run a railroad, including the human talent to do so safely. Let me explain.Railroads charge their customers by multiplying the number of tons shipped times the distance between origin and destination. Ton-miles is the name of that measurement, and every railroad tracks that total very carefully. As the diagraced Mr. Cosby once said of E. F. Huton, “Because it's ma money.”In April of ‘44, the NKP (the reporting mark of the Nickel Plate) hauled more ton-miles under steam power than any other railroad had ever done. Then in May, they did it again. That record still stands. All the while without a single lost time accident. It happened because the NKP was known as a fast freight forwarder. If you could get your freight to an NKP terminal, they'd get it to the other end of their line faster than anyone else. In April and May of ‘44, everything being built in the plants across the midwest was headed to Boston, NY, NJ, and Baltimore to go to England for Ike's little party in Normandy. And if it was anywhere along NKP rail, they moved it to Buffalo.Now for the challenges.At the end of 1941, all of the railroads were only starting to emerge from a decade of “deferred maintenance" caused by the depression. A lot of rail was a bit dilapidated, and much equipment on its last legs. The NKP was in no better shape than any other road. Yet, what they needed was exactly the materials needed for guns, bullets and tanks. It was all rationed. And thus the birth of invention. The NKP's fleet of cabooses (cabeese?) had many pieces that were in the fleet on day one. When the rationing board said, “Sorry, Charlie" about the steel to build new ones, the Engineering Department spotted some box cars that were past their freight hauling prime, but had good bones, as is said of buildings. A few nips and tucks, some interior renovations and bingo: the NKP war baby cabooses were born. As they have only been modeled once, in very limited edition brass, I'm building 10 of them from scratch.Then there was the manpower problem. By 1944, one in three experienced railroaders were in uniform, and running a railroad short handed is about the most dangerous thing there is in the business. Just to give you an idea of how dangerous, it used to be said that if you were hiring an experiened brakeman, you asked to see his hands. For every 7-10 years of work he claimed as a brakeman, he should be short a finger. If he still had all of them, something was wrong. Experienced hands are required to stay as safe as possible, but all the railroads were running with folks who had never seen the space between cars not long before. Women were maintaining cars and locos, jobs no one thought they could do, physically. But they got it done.First, I have to build the trackwork. I have the track diagrams for every bit of rail in the system from 1940, and my reaearch shows little has changed in those 5 years within my chosen section. While I cannot duplicate every yard of track due to the limits of my space, I will build enough that no meaningful operating detail will be missed. When the track has been proven bulletproof by running trains non-stop for a given period, then the work of building the terrain begins, then the structures and foliage. Then the real work begins.I have, over several years, collected the operating time tables and rules by which the road was run in those days. I have studied the normal flow of freight, and the military “special" trains that were added as needed. We'll concentrate on the third shift, I think on April, 14th, although I'm not sure. We'll run under a 3:1 fast clock, each hour of the shift in 20 minutes. Andea, my love whom I lost to cancer, will be the operator of the railroad hotel at Bellevue, just behind the roundhouse where the fire breathing iron horses were maintained and serviced. She was originally to be the first woman conductor on the road, but that was not to happen. My grandson, still only 10, will take her place on the rails. I can't wait until I can see the smile, the first time he holds the throttle and turns one of my Berkshires, the workhorses of the NKP stable, loose with a load of freight behind her. He'll do so by the book. Lights up, whistle the movement, crack open the throttle, mind the slip, ease it up to speed. Watch the whistle points, son.When we can run the normal shift cleanly, and understand the rulebook so as to do it safely, then we'll start adding the class 1 “specials", the extra trains it took to move men and materials to the east end in Buffalo. Those are through shots, no switching, and stops at division points only to change locomotives. The west end of my model is one such point, the east end is halfway to the next, so my yard master will deliver the train to Bellevue station from the staging tracks, unhook from the head end, and the new loco with its crew will take over. White flags at the head end to mark their status, the crew should get the easiest transit of the road possible. The fun comes from making sure the trains that would normally be on those tracks are out of the way of the hotshots, because they should never slow down.When we can cleanly get through that 3rd shift, we will have done what they did, for two full months, round the clock, seven days a week. Yes, I admire the men and women who pulled that off. Imagine playing the internet with people making all the decisions that routers do. That's a goal worthy of the rest of my life.By the way, we will initially begin with the road in “daylight", but as time and resources allow, we will move to nighttime operations. Miniature street lighting and yard spotlights don't come cheap, and I'll need to put ambient lighting under the control of that fast clock, an interface and programming challenge to be overcome.