My stomach was cramping.  I knew gatorade would solve that, but each time I started to roll out of bed the nausea came in waves and I settled back down, waiting for it to pass.

Andy was in the little cot lying very still.  “Is this as bad for you?” I asked.  I wondered what time it was.  The light was exceeding all desire for light.  “I’ll bet this is like what it feels for people who take heroin,” I said.  

Two nights prior I had earned laryngitis at the karaoke bar.  Andy had done “Love Is A Battlefield,” my choice, because that is how we did things.  He had sung it dimly, sitting on the barstool.  Mutual friends of ours suggested Andy had been taking weird drugs in San Francisco, but I doubted it.  There were no real signs of weirdness.

Finally I made it to my feet, but the nausea was so strong I had to follow it into the bathroom for a moment.  When I emerged things were clear enough to make it downstairs to the little lobby where gatorade was sold.  And that made all the difference.  An hour later I was sitting up in bed, wondering aloud again what time it was.

One night before I had lost track of things around the time the champagne started.  I had earned CC Deville’s voice and was explaining to my college associates that it was due to karaoke and not weird drugs.

Andy drank some of the gatorade and by evening we were capable of walking down the street to a little burrito place he knew.  2005 was looking very temperate.  

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