Night Feelings

Julie was drunk again, making her way from the 19th Street BART station to her apartment just four blocks up Telegraph. Having delusions of grandeur on a Thursday night, she was thinking about what a perfect weekend she might have if she could get the right friends together for a party. Something in the city, maybe at that bar called Elbow Room. She appreciated vintage French decor, posters and elegant lighting fixtures. Proto-Art deco, she thought. It reminded her of the film Moulin Rouge.

She passed the Taco Bell and felt hungry. And then dizzy. She lit a spliff and let it hang from one side of her mouth. The spliff helped.

She thought about her morning at work. She worked for Kaiser Permanente doing HR for a division of the organization that oversees the purchasing of expensive medical equipment. Her boss was the son of a wealthy Romanian oligarch. He was a handful around the office. Though, she remembered, visiting his house in Piedmont had been worth the thirty dollars she has spent at Whole Foods to prepare a dish for the potluck. She closed her eyes and thought of eating her delicious Greek salad on a deck overlooking the Bay.

A guy in an A’s jacket asked her for some money. She gave him two dollars. She had grown up in a small town in Colorado and was still unsure about how to treat panhandlers. She often looked them directly in the eyes and tried to feel something like real compassion.

Damn, she though, not enough money for smokes now. She hummed a Sonic Youth song and tried not to think about a man she had met earlier in the evening. She was never sure if she actually liked men. They were so stupid most of the time, like little boys who are totally distracted from what’s actually going on in life. She liked women a lot, but she knew couldn’t stand to live with one for any sort of long-term relationship.

When she was hammered, little stories and strings of words ran through her head. They were smooth, easy thoughts. Almost like a caress. She thought to herself, I’m weaving home, leaving the little joint winking in the dark warm narcotic American night. I got no problems and nobody’s got me.

She got the apartment door open, peeled off her heels, and struggled into bed. Her hair smelled like cigarettes. Coffee in the morning, was her last thought.