The Goldschlager Incident

An explanation I recently gave as to why I don't drink hard liquor any more. This is what happened the last time I did.

It was New Years Eve 1998, and I was eager to get my party on. After all, I'd just turned 18  a couple of weeks earlier. I knew that someone would come and get me to go to a party, though I had no phone and no one had announced it. I was popular amongst the seedy party crowd in our tiny Nebraska town, and not a weekend passed where someone could not party without me. New Years Eve? They had to have me there. I had dressed myself in my favorite party ensemble- my second hand vintage bellbottom jeans and an ancient, faded, OD green Bob Marley t-shirt. For some reason, when I wore that outfit, I was hit on alot. I liked being hit on; made me feel special.

 

By 7, a herd of friends was at my door, telling me I better get my butt in Sam Waters' big old Caddy and get over to Jimmie Mackey's house with them. It was the biggest New Years party in town, and they had to be there, but I had to be there, too. It was a kegger, and a free drunk for us all. Heck yes, we were going!

 

When we arrived at Mackey's I was probably the 15th person through his door. 6 or 7 of the others were with me. I immediately  went to the keg, got my 20 oz plastic cup, and went to town. As soon as I had enough Budweiser in me to feel a slight buzz and losse my self-concious personality, I was singing along with the music, and entertaining with stories and jokes- as I always did.

 

By 10, there were more than 30 people, and some had gone, but had been quickly replaced by newcomers from other parties, or who had just gotten off of second shift jobs. Most were in their twenties. A tall red-head I'd met once before came strolling in after closing the Pizza Hut. He carried a tall, rather impressive looking bottle of liquor in his hand, showing it off, and slammed it down on the dining table I sat at with about 7 others. Everyone else lined the walls, and kitchen counters, and the sofa. (I always found my way to the center of a party.)  The label on the bottle was toward me. It read: Goldschlager. It was named for the flakes of real gold that floated within the clear liquor, apparently.

 

Jimmie quickly came out with a shot glass for everyone at the table. (His house was a party house, after all, and he was always prepared.) We had been drinking beer for a few hours, 20 ounces at a time. I was on my 6th full cup of Budweiser, about to finish it. The guys tried the Goldschlager first. I was, in fact, the only woman with a shot glass in front of me at that moment. To flock with the male herd of any get-together was normal for me. Other girls never liked me, nor I them. The boys all declined the offer of more, saying it had a strong cinnamon taste, and that they didn't like the way it mixed with the beer. Then, the tall redhead started to pour mine.

 

"Wait," hollered Big Vern. My friend Ira called him an FBI: Fucking Big Indian. He was. His name suited him, too. He was bald, and his pate had a circumference beyond that of a basketball, for certain. He was well over 6 foot, and built like a brick, covered in a thin layer of flab above the muslces he undoubtedly got from lifting weights. When Vern yelled "wait" who wouldn't have listened? He was seated right across from me at the table, and to tell the truth, I think he could tell I didn't like his personality much.

 

Grinning, Vern addressed me. "You've been drinking faster than me, and seem to have quite the stomach for liquor, Jimmie and I were just noticing, earlier. I bet you $20 you can't drink an 8 oz glass of that Goldschlager and hold it down." He placed the money on the table, and I told Jimmie to get my glass. I was poor, and we had little food in the house. $20 would feed my father and I for a week, on beans, chicken legs, and eggs. I had to do it, and it would be fun to show these guys that I could. I knew I could do it, easily. I downed pints of Vodka all the time, with beer too, at my own parties. Piece of cake, this was going to be. I thought back to a few weeks ago when I had been at a party out in the country, and had won $20 for eating a jar of habaneros. I had an iron stomach.

 

I slammed that glass, chugging as though it were light beer. I then licked my lips, and asked for a bit more. Everyone laughed and clapped, and I stuck the twenty in my pocket. Vern shook his head. "Hold that down for the next thirty minutes, when I leave to go to my girlfriend's party. Then the money is yours." I gingerly laid the bill back on the table.

 

Twenty minutes later, I was feeling woozy. Twenty-five minutes later, I was getting ill. I kept a straight face, and acted "normal". Thirty minutes later, I had the money in the pocket of my jeans again, and Vern was out the door, in his car. As I heard him pull away, I stood up.

 

From the moment I stood up, for about an hour, I remember almost nothing, nary a blur or a trace. I only know what happened thanks to the friends who were there to witness my "moment of glory".

 

Apparently, as I had evidence of later, as well as the accounts of my friends, this is what happened: I stood up, and immediately ran to the bathroom, holding my mouth. Ran being a relative term. I was probably actually stumbling and lurching. The toilet was at the back of the room. Too far away. I started to kneel beside the bathtub to puke into it, and, while upchucking, fell into it face first, covering my shirt, face, and hair with my own vomit. A few people heard me and came in to gawk. By the time they came in, I was sprawled out in the tub, fighting to get up and failing, rolling in my own filth while doing so. Now all of me was covered in it. It was at that point that I apparently began cursing my onlookers, somehow lucid enough to speak though I was technically blacked out.

 

Jimmie Mackey, sickened by my display for his guests, no doubt, got a friend of mine to go and get my father to come and get me. NO ONE wanted me in their car as I was. I, however, soon decided I was still ready to party. I drug myself out of the tub and onto my feet, seemingly unaware that I was covered in vomit from head to toe. I walked back out into the crowd. I saw a friend who had just arrived, and tried to hug him, much to his dismay... so I was told.

 

I woke up inside when the door opened around Midnight, slamming open and banging against the wall. "Coming through! Is there a Constance here?"

 

Four guys I didn't know were carrying what looked like a dead body. Then I saw the mane of black hair and realized it was my friend, Raven. I walked toward the door, the guys gave me a look of disgust, and rolled her onto the living room carpet at my feet. "She kept calling your name and someone said you were here. So, here she is, " one of them said. Raven woke up, saw me, and wiggled about on the floor, trying to rise, looking much like a snake. She called out my name in this pleading way, and that was all she said. It was clear that she, too, had had WAY too much to drink. She was only 16, two years younger than myself.

 

I knew immediately why Raven had called for me. I was her protector, and not only she and I knew it. Raven, you see, had a personality defect. She thought that if she screwed enough guys about town, one would love her, as her family never had. She was the town s**t, and she was my friend, and I understood, and loved her. Several times, not once or twice, or even three or four times, I had stood between her and girls whose boyfriends Raven had slept with while drunk. A few of those times, I'd been sure I would get my a*s kicked, but I stood up for  her against those girls outside of school, or in front of party houses, and never got hit once, nor did Raven. They always backed down from me, because I wasn't afraid like Raven was, or so they seemed to believe.

 

At this point, I smelled my own stench- the drying puke on my arms, neck, hair and shirt- and looked down at myself. I realized what must have happened, and asked about it loudly, while looking down at Raven and deciding on a plan of action. Everyone was more than happy to entertain me with the tale of my disgrace. Especially the other girls at the party.

 

I looked at one of the other girls, who was putting on her coat.

 

"I need you to take her home. I'll explain to you where she lives at. Take her all the way to the door, and make sure her mother is awake to take care of her. If you don't, I can find where you live, and kick your a*s at my leisure."

 

Yes, I used to talk that way. That was me. For some reason, I had a way of making people believe it when I said things like that. The girl and her friends quickly gathered Raven, who was still trying to reach for me, and drug her to their car. I found out later that they did as I asked, and Raven ended up at the ER with her mother that night, having her stomach pumped. She didn't die from alcohol poisoning, but she did unfortunately find out she had slept with seven guys that night, all at once, while she was blacked out. (I wasn't surprised, when she told me, and I also never told anyone else what she had admitted to me- though the guys all did, of course.)

 

My own father arrived shortly after they carted Raven away. Everything became a blur again, and I don't remember going home at all, just getting in the car to go, and seeing Dad grimace at the puke on me, then laugh. He was cool with my partying. Most of the parties were at our house, and he joined right in.

 

Late the following morning, I woke up naked on my bed, my hair still a little damp, only half clean from a shower I must have taken upon arriving home. Instead of my fuzzy blue blanket, I was covered only by the fuzzy blue furnace filter, which I had apparently ripped off the wall heater in my room, thinking it was the blanket, in my toxic haze.

 

Slowly and methodically, I showered again, finally sluffing off the incidents of the night before. I would have to go check on what happened to Raven. She was all I remembered from the party, now. I also wanted to know what all I had done while blacked out at Mackey's. I was worried I'd offended too many people, maybe gotten in a fight I couldn't remember, or said something terrible to someone I liked, or screwed some jerk I didn't know... The possiblities were, indeed, endless. As I stood under the water, I thought about the way things were going, and decided I was done with hard liquor. I wouldn't touch it again. That was ten years ago... and here I am, having kept that promise to myself.

 

I am, unfortunately, the only one at that party who does not remember the Goldschlager Incident. Thanks to them, I at least am able to write about it, eh?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

What a proud moment in my teen life this was...

Reviews

[Tony]

This is great story. Reading it brought a few of my memories out of the closet. I too gave up the hard stuff for similar reasons.
Your prose and structure are as usual, very easy to read and quite entertaining.
Also, I thought I had an iron stomach, but a jar of Habanero Chiles?
I don't go there, not even one. Ever.
Thanks for sharing this, Constance.

[J. James Reider]

Interesting. Goldshlager... ugh... My was always Fire Water. Too many forgotten nights and I am clean now.

I love the humor you injected into this piece. Anyone who has ever been that drunk can definately relate. I laughed out loud when you mentioned your attempted hug, been on both sides of that one.

Poor Raven. From my point of view, I could never imagine taking advantage of someone, let alone shoulder to shoulder with other guys. Sick. If for some reason I did, I would never be bragging about it.

All in all it is a solid story from head to toe. You did a wonderful job telling this tale, and it kept me totally riveted. Well done!

[Berserker[Diktator Von ..]

Wow...I am glad I have never been that drunk before...clos to it but not to that point...Wow..its amazing what teenagers will do the be part of the crowd..anyways..very good piece..!

[Samuel Dickens]

I never had the oportunity to screw up that badly when I was a teen, or I certainly would have. No, I vomited everywhere, peed on my own shoes, etc, after I was much older and should have known better. One very late night we ran out of beer and money, so we drank the gallon of cheap wine that had been sitting on my friend's workbench for two months. I kept falling off of my motorcycle when I tried to kick-start it, so I got another drunk to help me hold it up. It finally roared to life, and I drove back to the base at 100 mph. Real smart, eh?
I guess someone up above has a purpose for us, Constance. Sam

[Tovli]

such a nice start! enjoyed the flow and the plot. tovli

[Constance]

I'm not done revising this. In fact, I just typed it in, and see several grammar issues I'll be fixing soon. For now, though, I'm leaving it up here to edit later, since it's 2 am but I just HAD to tell this story better after relaying it to a friend earlier this evening.