The Hangover

by Frank Cáceres

There’s no such thing as a good hangover. They’re all bad. But some are worse than others, and this one’s a killer. I feel as though only every fourth or fifth brain cell is working, the rest mired in the slush left over from last night’s partying. In a way, it’s funny. You can never get used to one of these damned things, no matter how many times you grow one.

I had a good time at Pete and Sue’s. At least, I think I had a good time. I recall arriving at around seven, earlier than most of their invited guests. Pete poured me a tall Scotch and water, but it seemed to “evaporate” quickly. Being the good host, he continued to refresh the glass for me until, until...

The last thing I remember was talking to Vivian, the new computer genius at work. I can’t remember what happened after that, but there’s no sign of her here, so I guess I struck out. I’ll call Pete later and ask him. Maybe he’ll remember.

My hands are shaking so badly I can’t drink my coffee like a civilized human. I have to put the cup down and lower my mouth to the brim, sucking up the hot liquid like a vacuum cleaner. It looks like I’ll spend the day relaxing, recuperating, regurgitating. Of course, they say the best and fastest cure for a hangover is a drink. The way my insides feel now, I think I’ll stick to coffee for the time being.

I sit — collapse is more like it — in my favorite chair and turn on the TV. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find some mindless sitcom that’ll help divert attention from my churning, grumbling stomach. Even my name hurts.

All I can find are the midday news broadcasts. There’s the story about the convenience store that was robbed of “an undisclosed sum” of cash; the tear-jerker about the twins who were reunited after twenty-six years apart; the hit-and-run death of a boy, ten years old, who was riding his bicycle home after visiting a friend. Hit and run. Ten years old. What a shame!

I will be forever grateful to the person who invented the remote control, the gadget that has singularly redefined the act of loafing and transformed it into an art form. With my faithful control box I am able to mount the mythical surfboard and hang ten while I effortlessly soar through all two hundred worlds the cable company provides for my entertainment and edification. All without moving more than one or two small muscles.

The hangover, miserable as it makes me feel, is worth the fun of the party, of the drink. Speaking of the drink, I think I’m ready for one now. I have to do something to steady my hands and make this awful, sick feeling go away. I pour myself a Scotch and water. Just a small one. Enough to get me right, to make me feel normal again. The first one always tastes horrible, like drain cleaner. That’s why they call it, “Hair of the dog.” But the resulting, rock-steady hands and the healthy feeling make it worth the brief suffering. I think my headache’s going away.

Before I know it, I’m back to the local news. The announcer now says the police are looking for a dark blue sedan in connection with the hit-and-run killing of that boy. The incident took place about midway between Pete’s house and here.

My insides suddenly turn to ice as I realize that I might have passed near that area on my way home last night while driving my dark blue sedan. I don’t remember leaving Pete’s and I certainly don’t remember the ride home. But I’m a good driver, a careful driver. I couldn’t have done anything as horrible as that. I’m not capable of doing such a hideous thing.

An overwhelming fear suddenly takes possession of me, like the sheer terror of simultaneously drowning, falling and burning. The shaking has now spread throughout my body and into my soul. These are no longer the tremors of a hangover. The sweat drips from all my body, leaving curious patterns of wetness on my shirt and pants. My fingernails are sweating.

I reach for the bottle of Scotch and pour another drink. Unintentionally, I fill the tall glass almost to the top. That’s all right. I just need something to stop these frightening shakes. I turn the temperature down on the thermostat, though I see it’s seventy-two degrees in the house. I should feel comfortable, but I don’t. I’m still sweating as if it were ninety in here.

Ice. I need ice in my drink. I put four large cubes into the glass, swirl it around until a film of cool condensation forms. Raising it to my lips, I down the contents, almost in one swallow. I didn’t intend to drink the whole thing. I just wanted to cool down. But that’s okay, I feel better already.

I know I must go outside and look at my car. Although I know I couldn’t possibly be the one who hit that kid, I’m afraid to look. The thought of finding a dent on the car causes me to start trembling again. I reach for the Scotch and take a mouthful, this time straight from the bottle. But there’s nothing to worry about. I know I’m a good driver, a careful driver. I’m not capable of doing such a hideous thing.

I step outside and approach the car with apprehension. I must look, but I don’t want to look. As I near the driver’s side, I see that there is no visible damage. My heart begins to resume a more normal rhythm as I take a deep breath and circle the automobile to look at the other side. My heart stops. There, above and to the right of the headlight, is a dent the size of a basketball.

My limbs begin to quake violently, and I run back inside the house before any of my neighbors see me coming apart.

Wait a minute. There’s a dent. So what? That only means I hit something. It doesn’t necessarily mean I hit that boy. It requires further examination. I need to look for signs like paint, or scratches, or... blood. Before I go back outside, I need another drink. Once again the tall glass is full. Once again, it is empty.

When I return to the car, the bright afternoon sun glaring in my eyes and forcing a squint, I see a small streak of red along the top edge of the dent. The effect of the sunlight makes it difficult to see the exact shade of red. I’m unable to tell whether it appears to be paint or blood. Hold on here! It must be paint. It can’t be blood. I couldn’t have hit that boy. I’m a good driver, a careful driver. And I know I’m not capable of doing such a hideous thing.

I drop down into my chair again, Scotch bottle in hand, and browse through the TV channels, looking for... I don’t know what. I can’t pay attention to the TV. All I can see is the image of that boy, his small, crumpled body lying in the street, surrounded by his own blood as life leaves him, betrayed by a stranger. Betrayed by one he trusted to stop or to swerve and avoid hitting him. One too cowardly to stay and help. Too cowardly to admit his sin, his crime, and face his punishment.

That can’t be me! I’m not capable of doing something so heinous, so unforgivable. I fill my mouth with the elixir and swallow hard, as if I were throwing it into my stomach, hurrying it along so as not to waste any time.

Maybe I should call the cops. The cops? What would I tell them? That I hit that kid? But what if I didn’t? They’ll surely toss me in jail. I don’t want that! Especially if I didn’t do it. What am I saying? I know I didn’t do it!

I sure hope they catch the creep that killed that poor kid. But I know it wasn’t me. It couldn’t possibly be me because I’m a good driver, a careful driver. I’m not capable...