Lorenzo wakes up

Sometimes the party, event, or whatever the focus usually lies on isn’t what provides the best story. After all there’re only so many ways you can get stupid and make a fool out of yourself or others. Sometimes the best stories happen the day after the main event, waking up and finding yourself in weird, terrible or embarrassing situations and wondering what the fuck happened. That question hardly ever gets answered, which is probably for the best. This is the first in what probably will be a series of weird and confusing morning situations I occasionally find myself in

That morning sometime in 2008 I woke up after a party. The details of the party, or whatever the occasion was that night have since faded, which isn’t at all surprising considering the state I must’ve been in, but I choose to believe it’s solely because it was uninteresting. At the time I lived in a single room in a student accommodation flat building, my room would open into the corner of the hallway, to the left was a small kitchen and straight across was a shower. It being student accommodations the shower was generally replete with filth; shavings, clipped nails, woman-filth (seriously student-girls are revoltingly messy), sometimes just some household trash and a general presence of mold on the walls. I first woke up in that shower.

Oftentimes waking up is not a distinct and definable event but rather the slow and gradual awakening of the senses, each doing their part to piece together consciousness and the scene in which it currently resides. For me, that morning, the process started with a warm and wet feeling pervading my body. I recognized the typical signs of a hangover, consciousness arising more slowly and in a decidedly less comfortable manner than usual. That morning the typical dry and foul tasting hangover mouth was conspicuously absent, there was water in my mouth and it was warm. There was so much water that my breathing made a labored bubbly sound. I could hear faint beeping, it was the sound that had woken me up and I fumbled around looking for the alarm clock trying to make it stop. My arms just made splashes and found nothing but water.

I opened my eyes and at last became aware of the fact that I was lying face down in the shower. The shower was on and fairly hot, I was covering the drain and there was water everywhere. Judging by the amount of flooding and the feel of my hangover I must’ve been in that stall for at least a couple of hours. As I took in the scene and tried (unsuccessfully) to remember what had happened and how I’d ended up there my attention was drawn again to the incessant beeping that obviously wasn’t an alarm clock. I got up, turned off the shower and looked for a towel, there wasn’t one. No clothes either for that matter. I had no idea what hour it was, or whether it was day or night for that matter. I hesitated, then remembered that my flat mates knew me at least a little bit and would just have to put up with the occasional drunk naked man roaming the halls every now and then.

I got out of the shower, blinded by daylight I crossed the hall to my door and tried opening it. Locked. I felt defeated and nauseous, getting into a proper location for sleeping had been my only goal so far, and now I had to look for keys. I went back to the shower, searching for them there. On my way there I noticed a substantial amount of water had flooded into the hall, probably ruining the brand new floor that had been laid just days ago. I didn’t find any keys and not a lot of places to look for them (clothes, for instance) either, so I returned to my locked door.

Locked out naked, wet and terribly hung over I couldn’t think of anything better to than to get back into the shower. At least that was warm and I was fairly confident I could remain upright for at least a little while this time. That flat building was a shit place to live, but its showers were the one thing going for it, they were strong and could go really hot. My hangover temporarily soothed by hot streams of water my thoughts returned to my predicament. None of my flatmates had a key to my room, and in any case I didn’t much feel like waking them up on a Sunday morning naked and hungover. I’d already ruined the new hallway floor and it’d be best if no one knew that was me. Not getting any closer to a solution my thoughts drifted off and I fell into a sleep like slumber leaning against the shower walls. I woke up to the same distant beeping as I had before, fortunately still upright this time. Having nothing else to go on, I decided I might as well check out what had been beeping all that time. I left the shower a third time and, following the beeping, entered my little kitchen.

The kitchen smelled strongly of burned cooking, which wasn’t surprising seeing as my two ovens there were both open and completely filled with burned breadrolls. The ovens were off and the buns stone cold, but the little oven timer was still chirping away signaling the completion of its run-time to an uncaring world. Suddenly hungry I bent down to check the nearest oven for a piece of bread that wasn’t too charred to eat. I didn’t find any, but I did find my keys draped over one of the buns. At that point I didn’t care how or why, I got my keys (they’d cooled down fortunately) and went to bed.

Later I woke up, with possibly even more of a hangover and started wondering about important questions like ‘what the hell happened’ and ‘where did I find all that bread’ or the always classic ‘where the hell are my clothes’. I groped around my bed for my phone to call some friends I was probably with that night, to get some answers. After a while of not finding my phone the movement made me sick, and I went to the bathroom to be sick. Coming back, momentarily refreshed by the heaving I thought to look in the kitchen again, after all it had provided answers for me before. Now a bit more collected than when I came fresh out of the shower I took a proper look around. The oven was still there, still beeping (I put it out), the buns were still burned (I threw them out of the window). A little table that I used as a shelf had toppled over, spices and various cooking tools were scattered on the ground. Near the door stood a humongous maxi size ben & jerrys jug of melted ice cream (I have not once in my life bought B&J). A little ways inside the room was a tiny, phone sized splotch of puke, with indeed my (then still fancy) iPhone lying in it, face down. If you picture a dude of my size lying down on his face, the ice-jug would be where my hands would be and the phone-puke-puddle was a perfect fit to the hypothetical location of this passed out asshole’s head. Did I ever hate that guy then.

I still have no clue what happened that night. Best I can guess is I got very hungry after, or while getting home. I may have raided a lot of fridges and shelves (which is puzzling in and of itself since we didn’t have a lot of things in common areas), hoarding bread and ice and stuffing my ovens full of it. Maybe I put in my keys too, as a practical joke to my later self. I do stuff like that sometimes. Then maybe I sat down on the floor and ate horrific ice cream. It might’ve made me sick, only a little bit, perhaps I had put down my phone before and hit it by accident, or maybe I thought I’d download a Kleenex app or something like that. At some point I probably woke up to the smell of burned bread, soiled by melted ice cream and sick and decided it would be a good move to take a shower. It probably was since it apparently knocked me out good. I hid the evidence best I could, no one ever found out I basically caused a 5th story flood ruining the new floors that we’d all received letters asking to please take good care of. My phone never recovered fully and I still don’t like B&J. That’s as best an end I can put to this story.