Horror Story: A Scary Run-In At 1020
Written by Victoria Arancio
As I recalled my good memories from the weekend, I looked down at my Long Island Iced Tea and smiled. On Sunday, I celebrated two wins: Columbia Football winning at home and the fact that I can remember. I brought myself back to the memory of standing in the stands at during overtime, screaming with excitement that we won. I felt a subdued kind of joy as I remembered rushing the field, hearing the band play Roar, Lion, Roar over and over.
With a weekend that ended on a high note, how did I find myself at 1020 on a Monday night? The week hit pretty hard: I stayed up all night writing a paper on two books that I didn’t even finish, rolled in late to an in-class midterm for which I forgot a calculator, and still have another paper to write for by the end of the week. Reflecting on the mess that became my Monday, I felt that I could finally relate to that girl that I watched throw up on herself on Saturday; We both appeared defeated by a Higher Power. Some might blame procrastination, or alcoholism, but call it what it is: an act of God.
Fate weaved itself in and out of my past week. As I brought the glass to my mouth, I watched the condensation collect upon the inside, only to be washed away by my heavy helping of alcohol. As I placed the glass back onto the table, I twinged as the drink found its way past my tongue and down my throat. The only thing that could—and did—tear me away from my drink was the cool breeze that grazed my legs as the bar door swung open. I looked up and saw someone the last person I would want find on a Monday night in 1020: my doctor.
My doctor redefines what it means to be problematic. Every time I find myself sitting in his office, he lazily pushes the door with his back, pretending to read my file, only to ask me, “How much damage did you do this time?” The first time I met him, he told me that my liver was “out of wack” and I need to “stop frat-hopping.” He yelled at me, telling me that I drink like a fish and that if I kept it up, I’d look like Frank Gallagher from Shameless. The rest of my visits would become battles between two generations that didn’t seem to understand one another. With a celibate summer, I returned with essentially a new liver, and to his chagrin, I proved him wrong: I can change my drinking habits. After answering the age-old question, “What school do you go to?”, he smirked at me. “I work at Mt. Sinai’s once a week, so I’ll be checking up on you, homegirl.”
“Homegirl” echoed in my mind as we made eye contact. With his classic smirk painted onto his face, he sat down at my booth. A Friday night out drinking is understandable, but being by myself at a bar on a Monday at 5pm gave him an arsenal of possible insults. It’s almost too easy for him, I thought, as I looked around the bar, hoping to find some way out of this situation.
As soon as he opened his mouth to speak, someone fell off a barstool, and my doctor’s perfect opportunity came crashing to an end as shattered glass began to glitter on the floor, finding what little light could be found. I grabbed my drink and ran to the door, refusing to look behind me. Once I turned the corner, I finished my Long Island Iced Tea and threw the glass on the ground in celebration. All I could think about was the fact that some Higher Power was on my side: the same power that gave Columbia Football their undefeated record, and that pushed me through my midterms. Some might call it luck, but I see it differently: I just hope God can close my open tab.