St. Patrick, II

One of my visitors smuggled in some candy for me on night two. The models and I sat in the hallway and sucked on Jolly Ranchers till the wee hours. Watermelon sweet was the best. Apple sweet was second. Cherry sweet a distant third. Grape sweet was the street shit. When we got to lemon, we were desperate. We talked about concerts from the 90’s. Bands from the 80’s. Our fave beaches on the Jersey Shore. We all had Jenk’s and Martells and Surf Club and Bamboo and Fast Lane stories. They talked boyfriends. I talked girlfriends. We crumpled up Jolly Rancher Wrappers and tried to fling them into each other’s mouths. I lost. 3 on 1. We scrambled to clean them up when we heard a nurse coming, lest we lose the rest of our smuggled, lemon booty.

 

There was a Karen, a Tara and a Laura. I called them all K at least once in a Thorazine hazy blaze. It was funny, or at least they thought so. Well, now that I think of it, maybe not all thought so. Laura cried. She had never had a “real” boyfriend. She told us about being abused. That’s when I went into Phase II. Practically catatonic. The shock of being here was over.  The reality was on.