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screamed back, “You jerk—why don’t you go back where you came from, you creep!” Not only did screaming hurt her head, it caused people to stop and stare. As she looked around she thought, Oh, great, here I am standing on a street corner with a hangover and turning into the Ugly American right before my own eyes. She was probably recognized and would be quoted tomorrow in
The Daily News.
    The only consolation was that as she walked away, several people applauded.

    As she entered the apartment, she started to take her clothes off. She headed down the hall for the medicine chest and took three huge swallows from the bottle of Maalox Liquid to help put out the fire. When she was opening the aspirin bottle she noticed her hands shaking. That was something that had never happened to her before, and it frightened her. As a matter of fact, she had always had nerves of steel. But she soon dismissed the thought.
It’s just because you’re tired, you’re not an alcoholic, for heaven’s sake, you’ve just been pushing yourself lately. Well, lately for about fifteen years
. She usually was in control of her drinking but she had noticed recently, about once every two weeks or so, she would go out and, like last night, get drunk out of her mind. Then wake up with a hangover from hell and swear she would never do it again.
Guess it’s almost like a teakettle. I have so much pressure, I need to let off a little steam.
But the hangovers were getting worse and worse, and she wondered why she kept doing it. Her career was going great, she was on the highest-rated morning show on TV. You couldn’t get any better than that, except for prime time, and that might be in her future if things kept going as well as they had been. She had finally gotten over that guy from D.C. It had taken her almost five years, but she hardly ever thought about him anymore. Well, hardly.
It must be I’m not getting enough rest, that’s all. I’m not unhappy.
    She ran a tub of hot water, hoping it would help soothe her aching body. Going to the kitchen for that beer, she remembered—she had to call J.C. before she went back to sleep, and think of some reason she could not go to dinner.
    She got into the tub, began to relax, and to feel a little better. She sat there admiring the beauty of the light amber fluid in the clear bottle, the way the condensation on the Miller bottle ran down the black and gold label, like it was a fine piece of art. That was the problem with alcohol. It was so beautiful to look at, how could you resist it? And what kind of place could be more inviting and seductive than a truly elegant cocktail bar? She had felt that way the first time she had been taken to a nice place by a friend of her mother’swhen she was twelve. From the very beginning she had been mesmerized by the rows and rows of bottles sitting on glass shelves on the mirror behind the bar, the way the glass was lit, and how the emerald green of the crème de menthe and the bright red of the grenadine seemed to glow, and how happy everybody seemed. She even remembered the lushness of the rugs, the little pink lampshades that sat on the tables, and the muffled sounds of the cocktail piano playing over in the corner. It was, to her, homelike. That was also the first time she had ever seen an honest-to-God gin martini in person. It seemed at the time to be the most glamorous thing in the world, other than Radio City Music Hall and the Rockettes. It really did look as if someone had melted a handful of icy-blue diamonds and poured them right into that tall, chilled, slender, stemmed glass. Not only did she want to grab it and drink it, she wanted to eat the glass as well, chew the whole thing up. She had felt the same way later about scotch. Just the name alone was inviting enough but when they poured that thick, rich, caramel-colored liquid into that short, thick-bottomed glass, she knew it must taste exactly like liquid butterscotch. She couldn’t wait until she