Dottie came in at 4:30 this morning and vomited clear across our small room. It, of course, brought me out of my pleasant sleep.
When I turned on my desk lamp I found her sitting on the floor, red-faced and sweating. She said she found this “swingin’ place” very close by. “The hooch is real cheap,” she said with a grin.
“I can smell that,” I said to her more annoyed than anything else.
“Ahhh lightin’ up, Velma,” she stumbled in her dense Brooklynese; a language all to itself, I assure you. “We’ve been here over a week and you haven’t gone out the once.”
“Drinking is illegal.” The conversation now took place over me cleaning the mess with some old towels from the laundry.
“Yeah, that’s why cops do it too,” she mumbled indignantly.
“Ridiculous!” I said.
“Velma, honey, how naive are you? No one believes in that bunk law.”
I do hate it when she calls me honey. It’s much too familiar.
“Don’t you want to practice law?” I said to her.
“Yeah and the first thing I’d do is fight to turn this stupid amendment over.” Then she fell forward on her face. She remained incoherent while I finished cleaning up. None of this was enjoyable, mind you, and I only did it because no one else would.
As I was putting her into bed, I heard her start to mumble nonsense. Then out of the clear blue she said, “Lookersmans.” She started laughing and saying things like, “Such a stupid name.” She laughed a little more then fell into a drunken sleep in which she snored louder than usual. Was it my Dutch professor? If so, how did she come in contact with him? She wasn’t taking the class. Actually, she poked fun at me for taking Dutch. I found the whole situation queer.
When I climbed back into bed, my mind was reeling with the possibilities. But as I fell asleep, I wasn’t sure what had really happened and what was my sleepy imagination.