After I slipped between worlds, an external force yanked me back to consciousness. The epic-style strings accompaniment ringing in my ears jangled to a crashing halt; my eyelids fluttered open, and I glimpsed a bloated head floating in a jar of formaldehyde … or maybe that was my reflection coupled with one too many Silence of the Lambs viewings? A rancid, sour-sweet odor bullied my nostrils—my gag reflex kicked in.

“Mercy,” I croaked.

“Ede.”

Someone shook my shoulder again, harder this time. The action caused the room to oscillate like the pirate ship ride at the state fair.

“No,” I groaned. “I don’t like this one. Let me off.”

“Get up,” the voice barked. Though I still couldn’t place who the speaker was, I knew he wasn’t a stranger. “You need to get in the shower.”

A muscular hand hauled me off the bathroom floor. The room merry-go-rounded and I sank onto stinky linoleum.

“Wrong way.”

Again, the hand (or two of them, I couldn’t be sure) yanked me to a standing position. I slumped over a warm body part, maybe a shoulder? My feet didn’t touch the ground as the figure lifted me up. I heard the squeak of the shower handle—then apparently, I was doing the ice bucket challenge, because a frigid spray of water blasted me directly in the face and poured down my body like the thundering Falls of Niagara.

“Arghhh!” I screamed, thrashing. “The humanity!”

The hands held me firmly, avoiding my weak punches and squirming legs. “Wake up, idiot.”

I had brief image of myself as Malcolm McDowell’s character in A Clockwork Orange during the scene where his eyelids are forcibly held open. Cade’s face came into focus, then he split into multiples like a pic strip from a photo booth.

“It’s cold,” I whined. “Please put me out of my misery!”

(Or at least I think that’s what I said.)

Cade grunted something along the lines of “Strip down, cocktease,” but I suspected that was just my brain playing tricks on me, so I stood there shivering in the icy spray.

“Come on, Ede. Take off your pants.”

“Okay, but my dick doesn’t work when—”

“I’m not trying to fuck you!” he exploded. “I’m trying to keep you out of the ER!”

“What do my pants have to do with it?”

“You need to remove your wet clothes.”

“Now you tell me.” I dry-heaved.

“Where are your pajamas?”

“I don’t wear pajamas,” I slurred. “I sleep in the nude.”

“Fuck!” He stamped his foot, then turned off the shower. “Don’t you have anything you can wear?”

“Someone might be able to loan me the thing for the thing you put on your thing.”

“Edan, if I tell the bros you’re shitfaced, they’ll …” He paused and swallowed hard. “You need to sober up, okay? I’ll find you some clothes and then get you some water.”

“And Tylenol,” I added, shaking chilly droplets out of my hair. “If I take it tonight, the morning wakeup won’t be so bad.”

“You should probably puke.”

“I can’t.”

“Make yourself.”

“I’m not bulimic.”

Under his breath, he said, “One less thing to worry about.”

“You’re mad at me.” I rested my head on his shoulder. “And Lash wants to hire a firing squad to execute me.”

“Don’t think about that right now,” he urged. “Just take off your fucking pants.”

My wrists were too loose to cooperate. “If only I could.”

Cade let rip a few choice curse words and dragged me to the bed. He threw me down on the mattress; if I hadn’t been so wasted, it would’ve made my toes curl in anticipation of the foreplay to come. After gripping my hips with his calloused fingertips, he shimmied my pants down my thighs.

“Mm,” I groaned, still drunk as a skunk, “That’s more like it.”

Without replying, he maneuvered my pants to my ankles, then stopped when he realized he couldn’t remove them without first taking off my combat boots.

“Fuck!” Briefly he rested his ebony-tressed head on the bed near my bare calf. “Do you know you pissed yourself?”

I had no response—although I was too wasted to feel shame, I wasn’t too far gone to forgo discomfort.

In silence, Cade unlaced my boots and stripped me to down to my boxers. When he scooped me up in his arms, I almost swooned. Before my fantasies of being carried over the threshold by my future fuck could take flight, he set me firmly on my feet. Like a windless sail, I nearly collapsed.

“Have you ever seen the show,” I babbled, as Cade ferried me to the bathroom, “about the two closeted gay dudes hacking this poor woman’s phone? They’re pretending to be in love with her—they even stage a social media war battling over her affections—but that’s the red herring. Really, they resent her and think she’s pathetic: they’d love nothing more than to watch her decapitated head roll around on the floor.” I laughed, choking on my spit. “Wouldn’t it be easier and more humane if the dudes just came out as a couple instead of being evil cowards and ruining innocent lives?”

He turned on the shower again. “Glad I’ve never seen that show.”

“Yeah, it’s a trainwreck. The only thing that keeps me watching is the chick. She changes tactics so often they can’t pin her down, so they’re forced to keep reinventing their game. I really hope at the end she gets away and leaves them to the own devices.” I chortle. “Devices! Get it?!”

Checking the temperature of the water, Cade commented, “Doesn’t sound very entertaining.”

“Yeah, but it’s, like, a hatewatch.” I shoved down my boxers, unconcerned with whether I smelled like a fresh rose or dirty toes. “Sometimes you think she doesn’t know what they’re doing, and other times you’re convinced she’s playing them. Because she can’t see or hear them, she’s at a disadvantage. But she turns her disability into a superpower.” Stepping into the shower, I winced at the scalding-hot water. “She’s a fucking legend, bro. Just watch it.”

“What’s it called?” Gently he guided me closer to the spray. The act of kindness lumped up my throat, but I played it off. “Judith Is Carrying It.”

“That’s a shitty title.”

“File a complaint.” I searched for the shampoo but my blurry eyes wouldn’t let me find it.

“Stop! You’re gonna fall. I’ll do it.”

I felt a big hand in my hair; then the tears started, because he was shampooing my hair with the tender care of a papa bear. My own dad probably never did that when I was little. Being wasted brought out the toddler in me. Ugh. Thankfully I don’t think Cade noticed, because leaking eyes plus dripping showerhead equals ambiguity.

Handing me the bar soap, he said, “I think you can take it from here.”

For him, I would’ve dropped it and let the dicks fall where they may.

“You’re leaving me?” I didn’t mean for the question to come out as a desperate whine—I blame the booze.

“No, that would be irresponsible.” He smacked me on my slippery shoulder. “I’ll be right on the other side of the curtain. You seem a little less wobbly, so try to wash yourself.”

“Yeah, I’m sobering up,” I half lied, wondering if I should just pretend to fall over or something so the chances of him accidentally touching my dick would increase.

The rest of the shower occurred without incident, although a couple of times, I almost lost my footing for real. By the time I turned off the water, I was less woozy, but more nauseous. Dismayed, I realized it was time to upchuck.

Cade held my wet hair, chivalrous gent that he was, and had the grace to cover my bum with a towel just before I knelt and prayed to the porcelain god.

“You’re an angel,” I mumbled when he tucked me into bed a few minutes later.

“And you’re a demon,” he said in a matter-of-fact way that made me cringe. “There’s water on the dresser. Did you take the Tylenol?”

I nodded into the pillow. “Mm-hm … wait, where are you going to sleep?”

Instead of answering, he curled up beside me and put an arm around my waist. I’m pretty sure I passed out before I could grin.

Well, there’s one way to get your man: just make yourself as sick as a dog. If he has any sense of human decency, he’ll take pity your ass and coddle you like the child you are. Everyone has their own unique strategy, am I right?

The next morning’s rehearsal was the musical equivalent of a shit sandwich.

“Edan!” Rem squawked, aiming a drumstick at me. “Your entrance was late—you’re supposed to sing “stop” on the downbeat.”

“I know.” Groaning, I rubbed my head, which made my hangover worse instead of better. “I’ll get it right during the performance.”

“No.” Brandishing both sticks at me, he declared, “You’ll get it right right now.”

“What about Clive’s late entrance?” I shot a sassy stare at our rhythm guitarist. “He should have played the C chord before I took a breath.”

“It was an artistic choice,” Clive snarled, “unlike your completely off timing.”

“Hey.” Cade rubbed his temples. “The more you argue, the longer this is gonna take.”

“Word.” Lash balanced an arm on Cade’s shoulder. “Y’all are wasting valuable minutes. I’m supposed to have a manicure at noon.”

Waving him away, Rem said, “You’ll have plenty of time to pamper yourself after rehearsal. The band comes first.”

“But I made an appointment.” Lash’s lips disappeared into a horizontal line, giving a preview of the wrinkles that would appear in the next ten years if he didn’t get regular Botox. “I can’t just cancel.”

“Yeah, you can,” Clive said, fingering his guitar. “You just don’t want to.”

Lash glared at him. “Exactly.”

“Boys!” Rem clapped his hands at us like he was Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. “Let’s start at the very beginning—a very good place to start.” And he quoted it too … kill me now.

“Do Re Mi,” I sang through Wild-Turkey-cracked pipes.

“Have some herbal tea,” Lash snapped. “Or a lozenge. You can’t perform sounding like the Tin Man before he gets all lubed up.”

Cade burst into laughter, then side-hugged Lash. “You’re so fucking weird.”

Lash returned his one-armed embrace. “It’s why you love me.”

“No shit.”

They looked into each other’s eyes like they were posing for a prom photo.

“I have some lube in my backpack if you two want to take this to the bedroom,” I offered, only partially kidding.

There was an awkward silence that made me feel like I’d missed a punchline. Clive flicked me off; Lash and Cade shot me simultaneous eye rolls.

Rem tsked. “Edan,” he slowly said, like he was learning how to pronounce this particular string of words for the first time, “Your relentless sexual innuendos are inappropriate. They make everyone uncomfortable—you need to minimize your bedroom humor stat.”

I looked around the room. Clive was nodding like the assistant principal. Lash and Cade still had their arms around each other, babes in the fucking woods. As usual, I was the odd man out.

“Oh, so that’s what this is—a witch-burning,” I scoffed.

Clive stroked his chin. “Since you’re a dude, you’d technically be a warlock.”

Snapping up my backpack, I left the room, muttering, “See you tonight, puritans.”

No one tried to stop me.

Head throbbing, I stalked down the street to my suite and threw down my stuff on the floor next to the giant piss stain I’d painted last night. Art is what you make it, is it not?

“Where did he put them?” I raved, glancing around the room for what remained of my alcoholic crutches.

The fifths were nowhere in sight. I envisioned Cade pouring them down the bathroom sink, and wondered if that was a real memory or a false one. Something inside me caved; I lunged from drawer to drawer, seeking my hair of the dog in each one I opened, only to turn up empty. With each failed attempt to discover my stash, I grew more despairing—and angrier.

“I want my bottle!” I tantrumed, throwing myself on the floor and kicking my feet.

At that moment, my eyeballs caught a glimmer of glass with amber liquid swirling inside; I’d found the fucking pot of gold not under the rainbow, but under the bed.

“Hallelujah,” I creaked, reaching for the prize that had no winners.