The Naked Truth

When I moved to my new apartment, I realized I had gone through over two decades of my life and had failed to accumulate a single dish, spoon, or dish towel. This made me slightly sad, but I was heartened by the fact that some relics of my past had, in fact, remained with me through all the changes. From subtle highlights to a full head of flaxen locks, from my tramp stamp to my Bob Dylan ink, from blackouts to discarding all the naughty nights for niceness -- some things had remained constant.

Among these articles is the one object in my that makes me smile without fail every time I see it. It doesn't belong to me -- it still belongs to a friend, technically. But, I'm fairly certain she won't be asking for it back any time in the foreseeable future.

I can't remember definitively the exact series of events that lead to my possession of this item, because all the nights from this particular period of my life tend to blur together into one chaotic cornucopia of experience. I do know, however, that the night started with vodka. Nights during that era always started that way, and if I had to guess, I would say it was probably Smirnoff cranberry twist. I had sworn off berry and citrus liquor long before, but I found the cranberry variety so tasty I acquired the ability to drink it by the fifth. I was drinking with a friend who liked her vodka almost as much as I did and drank it with about as much enthusiasm. We dubbed her apartment the Vodka Commune in honor of the constant supply present there and the presumed willingness of everyone to share their stash.

We probably went out, me and my friend, maybe sake bombing or to our favorite bar with the rest of our ilk to hold court, spilling drinks and spilling out of booths all the while.

But at some point, my friend and I blacked out. I sort of remember stumbling back to her apartment and passing out on the couch. James Taylor was singing "Copperline" on repeat as I dozed off and, after the seventh or eighth consecutive listening, I started thinking, "Man, I am really getting this song."

I was alarmed upon awakening the next morning circa 9 a.m. to find myself naked* in my own bed covered by a foreign, fleecy blanket the color of a grizzly bear.

*as per usual

I figured that at some point during the wee hours, I had weaved my way the several blocks home. I shook off the spooky feeling I always had when significant chunks of my memory were lost to the abyss and looked on my floor to find the jeans I had worn the night before. They were somewhat clean, after all, and the rest of my jeans had passed the point of filthy and now hovered at the point of unhygienic. I scoured my room, but couldn't find the damn things. Suddenly, an eerie possibility entered my thoughts.

I called my partner in crime. I did not offer a greeting when she answered the phone.

"Confirm or deny. My jeans are in your apartment."

She paused to walk into the living room for a visual.

"Confirm -- along with your jacket, your shirt, your bra -- jesus, what did you walk home in?"

"I -- I don't know."

"Well, at least you had your underwear."

"I don't wear underwear. You know that."

"Fuck."

"Fuck."

"Girl, I've got to go. Someone is beeping in. People have been calling all morning to say what a good time they had over here last night."

"Fuck."

"We'll talk later and -- where's the blanket from our couch?"

I eyed my rumpled bed guiltily.

"It's. With me. Here."

"So you walked home -- naked, in 40-degree weather -- swathed in my roommate's blanket?"

"Is it bad that that's the best possible scenario at this point?"

We hung up. My phone rang again. It was my friend, the blanket's proprietor, who treated the situation with courtesy and understanding.

"I heard you got ass on my blanket. For Christ's sake, don't bring it back here. It's yours."

And so it was. It is, at the time of this writing, wrapped around me snugly, as is customary. It moves with me from the living room to my bed at night. It moved with me from Virginia to Florida to New York. I can't imagine sleeping without it.

And despite its sordid past, it just might be my favorite thing in my apartment.