Caligula and Caesar's American Adventure

A Celebration of Life (Cae)

I don’t even like rum. I’m a rosé girl, or a splash of white. I like vodka, too, and gin. I don’t like rum. But I liked rum last night. It tasted softer than before, or maybe that was just because Cali was there. The only time I’ve drunk rum before, I was on my own.

Now we’re on the way to the Mark Twain house and Cali’s letting me drive. I woke up at six and my head hurts and I feel like crying but she drank even more than I did and now she’s cradling her head, can’t even bring herself to talk. I don’t know if she’s hungover or sad. So I’m driving and every time I come to a crossroads (sorry, intersection), I go back onto the left side of the road and someone honks and it scares the shit out of me. Cali just groans at me. We just stopped for petrol (or, as she says, fucking gas) and when I came back and asked how she was, she just hugged me for ages and ages, didn’t say a word. Neither did I, just held her. It was nice, but nicer than nice.

Cali: “I need a drink.”

Me: “So do I.”

Cali: “You’re driving.”

So then I gave her the gin I’d just got from the petrol station. He never even asked for my ID – apparently, it’s enough to be British and have boobs. I didn’t want to steal again, in case Cali didn’t like my thievery. She drank it the whole way to the Mark Twain house, clutching it in both hands.

It’s seriously beautiful here. Cali’s gone to the loo so I’m writing on the porch. I wrote our names on a piece of paper and slipped it through the slats, watched it flutter to the floor. The whole place is just surrounded by trees, everywhere, shedding their leaves on the lawn. It’s right by a road but there’s so much green, so much lawn, and this quaint little conservatory. It’s just gorgeous that even Cali sobered up a bit. Unless she went to the loo to throw up. I hope not. Then she comes back and this happens.

Cali: “It makes you think.”

Me: “What about?”

Cali: “Life. He’s this amazing writer, but he died, like, a hundred years ago. And there’s all this for him, and he’s dead. What’s the point?”

Me: “It’s a celebration.”

Cali: “Why didn’t they just celebrate when he was alive?”

And she looks so sad that I want to cry but then she cracks into this massive motherfucking grin that scares the shit out of me. Then she pulls my arm, dragging out of the house and says, “Let’s go celebrate while we’re alive.”

And I ask her what we have to celebrate and she says that we’re alive, and that is celebration enough. I think of all those times she stayed up all night to be with me while I didn’t sleep.

But anyway, right now we’re parked up in the middle of nowhere (guess whose sober little arse drove us there?) across the Massachusetts border and I like it because there’s no-one around and we’re just lying here on the ground like fucking hobos, smoking. It took us like an hour to get here ‘cause Cali made me stop and get more to drink, but this time the guy looked at me like I was lying about being twenty-one (I was).

Him: “I’m gonna need to see some identification, ma’am.”

Me: “Of course, sir.” And then I rooted in my bag and fucking emptied the thing on the counter, making sure any actual ID was back in the van. “Oh, shoot.”

Him: “No ID, no alcohol.”

Me: “I must’ve left it with my grandma when I took her for chemo, damn it. They need it to let me in, see.” And then I pretended to search in my pockets, making sure I pulled my top a little lower.

Him: “I guess this once. But next time.”

Me: “Oh, thank you so much. I’ll make sure I go get it right now.”

And I waved goodbye and he saluted, of all things, and now Cali and I are lying in a fucking field, absolutely shitfaced.

Me: "If anyone asks, my aunt is at chemo."

Cali: "You don't have an aunt."

Me: "That's why it's not true."

And then she shakes her head at me and I tell her about the ID fiasco, and we ligh up. The stash has run out now – we’re on our last spliff and I have no idea how to get any more, or where from.  The guy who hooked me up, well, he’s got my number but I don’t have his.

Me: “Better savour this.”

Cali: “Why?”

Me: “Last of the stash.”

Cali: “Uh oh. Are you gonna get cranky if you don’t feed your addiction?”

Me: “It’s not an addiction. It’s a comfort.” And I take a long drag, and blow it in Cali’s face.

Cali: “Why do you need comforting? Pussy.”

Me: “Cause I’m scared.” And then I drink some gin.

Cali: “Of what?” She takes the gin off me.

Me: “This country.”

Cali: “Me too.”

And then she holds my hand and I give her the joint and she gives me the bottle, and that’s the story of how, at three in the afternoon, Cali and I celebrated being alive in a field in Massachusetts.