The Mighty Quinn

"Manna, it's Glory," she said, pulling back, trying not to step on an emotional landmine.

"It's been to long," said Amanda, wondering why she had picked up the phone.

"How's the writing? Have you written anything?" Glory asked, unusually cordial towards her friend.

"Glory, you're way to sweet. Do you want something? I mean, this doesn't sound like you."

"I just wanted to say hey, take you to dinner."

This was strange, Glory offering to pick up the tab. This idea of sobriety was maddening; the world was turned upside down.

"Where and when?" asked Amanda, weighing the consequence of her action. Glory was not the person she needed right now; her being sober and all. She had to admit, Glory wasn't the warmest person in the world. She wasn't the type of woman that Amanda could confide in.

They were sitting in a fancy restaurant on sixty-eighth street; the menu stacked with high-balls and margaritas; all the drinks that Amanda loved. It was Glory's olive branch; having been separated from her friend Amanda Quinn for almost four months. That was Amanda's idea, though her sponsor suggested it, hearing the tales of Glory Jacobson during Amanda's stint in re-hab.

"Why are we here?" Amanda asked, feeling her body turn to mush as the waiters flew by; daiquiri's placed neatly on a freshly polished tray; the surface covered with a thick, rose printed cloth.

"My novel came out," said Glory, sipping a high-ball as only she could; lips grazing the edge of the glass. "Congrats," Amanda offered, stirring her soda pop with a twisty straw. She raised her glass, mouth back peddling as she sipped her drink; the sugar giving her stomach a sick feeling.

"You want something to loosen you up?" asked Glory, fingers drubbing the table.

"I don't do drugs anymore."

"Wow, you're a square," smiled Glory, signaling for the waiter with a snap of her fingers. She needed a refill rather badly.

There was an awkward silence, Amanda's mind trying to keep the conversation going. Things had changed; Glory and her had grown apart; it was inevitable she supposed. Glory was into chemistry and Amanda wasn't.

"Come on, have a line," Glory grinned, wiggling the vile in front of Amanda's face.

"Glory," Amanda sighed, turning away; feet shuffling underneath the table.

"Don't be a square Amanda." Amanda looked at the vile; thinking of how it good it felt to be numb; not to have a care in the world.

She couldn't think, trying to hold off temptation. One hit, that's all she wanted. It was like holding back a dam; her clarity, her freshness, her energy; they were non-existent; fingers dancing all over the table. The world was moving faster and faster, the longer she glanced at the vile. One hit, she could handle that. Her hands felt heavy, stomach turning, tossing; a sure sign of guilt, remorse. What about the people who had helped her? Amanda thought about them, her shoulder going numb as she thought about coke, the nosebleeds that Glory had. She couldn't breathe, fingers tingling, legs bouncing up and down. "I can't," she said, rolling the vile between her palms. Amanda couldn't feel her legs; heels tightening, shins tightening; feet stiffening. The present: Two Am on a Friday Night; Manhattan just beginning to hit its stride; wide awake with music, excess, and everything else. They left Club Liquid around one; taking the scenic route to the Tugboat Palace; past the old ghost of Studio 54; hedonism at its finest in the age of disco. The Tugboat Palace featured all hybrids of music, including electronica. The air smelled of tobacco and marijuana; the sound of sniffing noses ever present; the bathrooms fully occupied; occupied by partygoers in need of privacy. The scene was soaked with denim and granola; stonwashed jeans, granola flannels, slightly creased baseball caps. A triangular light was hanging over the pretty boys; gathered around the pool table.

"To whatever!" Glory shouted, projecting her voice over the music; loud and emotionless.

"To Whatever!" Amanda replied, clanking glasses with her friend.

"Two more shots!" shouted Glory, head moving in a drunken swivel, ass sliding off the stool; spittle forming at the base of her mouth. She wrapped her arms around Amanda, watching her as she downed another shot; head tilted back.

"I feel fabtabulous!" Amanda whispered, wondering if she had ever felt this good before.

"It's just an illusion," Glory whispered, her breath tickling Amanda's ear.

"I feel fabtabulous!" exclaimed Amanda, her heart beating rather abnormally; its rhythm rather strange, almost uneven. "You're fucked up," laughed Glory, passing Amanda some coke. "Shit!" Amanda yelled, inhaling a line. Her nostrils burned; she felt weightless, invisible. The room came to a halt, heads turning in unison; the pool boys stopping in mid-shot. "You're such a square," Glory sighed, downing a shot of bourbon, the liquid burning her throat.

"I feel fabtabulous!" Amanda said again, stumbling towards the bathroom.

She felt strange, head drenched with sweat. Amanda's breaths were short, quick; lungs gasping and then rising. Her heart was beating abnormally again; pumping harder, fighting to break free. Amanda Quinn looked up at the lights, imaging that she was in heaven. Everything was tinged with a vanilla colored halo, a fuzzy shimmer; rippling like a wave.

"Fabtabulous," she laughed, eyes closing, rolling back in her head. Amanda heard the sniffing of the coke fiends; the party monsters that were just beyond the door.

"Fabtabulous," she laughed, the life slowly being sucked out of her as she struggled to breathe, collapsing near the bathroom door.