Gross Girl

Vignettes from planet earth

Gypsy Coke

It was after two.

“Meet me at Scholars” slurred the hysterical voice on the other end of the line. 

I walked from wherever we had been to the detestable Irish Pub that was usually full of ex-pats, study abroads, and large tourists. L had come to visit from Scotland on one of those Ryanair flights that take you to Rome. You pay under 10 Euro to be herded about into the aircraft, pestered to buy airplane sandwiches and smokeless cigarettes.

We climbed into the bar that was a now a living hive, bodies touching, sweats intermingling. I rushed to the bar to order drinks for my party, it was a fight to knock people about and reach the counter in enough time to get more drinks before closing at 3AM. As soon as we got our hands on those long islands in the slim plastic glasses we ran into J.

This constantly jolly man was about 6 foot 5, blonde, pale, a real live gay South Carolinian. Nothing you would normally see in Italy. We departed at once, drinks in hand, avoiding the unfortunate scene that was the end of a night at scholars. American girls in heels and minidresses cooing at nasty middle aged Italian men. Hoards of English tourists screaming at each other throwing their fists about. A couple of people simply passed out in the booths. The floors made a complete slop of spilled drinks, dirt dragged in from outside, and small amounts of spit, vomit, and blood. 

Dragging our feet behind us we made our way to the Trevi Fountain while trying not to spill our drinks. The fountain is most beautiful from 3 to 5 in the morning. The lights illuminate the back of the palace with the reflections of the water in a radiant manner. You have the whole fountain to yourself, none of those gawking tourists from all over the world that crowd the space all day taking 80 pictures of the same spot. None of the toddlers running around with their overpriced ice cream cones chasing pigeons. None of the gypsies that grovel around asking for spare change while pick-pocketing young mothers. 

Well this wasn’t entirely true. As we approached the fountain a group of 3 or 4 gypsy youths sat in front of it. They departed before we reached the fountain and we went right to where they had been sitting. They had abandoned a 2 liter bottle of coca cola.

“I bet that has alcohol in it” 

We had all finished our drinks on the walk here and went over to inspect. Sure enough the gypsy children had made a porta drink and the bottle contained mostly whiskey. We sat in front of the fountain with this found treasure and drank most all of it while laughing, chatting, and falling down the stairs towards the fountain. 

There was a music emanating from the structure. Besides the hum of the water falling in streams into the bottom there was something in the air. So there I am dancing alone in the night’s embrace, two blonde men talking fervently by the foot of the fountain, when the street cleaners show up. 

I rushed over to a man, he must have been almost 40 years old and I beg him “oh per favore, solo oggi, e’ possibile per solo sta’notte?” I ask him if I couldn’t possibly go swim in the fountain. “Will you let me? You look like a kind person! Doesn’t it look fun? I’ll go in my clothes I promise and I’ll be quick, just 5 minutes in the fountain!”

Looking amused he tells me that for him it’s all right I just should look out to make sure there’s no Polizia. 

I feel hands grabbing my arms and J is pulling me away back to the Cyst so that we can all get some rest before tomorrow’s Easter brunch. He must have carried me halfway because I was so drunk I couldn’t walk straight. 

That night I sat in my military cot, L was on the couch and there was a drying rack separating us full of laundry that had been drying there for a week. The gypsy coke gurgling in our stomachs we found it difficult to sleep and stayed up talking about nonsense until the sun was peeking up behind the Tiber. 

The next day, Easter, we go to H’s house where everyone convenes in middle morning to start cooking and recovering. I make my famous party deviled eggs.

L spends most of the day in the bathroom vomiting up the remains of the gypsy coke that probably left infectious residues in our stomach linings. I spend the entire lunch with my head bobbing down on the table, just eating food to keep my hands moving and stop from falling asleep. J is as bright and energetic as ever, eating, talking, laughing with his outrageous hilarity. 

  1. golden-zephyr reblogged this from grossgirl and added:
    make this better. Using...word gypsy is not...good idea—nor...
  2. grossgirl posted this