Vasovaga Syncope is a fainting episode mediated by the Vagus Nerve. Tabor’s Medical Dictionary describes this as a “feeling of impending death.” David compared it to already being dead. No dreams, no ability to tell if any time has passed, one moment you’re sitting on a couch with a girl drooling on your crotch, the next, you come to sick, quivering, and covered in sweat with a beam of light burning through your retina. In spite of his knowledge of the subject, this had happened to him only once before.
David was shaking and sweating in an apartment bathroom where some asshole had already passed out on the floor in a pool of his own piss and puke. Sitting on the sink with his feet on the asshole’s back, David kept himself from getting the contents of someone’s stomach on his Converse. As he waited for his head to stop spinning, he gazed at a half-digested pepperoncini that surfed on a sea of bile with other formless masses of undigested whatever. David wasn’t sure, but he thought the poor bastard had also shit himself, which was deduced from what seemed to be a brown warshak forming on the back of his pants. If this asshole had managed to cut himself and ejaculate before he passed out, the floor would’ve been the ultimate mélange of bodily fluids. David’s feet rose with every labored breath that the asshole took, which didn’t help with the nausea. Combined with the aroma of half-digested Papa John’s and Vodka, the breathing motions swelling under his feet were only making David feel worse. He hoped that the asshole would just stop breathing, but, considering a liter of Smirnoff didn’t get the job done, David suspected that his hopes and wishes wouldn’t be able to kill him either. “Fresh air,” David swallowed. Using him as a floor mat, David balanced on the asshole’s lower back, opened the door, and leapt over the river of puke that separated him from the hallway. Throwing on his coat, David almost got out of the door before some other asshole asked where he was going.
“Hey, where you going?”
David wasn’t sure. “Get some food,” is what he assumed he answered with, and he was correct in his assumption.
“I said I was going to get food.” David misunderstood the question.
“Where are you going to get food?” he clarified.
If the guy wasn’t so damn blurry, David might’ve punched him for asking stupid questions in a time of great distress. “White Asshole,” roared out of David’s mouth, but he wasn’t sure that he responded at all. He was too occupied watching the rest of the room filled with people dissolving into a hazy mass of drunken blurs.
“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” One of the other drunken blurs called out.
Wasn’t it obvious? David didn’t say anything.
“Hey! Are you all right?”
David knew that ‘Hey! Are you all right?’ is a phrase that he would never want to hear while partaking in massive amounts of drug and alcohol abuse. ‘Hey! Are you all right?’ is a universally redundant question. If it’s asked of someone, the person is already pretty fucking far from all right, and the person you are asking is already well aware that he or she is about to die. By the time the question hit his ears, David was already on his way down to the floor. Even though he didn’t feel anything, he knew he hit the floor hard by the unanimous roar of “Holy Shit!” called out by every drunken blur in the living room.
David couldn’t see anything and couldn’t move, but he was able to hear, which was even more terrifying. No bright light, and he didn’t notice any relatives at the other end of a tunnel. Probably better off anyway. I’m sure that if any of my relatives were aware of how often I masturbated and snorted coke, they would just shake their heads and wag their fingers. Although David didn’t see any signs of an afterlife, he did hear a single voice calling out to him out of the black.
“Dude, Don’t be dead.”
After the poorly timed Bill and Ted quotation, David’s next memory was of him sitting on the couch, breathing heavily, where the drunken blurs were just a minute before. He guessed that he was still alive, but he wasn’t relieved.