I woke up on the last day in April of 2007 not remembering much of what happened the previous night. My experience with alcohol has only given me this one other time. So, as I hung my head over the toilet, ridding my body of all that I ingested, I could only think of two people: Kurt Vonnegut and Michael Rogers.

Both of these men are dead and gone. One was great and one tried to be. Vonnegut wrote about a man that died of dry-heaving. And in my present state, I felt that was my fate. I felt as if I were in fact dying. Michael Rogers came to mind because of the blackout. His chosen words towards my wife only a year before his death is what separated our friendship. I never spoke of it to him, I just merely stopped calling and stopped answering. Sometimes I think the last week he lived he thought about our lost friendship. Maybe that’s just the romantic nature of a writer.

I guess only a writer would correlate some sort of relationship between a greatly known author and a greatly unknown chef. But there I was doing it with my head inside the toilet bowl, praying to God and whoever else to subside the agony.

Michael was not a great man, full of flaws like all of us. The one great flaw was the confrontation with my wife. He was drunk and probably not that far off from where I was last night. That is my dilemma, my confounding thought at the moment. What did I do last night? Did I proposition my friend’s girlfriend like Michael did my wife, or perhaps something worse? I hate knowing that I don’t know, not even a trace of memory, not even a momentary flash. Pure blackness. My night could have ended my marriage, my life or something worse of which I cannot fathom.

I blamed Michael for his words, as would anyone. Alcohol tends to bring out truth in people, and it was that thought that caused me not to forgive him. But now I wonder, I wonder if I was too harsh in my judgment. Perhaps he didn’t’ remember anything either, and perhaps he wondered until his death why his friend refused to return any of his calls.

Vonnegut starts to fade into the background behind my dead friend. His greatness becomes pale against Michael’s friendship. I never spoke to Vonnegut, only read his books like everyone else. I did speak to Michael though, many times. My regret will always be my unwillingness to confront him, my cowardly way of handling the situation.

My stomach becomes thin and empty as I flush the toilet once more. My thoughts elude Vonnegut altogether leaving me with a burned image of my dead friend, and an instilled feeling of regret. God bless you Michael Rogers.