Magazine

From the January 2020 magazine.

Last call

It was 1985. She took out a dime and stared at her shot glass. Then she walked over to the phone and saved her life

I sat on the worn bar stool that afternoon, full of despair. It was 1985, I was 25 years old and I wanted to die. My plan that morning had been to drink enough to go up to the train tracks and jump in front of a train. 

But even that I screwed up by drinking too much and passing out. I came to right before my mother was due home from work. I looked at the clock and panic set in. Not having time to shower, I still smelled like stale beer and cigarettes from the night before. I grabbed my hoodie, jeans and money and left the house. I had no place to go but the bar. 

-- Lorraine K.

Brooklyn, N.Y.

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