"You done good boy," praised Momma Timmy, filling me with a sense of pride only an impressionable youth would feel when commended by an adult. Those were some great years, those high school years.

Well, no. High school sucked. But at least I could hold my liquor. (Praise the public school system!)

I was fifteen or sixteen. It was New Year's Eve. A group of us were invited to Timmy's mom's house in the projects in Queens. For many of us, it was our first time in the projects.

"Call me Momma Timmy," she hollered. Momma Timmy was a massive woman, both literally and figuratively. She occupied a space larger than life. When she entered the room, the walls shook from the sheer force of her personality.

"Dis is my punch." She pointed at a large bowl of fruit punch that smelled more like vodka than fruit. It was as flammable as it was toxic to the liver. I got buzzed just looking at it.

"Dis be da bathroom. Don' clog da toilet, now, ya hear!" We nodded emphatically. With a voice like a locomotive and forearms like a tracker, we didn't want to do anything to cross Momma Timmy. No one crosses Momma Timmy.

"Here be da kitchen. There be some forties in da fridge. Help yo'self. And have a Happy New Year!" We thanked her graciously and opened the fridge.

Forties. I had never seen one before. It was heavy, cold, and I had no idea how my bladder was going to hold that much liquid.

Momma Timmy's tiny apartment was buzzing with people. Neighbors, Timmy's friends from Queens, and other assorted well-wishers and party-crashers loitered every room.

At one point, a little kid (who must have been seven or eight) came up to us. "Hey, want to buy a hot dog?" He pulled down his pants and flashed us.

"Boy, you best pull yo' pants up, befo' I smack da black off yo' ass!" Momma Timmy bellowed. The little boy ran down the hallway in laughter.

My first sip of alcohol was tough. It was bitter all around. Bitter going in, bitter going down, and bitter aftertaste. Yuck. I took several hearty swallows anyways.

Since we were all insecure high school kids, we measured our manliness by how quickly we consumed our forties. I think Tony was in the lead, which led him to dancing on the coffee table. I can't remember if he was dancing with a girl or just by himself.

Later, he ended up with his face in the toilet bowl. We had to pull him out so he wouldn't drown.

Each subsequent swallow was more bitter than the last. I couldn't understand how people wanted more alcohol the more they drank. I took large gulps not because I wanted to finish first, but because I wanted to be done with the forty and not have to take another gulp.

Despite my efforts, I was the last person to finish. The others held onto their empty bottles with pride (except for Tony, who was too busy dancing).

Then it started. The vomiting.

It started innocently enough. Someone ran to the bathroom to discreetly, yet painfully, force his intestines out through his throat. Then the smell and sound prompted copycaters. Soon, everyone from my high school was praying to the Porcelain God (again, except for Tony, who was passed out in front of the Porcelain God).

Everyone, that is, except for me.

That's not to say my intestines weren't trying to force themselves up through my throat. They were. Trust me, they were. I fought with every muscle of restraint I had to keep the bile down.

In retrospect, I should have vomited; I would have felt much better afterwards. But I was just a dumb high school kid. What the hell did I know?

By the end of the night, everyone was passed out on the floor. I curled up near the window, where the ice-cold breeze helped me fight the urge to purge. Some people were still vomiting in the hallway. The smell of smoke, vomit, and alcohol filled the air. Which was another reason for my huddling near an fresh air.

"You done good boy." I looked up. Momma Timmy was standing over me. "You done good. You held yo' liquor." She nodded the nod of adult respect. Then she shuffled off.

I turned back down and closed my eyes. As I focused my stomach muscles on holding back the tides, Momma Timmy's words echoed in my mind.

"You done good boy. You done good. You held yo' liquor."

. . .

What was your first drink like?