What Did I Do Last Night?

Aaron opened his eyes, and instantly regretted it: as soon as the light of day hit his retinas, a lancing pain shot through his head, piercing his brain and making it scream.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, and reached upwards with his hand to massage his forehead. “Ugh, fuck,” he mumbled.

As the headache started to subside – a little bit, at least – Aaron dared to crack his left eye open a fraction of an inch, letting some light in; the throbbing pain in his temples didn’t get any stronger, which was good. Well, no, not good: no pain at all would’ve been good, the pain not increasing with exposure to light was not good, but not terrible either.

He shifted in bed, feeling the bedsheets, heavy and damp with the night’s sweat, slide roughly over his skin – wait, was he naked? Aaron never went to bed naked, he always wore pyjamas; being naked made him too aware of his body and prevented him from falling asleep.

Still with just one eye open and his right hand massaging his forehead, he reached up with his left and passed it over his chest. Yep, definitely naked.

Bracing himself, he opened his other eye; a brief spike of pain shot through his temples, but subsided almost immediately to a somewhat tolerable background ache. It was still extremely uncomfortable, but he wasn’t in agony any more; the pain had slid down the scale from a five or six to maybe a three.

Still, he groaned.

“Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh, fuck,” he drawled out with gusto.

That was, no doubt, the worst Aaron had ever felt in all the twenty years of his life.

No, hold on.

His right hand, which had been massaging his head trying to dispel the pain, was replaced by his left; without shifting positions – there was an interesting stain in the ceiling he’d fixed his eyes on to stop his gaze from wandering, because moving his eyes fucking hurt – he groped to his right. Okay, mattress, bedsheets, nightstand, knock the water bottle to the ground… there was his cellphone. He brought it close to his face, and peered at it with one eye.

Yep. Monday, June sixth: one day after his twenty-first birthday.

He groaned again.

That was, no doubt, the worst Aaron had ever felt in all the twenty-one years (and one day) of his life.

He must’ve gotten drunk, he realised. So drunk that every muscle in his body hurt. (Yes, the brain counts as a muscle.) So drunk that he couldn’t remember what he’d done the previous night.

‘Drug-related amnesia,’ a type of anterograde amnesia commonly brought about by exposure to psychotropic drugs, including alcohol, Aaron recalled. (He’d helped his sister revise for a med school exam a few years prior, and he had a good memory whenever drugs or booze weren’t involved.) More commonly known as a ‘blackout.’ The brain simply stops forming new memories: the person is fully conscious and in complete control of their actions (except for the loss of inhibition caused by the alcohol), but after the fact they cannot remember anything they did over a significant period of time.

Thinking back, he could remember what his classmates had said the previous afternoon, in class, when he’d mentioned it was his twenty-first birthday: “What! Dude! And you didn’t tell us? Tonight, we’re going to party!”

He’d tried to refuse, to tell them he didn’t want to ‘party,’ but he’d found himself caught in their enthusiasm, and he’d agreed to go for a few rounds before the evening’s show. And… he squeezed his eyes, and tried to recall… yes, they’d basically forced him to drink, despite his protests that he wanted to be lucid enough to sing and play the guitar on stage that night – his band was headlining the college’s end-of-year celebration, and it would be the first time they would play in front of such a large crowd; he was feeling really nervous about it.

“Well, if you’re nervous, some booze will help you loosen up!” they’d said, filling his glass over and over again.

Jerks.

…Wait, shit, how did the show go? He’d probably completely blown it. Destroyed his and his bandmates’ chances of making it big. Everyone was probably mad at him for showing up on stage drunk out of his skull.

Lifting his cellphone again, Aaron tapped the screen a few times, and checked his messages: as he’d feared, there were several waiting for him, most from his bandmates, but also from some friends and classmates.

He ignored his classmates’ for the moment – those jerks didn’t deserve his attention – and focused on the ones coming from his band.

With a sense of dread, he tapped the icon showing Jeanne the bassist’s face.

Ayyyyyyy, that was a great show!

I had really a lot of fun!

Oh, and by the way, if you need anything, holler my way any time!

I’m SO PROUD of you!!!

The message was followed by a long streak of heart emojis.

Aaron frowned. What the hell? That was absolutely not the reaction he’d been expecting. After all, the previous evening had been a disaster.

Right?

Still frowning, he tapped another message: this one was from Dave, the drummer.

Hey dude

Wait shit sorry

Hey.

Listen, I

I know I didn’t have the best reaction last night before the show

And I know you said you have forgiven me

(And you DID let me play at the show after all)

But I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am

I swear I will do better

And I support you 10000%

You the man

Wait fuck

Sorry

Sorry

You’re awesome

And I love you, my friend

Aaron’s frown deepened. Still absolutely not what he was expecting. After all, going up on stage to sing and play the guitar while drunk as fish in a barrel of wine was a recipe for disaster. And yet, apparently, the show had gone well enough? It sure looked like it. The only hiccup had been… something he’d said to Dave before they’d gone up on stage? Or something Dave had said to him? Apparently?

He tapped the icon showing Sylvie’s face: she was the other guitarist (besides himself), as well as providing backing vocals.

Hi.

Just wanted to say.

You rule!

Seriously what you did took guts.

You’re awesome.

I’m really glad you’re my friend.

And if you need me to smack some sense into Dave again, feel free to ask.

I’m always available.

Love ya.

Okay, so the fight between him and Dave had been broken up by Sylvie, apparently? Sylvie was great: she was a tiny, five-foot lesbian, but she had a temper like a firecracker, and when she got mad about something, you just had to pray she wouldn’t pick you as the target of her ires.

Aaron smirked. He didn’t envy Dave.

But still, the messages were clear: Aaron could see the general picture they painted, if not the finer details. Apparently he’d shown up for the show, drunk as a camel in an oasis, and said (or done) something which had caused Dave to be mad at him; Dave was quickly put in his place by Sylvie, and had apologised, and they’d played the show together.

And did a good job, it seemed.

Huh. Would you look at that.

Maybe getting drunk before a show wasn’t such a bad– no, don’t even finish that sentence in your mind, Aaron. Instead, feel the hangover. Bask in the headache. Revel in the awful feeling of the damp, sweaty bedsheets on your body. And promise to yourself you’re never going to do such a thing again.

And go pee before you wet your bed. Seriously.

Groaning loudly, Aaron pushed the bedsheets aside, swung his legs off the bed, and pulled himself to a seated position; he paused for a few minutes to allow for the renewed headache to subside again and for the blood that had flowed down from his head to his body to start circulating again – he always had low blood pressure, so he needed to be careful and not get up too quickly – and then stood up. He shivered as the tepid air hit his body, and looked around at the clothes scattered on the floor. They looked weird, he couldn’t remember owning clothes like those, but before he could investigate his bladder reminded him that it was quite full, so he rushed to the bathroom and sat down on the toilet.

It took a while for it all to come out. Jesus, how much had he drunk the previous night? It couldn’t have been just what his classmates (those jerks) had forced him to drink before the show, he must’ve drunk lots afterwards.

Aaron stood up from the toilet, flushed, and turned to walk back to the bedroom; as he did so, he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, hanging above the sink, which made him pause. He walked over, grabbed a towel, wet it, and wiped away the grime and dirt which partially obscured the glass – he rarely looked at his reflection, so rarely in fact that he’d never bothered cleaning the mirror in the two years he’d lived in his apartment: if he really needed to look at his face, he used his phone’s camera in selfie mode instead.

The mirror having been cleaned, Aaron leaned in, and peered closely at his reflection. His hair was… dyed? And it was actually presentable: instead of the sandy blonde bird’s nest which was usually his hair, he now sported a neat, deep blue haircut, which fell down to just below his ears. And it looked like his ears had been pierced, too, and very recently – he’d had a single fake-diamond stud in his right lobe for years, but now several surgical steel earrings decorated his ears, at least four on each side, both in the lobes and into the cartilage.

What the fuck had he done the previous night? Did the booze have so much of a loosening effect on his inhibitions that he’d dyed his hair and pierced his ears? Or had someone else put him up to it?

He didn’t dislike what he saw in the mirror, though. For the first time in his whole life, he thought his reflection actually looked cool: his features had always been delicate, so if he squinted he could almost see a punk rock chick staring back at him. He’d always admired that kind of girl. Maybe with some eyeliner…

Aaron blinked. He shook his head, dismissing the thought, and washed his face with some cold water to help his brain focus, for good measure.

He walked back to his bedroom, retrieved some clothes from his dresser – a tight-fitting pair of jeans and a wide, loose t-shirt – and got dressed; then he set about gathering the clothes which were scattered about the floor.

He picked up the first piece of clothing, and frowned: it was… a skirt? A black miniskirt, it seemed. Following that, he picked up some fishnet stockings, a red t-shirt, and a leather jacket, as well as a pair of panties and a bra.

His frown deepened. What were girls’ clothes doing on the floor of his bedroom? He’d brought a girl over, maybe? He thought back, but could not recall anything of the sort. And if he had brought a girl over, why had she left without picking up her clothes? She must have borrowed something of his, clearly.

The fact that the girl had left without leaving a note, though, wasn’t surprising: the very few times Aaron had had sex before it had been honestly disappointing, both for him – he hated the feeling of someone touching his naked body – and for his partners. Unsurprisingly, his relationships had never survived a night of intimacy: it must have been the same the previous night.

Aaron sighed. He would have to figure out who the girl was, at least, so he could bring her the clothes. He decided to ask Joanne that afternoon: they’d been planning to meet to discuss the previous evening’s concert, as well as make plans for promoting the band and for future gigs, so he might as well ask her if she had any clues as to the mysterious girl’s identity, too.

And speaking of which…

He retrieved his phone from his nightstand, and looked at the time: eleven thirty-five. A bit early for lunch, but he’d skipped breakfast after all – his stomach took the occasion to remind him of that, via a loud grumble – and he had stuff to do in the afternoon, so going to the school’s cafeteria and grabbing a bite to eat sounded like a good idea.

Aaron put on his shoes, grabbed his phone and wallet, and left his apartment; as he was locking the door, a cheerful voice behind him said, “Hi, Aaron!”

He turned around, and found himself face-to-face with his next-door neighbour, Adele: a girl about his own age, he knew she was a student at the same college as him, though he didn’t know what she was majoring in – they’d never really spoken to each other at length.

“Hi,” he replied. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I just wanted to tell you, last night’s show was awesome.”

“Oh, you were there too?”

Adele nodded. “I really enjoyed it, y’all are great. And I wanted to tell you I’m so proud of you. You were so brave last night.”

Aaron blinked. “…Thanks?” he replied, puzzled.

“And if you need to go clothes shopping or something, just know that I’m available. I’ll help you out any way I can.”

He looked at her for a moment, his puzzlement intensifying, but then nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

Adele nodded back, then looked at her watch. “Whoops, look at the time! Gotta go, or I’ll be late for my shift.” Then, in a move which surprised Aaron, she stepped forward and wrapped him in a brief hug. “See you around, Aaron,” she said, putting a weird stress on the last word, as if it was somehow significant. But it wasn’t, was it? It was just his name.

“See ya,” he replied, and he stared at her back as she walked off down the corridor.

What the hell had he done the previous night?

The question was still on his mind as he made his way across campus, to his favourite cafeteria, the one which on most days had a tasty beef goulash available – the original Hungarian kind, not the Americanised version: the cafeteria’s cook had apparently immigrated from Eastern Europe years before.

Many of the people he crossed paths with on the way, for whatever reason, took their time to smile at him, wave, or shout “Hey, Aaron! Congrats! You rule!” or something along those lines. Not most people, probably only about one in three, but it was still enough to make him nervous: from what he’d gathered, the show his band had put up the previous night had been great, but was that reason enough for everyone and their mother to congratulate him on sight? He sincerely doubted that – after all, while they were well-known on campus, it wasn’t like they were famous by any stretch of the imagination.

And yet, apparently something had happened the previous night, besides the show, which had made an impression on people: enough of an impression that they were willing to go out of their way to show him their support.

But support for what?

When he reached the cafeteria, he grabbed a tray and got in line to be served, still doing his best to ignore the smiles and waves – and sometimes the stares and whispers, seriously what the hell? – of the people around him; he asked the server for a plate of goulash, and made his way to the register to pay.

“One goulash and one water,” he said to the manager, a heavyset woman about forty-five to fifty years old, who was standing behind the register, looking bored.

The manager nodded, and hit a few keys. “Anything else?” she asked, looking up at him.

And then she froze.

Only for a moment, though: almost immediately, she let out a high-pitched, ear-splitting scream, and all but sprung out from behind the counter, rounding it at speed, and wrapping Aaron in a tight hug. “Aaron baby!” she shouted. “Oh my God, oh my Gooooooood! I’m so happy for you! Baby! Baaaaaaaaby!”

Aaron froze. He didn’t know to react to such a sudden and unexpected display of affection, especially coming from someone he considered a friend, but not a close one: the manager, Frances, was known around campus as a kind woman, always ready to overlook students not having enough cash on hand to pay for their meal, and Aaron had talked with her often, but they’d never hung out, or anything like that.

So why was Frances reacting this way?

“Uh. Um,” he stammered. “Er…”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” Frances said, letting go of him. “I really didn’t mean to… Never mind. It’s just that I’m so happy for you,” she continued, and crushed him into a bone-splitting hug again.

“Ghrk,” Aaron said, trying to catch his breath.

“Sorry!” Frances exclaimed, stepping back once more. “Right. Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Baby!” she shouted, and stepped forward once again; Aaron held up both arms to stave off her advance.

“Frances, please,” he said, glancing around: everyone in the room was staring at the two of them.

“Right, right, okay, sorry. But still,” Frances said, and she stepped forward and grasped Aaron’s hand. “I’ve heard about what happened last night, and I just wanted to tell you that I’m so fucking proud of you for taking such a big step…”

“Such a big step?” Aaron repeated, but Frances paid him no mind and forged on.

“…and remember, if anyone, anyone, tries to give you shit for it, you just tell me. I’ll put some cyanide in their almond cake.”

“…Okay?” Aaron said.

Frances laughed. “That was a joke, of course. I would never resort to murder, there are so many other ways to… Anyway,” she shook her head. “One goulash and one water. On the house.” She winked at Aaron. “Have a spectacular day, Aaron baby.”

“Thank you,” Aaron replied, dumbfounded; he grabbed his tray and, once again ignoring the stares everyone in the room was giving him, made his way to a free table.

Eating lunch took more time than usual: every now and then, someone would come over, congratulate him about the previous evening with a wide smile, and leave again. And Aaron’s curiosity only kept increasing.

What the fuck had he done the previous night?

His lunch done, he placed the tray in one of the racks scattered around the cafeteria, and then checked his phone. One twenty PM. Good, he would have time to make his way to Jeanne’s dorm room, just off campus.

The walk from the cafeteria to Jeanne’s dorm, like the walk from his apartment to the cafeteria, was weird. It was lunchtime, so there were fewer people about, but he was still congratulated a lot by a few people he knew, and by plenty of complete strangers: it seemed everyone on campus knew who he was.

After about twenty minutes he knocked on the door to Jeanne’s room; she opened it with a smile, and beckoned him inside.

“Hi, you,” she said, giving him a hug – which, for once, wasn’t weird: Jeanne had always been very touchy-feely with her friends. “So nice to see you.”

“Hi, Jeanne,” Aaron replied. “I’ve had the weirdest day.”

Jeanne’s eyebrows rose questioningly. “Oh? You’ll have to tell me all about it when we take a break. For the time being, we should post the concert’s video to YouTube ASAP,” she said. “This way we’ll ride the viral wave, and get a wider audience, even outside the college.”

Aaron smiled; Jeanne had an extremely sharp mind when it came to promoting the band, she never missed a chance to spread the word. She’d been the one who’d managed to land them most of their gigs, too, including the previous night’s. But still…

“Did it really go viral?” Aaron asked. “It was just a concert, after all.”

Jeanne looked at him in disbelief. “Just a concert? Erin, haven’t you checked the band’s socials? Your coming out is making waves, girl.”

Aaron blinked. Once, then twice. Then another time, as Jeanne’s words slowly made their way from his ears to his brain, piercing through the dark fog of the hangover, bouncing around into his skull, and painting themselves in neon-bright letters on the back of his cerebrum.

“…What?” he said. “What did you call me? Erin? Girl? What? And what was that about a coming out? Who came out?”

Jeanne’s eyes met his, and she seemed really puzzled for a moment; but then her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, God,” she said. “Don’t tell me. You don’t remember?”

Aaron gulped, and nodded.

Jeanne sighed deeply. “Oh, heavens. This is superb. She actually doesn’t remember. This dumb bitch.” She smiled, reached over, and flicked Aaron’s forehead with a finger. “I should’ve figured, considering all the booze you drank, both before and after the show. But I’d really expected you to remember something so important. After all, it’s not every day you come out publicly to the whole college.”

“…I did what now?” Aaron asked, a cold sensation running down his spine.

“You…” Jeanne began, then she paused. “You know what? It’s probably best if I show you. I’ve just finished editing the concert’s video, too, so it’s actually good timing.”

She sat down at the table, opened her laptop, and typed in the password; then she beckoned for Aaron to sit beside her. With a tap of her finger on the computer’s touchpad, the video started rolling.

Aaron watched in disbelief as the band made its way onto the stage: first Dave, who sat down behind the drum set, then Sylvie, and then finally, Jeanne. Then, in his place, a girl he didn’t recognise at first, but who seemed really familiar: she was wearing a black miniskirt with ripped fishnet stockings and leather boots, a red shirt, a leather jacket, and a beanie over her deep blue hair. Her face was heavily made up, with eyeliner heavy and sharp enough to slay a dragon, and lots of piercing decorated her ears.

It took Aaron until the girl grabbed the microphone with her fingerless gloves to realise she was him.

“Aah,” the girl said. “Mike check one two, sound check one two.” She paused, looking over the crowd at the sound booth, and then, after what was presumably a thumbs-up from the technician, went on. “Greetings, mortals! Welcome one, welcome yo, welcome bitches and bros and non-binary hos! We’ll start this concert in just a second, don’t get your panties in a bunch. But first, I have an announcement to make.”

She unhooked the microphone from the stand, and walked to the front of the stage. “Y’all bastards are here tonight to listen to Aaron and the Junk Drawer. Well, too bad for you! Aaron has very recently ceased to exist! There is no Aaron, there is only Zuul! I mean, Aaron! We are Aaron and the Junk Drawer, welcome to the show!”

The Aaron looking at the screen did a double-take. Wait, what? What the girl on the screen had said – what he, the previous night, had said – made absolutely no sense. He watched nervously as the Aaron on the screen pointed a finger at the crowd… which remained silent.

You could almost hear crickets chirp.

“…What? Not even a reaction? What the fuck, people!” the girl on the screen shouted at the top of her lungs, making the room reverberate with the sound system’s feedback.

“I mean, the name hasn’t changed at all…?” someone near the front said.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The name is the same!” someone else called.

“No it’s not!” Aaron protested. “It was Aaron, now it’s Aaron!”

“It’s the same!” shouted a third voice.

“Alright, alright, I see what the problem is here,” Jeanne said, grabbing the mic normally used for backup vocals and stepping forward. “I was afraid this would happen. But luckily, ya have me to help you out.”

Aaron turned to Jeanne. “Yes! Thank you. Please enlighten them!” she said.

“Ya see, besides being the best bassist around, as well as the most attractive member of the band–”

“Whoa, let’s not get carried away here.”

Jeanne slapped Aaron lightly upside the head, causing a bout of laughter to ripple through the crowd.

“–I’m also a post-grad student in linguistics. Anyone else studying linguistics here? Show of hands!”

Jeanne used her hand to shield her eyes from the stage’s lights, and looked into the crowd. “Okay, quite a few. Well, as those who’ve studied or are studying linguistics will know, there’s a thing called the marry-merry merger. In most American English dialects– excuse me, am I boring you?!” she exclaimed, and pointed. “Yeah, you, over there, I can see you yawning!”

“Cut me some slack, it’s been a long day!” the girl Jeanne had pointed at shouted back.

“Well then, next time don’t do so much weed before coming to a concert late at night!” Jeanne said. “Anyway. In most American English dialects the words ‘marry’ and ‘merry,’ M‑A‑R‑R‑Y and M‑E‑R‑R‑Y,” she spelled the two words out carefully, so everyone could know the difference, “are merged. They’re homophones. They sound the same. As do all words with similar sounds. So here in Seattle, A‑A‑R‑O‑N and E‑R‑I‑N are pronounced the same, while where I’m from–”

“And where is that?” someone called.

“I’m from Boston! And over there, they’re pronounced differently: ‘Aaron’ and ‘Erin.’” Jeanne spoke the two words out carefully, to make the difference clear.

Aaron blinked at the screen, realisation dawning on him. So every time everyone had said his name that day, what they were really saying was…

On the screen, Jeanne was still speaking: “So what Erin was trying to say is that she’s no longer called Aaron. She changed her name! She’s a girl!!”

“That’s right, y’all!” Erin screamed into the microphone. “I’m a fucking giiiiiiiiiiiiirl!! Anyone have a problem with that?!”

“Fuck you, you fucking tranny!” someone shouted; the crowd gasped.

At the guy’s words Sylvie sprung forward, and she was about to jump off the stage when Jeanne caught her under the armpits and lifted her bodily off the floor.

Erin didn’t miss a beat: she pointed, and shouted back, “No, fuck you, random asshole! Security, don’t manhandle him if you can help it, but please remove that homophonic cum stain from the room before I tell Jeanne to release the hound.”

“Wh–Ho–Fuck–Let go of me!” Sylvie shouted, sputtering with rage. “I wanna bash his head in! Lemme bash his head in!”

“Calm down, sweetie,” Jeanne said; she leaned over, and planted a kiss on top of Sylvie’s head.

“Appreciate it anyway, Syl,” Erin said. “In any case, as soon as that fucker is gone, we can start this thing. I know you’re all here to listen to our original songs–”

“No we’re not! You’re better at covers!” someone shouted.

“Well, fuck you too, then! But you’re in luck, because tonight we’re starting off with a song that is very dear to me, and has been a big part of my personal journey. So don’t sit back, don’t relax, make some fucking noise, because here comes The Ocean!!”

As Erin and the Junk Drawer started playing the intro to the song, Erin looked up from the screen at Jeanne, staring at her in disbelief for several seconds.

“…Fucking hell,” she said, finally. “I can’t fucking believe I fucking did that. Fuck.”

“Yep!” Jeanne said, reaching forward and ruffling her hair. “That was super cool. Honestly I actually couldn’t believe it myself when you called me like, an hour before the show, asking to borrow some of my clothes. ‘I would go shopping myself but I’m currently stuck in a hairdresser’s chair with blue dye in my hair, and it will take some time before I can wash it off,’ you said. That’s when I knew you were serious about it.”

Erin sighed deeply, and deflated into her chair. “I can’t go back, can I? I can’t take back what I said last night.”

Jeanne tilted her head to the side, and looked at Erin curiously. “Do you want to?”

Erin thought about it. She thought about it long and hard, a variety of expressions passing over her face. She was silent for several minutes.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“No,” Erin said. “No, I don’t think I will. I mean, I’d never really given my gender real consideration. I never really thought about it. But looking back… I think I was a bit unhappy?”

Jeanne nodded. “Yeah, I could see that. I mean, I’ve only known you for what, two years? Since I moved over here. And I’d never seen you smile – really smile, with a smile that reaches your eyes – before last night.” She pointed at the laptop’s screen, where Erin and the Junk Drawer were playing and singing their hearts out: they all had wide grins on their faces. “Personally, I think you look much better that way. Much happier.”

“Yeah, I think so too,” Erin said. “I just wish I could remember it.”

“Well, you have lots of time to make new memories,” Jeanne said with a smile, reaching out and squeezing Erin’s shoulder.

Erin nodded, placing her hand on Jeanne’s and smiling back. “I just hope they’re happy memories.”

“They will be,” Jeanne replied. Then, after a pause, she continued, “So what do you say we call the others and go out to celebrate your newfound identity? Drinks are on me.”

“No thanks,” Erin replied; then, when Jeanne frowned, she continued, “I’m coming, don’t get me wrong, but I’m going to stick with virgin drinks for a while, until I learn where my limit is.” She pointed at the screen. “I don’t want to get that drunk ever again.”

Jeanne laughed. “That’s probably for the best.”

The End.