The Repentant Madeleine

Drinking juice is a big waste of fruit--empty calories. I don't do it often. But this morning, after a night home with my husband drinking wine and watching Viggo Mortenson get tattooed on demand, I packed a tall glass with ice, OJ, grapefruit juice, and water and got my ass a pure Proustian moment:

At 15 years old, my weekend schedule went like this: Friday after school, shower and over to the country club to haul steak and bourbon around until about 11. Drink and smoke with a pack of other waitresses, bartenders, sous chefs, and a few wayward slumming husbands, either at the closed-down grill room bar or at the odd little tavern across the street, floors and walls about 80 years old, cold in winter, fresh in spring, a jukebox with the Commodores and Elvis Costello side by side. Sometimes sleep over at my boyfriend's condo--a golf pro with a bad shoulder. Up Saturday morning for the tall glass of ice, OJ, grapefruit juice, water, to still the headpounding and get me through the long subway ride to the Corcoran, for all day art class. Snooze through the long ride back, and head back to the country club to do it again.