No You Didn't

Twelve: The Rusty Handle

I didn't know what time it was.

I didn't know how many drinks I'd had.

I barely even remembered where I was.

Not that I cared.

Tipper what nowhere to be found, so I sat in The Rusty Handle alone which was always a dangerous situation.

Some would say that Tipper was a bad influence, but really, he was my accountability. I always told myself that as long as I was drinking less than Tipper, I was doing pretty alright.

Without him, the sky was the limit.

I hadn't had a night like this since the first anniversary of the childrens' deaths. A night where I drank until I couldn't see. Couldn't think.

My heavy head rested in the crook of my arm as I half sat, half laid at the bar. I stared at the bottles lining the back walls, the glass shiny in the backlight of the bar.

Music played at one point, "Happy Birthday" was sung at another, but these were just sounds that felt like they were being played in my subconscious.

The night wore on and on and I kept staring at those bottles. Some were half empty, some full. Maybe there was a metaphor there somewhere, which was something I pontificated upon for a long time and came up with exactly nothing.

But if I kept staring, kept letting my thoughts spin in a drunken dance, they wouldn't settle on what I was trying not to think about.

"That's it for you, Viv. Can't serve you anymore, sorry."

The voice came from somewhere else. Another planet entirely.

"Viv."

Laboriously, I picked my head up, having to rest it on my fist because it was far too weighty to hold up on my own.

"Sorry?" I asked.

The bartender, a man named either David or Phil, tossed his rag over his shoulder.

"I can't serve you any more alcohol. It's for your own good. Go on home and sleep it off."

My watery eyes gazed at him, uncomprehending. I'd never been cut off before. Had I?

"No more alcohol?" I pressed.

"No. More. Go. Home."

I held my hands out in front of me. "Alright. Alright."

I stumbled off of the bar stool, steeling my muscles for the long walk to the door.

I thought I'd done a fairly good job of it. Might have run into a chair or two on the way out, but didn't everyone?

The crisp night air did little to clear my head and I had to lean against the bar's windowsill to catch my breath as a wave of nausea overcame me.

I inhaled through my nose, exhaled through my mouth. I just had to wake up and I'd be fine.

I closed my eyes, continuing to breathe until I didn't feel so sick.

How was I going to get home? I was in no position to walk, much less drive.

Upon my next inhale, I opened my eyes as someone else exited the bar.

My vision was blurry, but immediately sharpened when I recognized who it was fumbling for his keys.

He was a round man, spherelike. Bald. With a hooked nose that curved like a vulture's. His eyes were pale blue–not a pretty blue that made women swoon, more like the color of dishwater. Though he didn't wear glasses regularly, he donned a pair of thick black spectacles when reading the fine print of a document.