Hell of a Night

Because I'm weak for this pairing...Here's a piece subtitled "A Nun and a Security Guard Walk into a Bar." Playlist as usual, although I've taken a huge anachronistic license here (Hell of a Night on Spotify): Impossible Year - Panic! At the Disco; Havana - Camila Cabello; Shape of You - Ed Sheeran; We Are Young - fun.; Hey, Soul Sister - Train; Secrets - One Republic; Say - John Mayer; Stolen Dance - Milky Chance; Mirrors - Justin Timberlake; Dangerous Woman - Ariana Grande; Hold On - X Ambassadors; Stay - Sam Smith

Frank McCann wasn't exactly a 'going out' type of guy. He fancied himself more the 'stay at home watching the news and eating canned soup' type of guy. And that's why he was so frustrated on this Saturday night; he wasn't at home, there was no canned soup, and Carl was drunk.

Not exactly stumbling down the stairs, puking in the gutter, laying in the street, crying over a woman named Beth kind of drunk. But definitely the kind of drunk where you shout a person's name at least three times but then have absolutely nothing useful to say to that person.

Which was happening right then at a noisy club on Seventh Avenue.

"Frank. Frank. Frank!"

"What, Carl! Jesus." Frank steadied Carl on his stool.

"I'm tellin' ya, buddy. Hey. You my buddy, Frank?" He poked Frank's shoulder - not gently, but drunkly. "Yeeeaahh. You're my buddy. My. Buddy. Frank. Frickin' Frank McCann!" He yelled to several passing patrons. "This motherfucker right here is my buddy! No homo!"

"Carl." Frank grinned, hiding laughter. "You might need ta slow down tanight...buddy."

"Aw, Frank." Carl genuinely teared up in his beer. "You called me buddy! Woah. Check out that chick in the green dress!" He pointed. Like a bird, drunken Carl was easily distracted, and flitted toward the dance floor. "I'm gonna - I'm gonna dance with that that chick in the green dress, Frank."

"You do that, Carl." Frank looked to the dance floor, as well. He saw the chick in green - an attractive, well-coiffed black woman with an equally attractive well-coiffed black man on her arm. This spelled trouble.

But honestly. Frank was tired of babysitting. Tired of Carl's drunken shenanigans. He hadn't wanted to do any of this in the first damn place. And this cacophonous conglomeration of mad folk whirling about in what was probably reefer smoke in this claustrophobic juke joint from below Hell was not how he'd planned to spend his night off.

Might as well be Briarcliff, he thought wryly. He drained the last of his pint. Third beer of the night. At least he had a nice buzz. It had seemed like a nice enough idea: himself, two other guards, Carl and another orderly - bowling. But bowling meant beer. And four pitchers and three strikes later, they were bar-hopping. He couldn't remember how many bars now. Four? Five? It seemed they'd lost a member of their party with each stop and now it was just the two of them. Awkward co-workers made slightly less awkward by alcohol. But it seemed Frank could handle his libations a little better than Carl could.

Or maybe he just knew how to pace himself, he mused.

There was a shout from the dance floor. The beginnings of what might be a spectacular brawl. But he wasn't in the mood, and he certainly wasn't taking any more responsibility for Carl tonight. So discreetly, he left a dollar on the bar and descended. It was shaping up to be a Hell of a night...

Outside, there was a spring breeze in the Boston streets. Cars rolled by, horns honking. People walked and ran about, laughing, talking amongst themselves. It was a clear night. Warming up. The cold winter's thaw was upon them officially, and everybody felt it.