Blackout Billy

He woke up in familiar surroundings. Next to a familiar girl. Even the teddy bear beside him was all too familiar. But without a single idea of how he got there. He hadn’t intended to get blackout drunk. He never did intend to get blackout drunk. It just happened.

He searched his memories for evidence of how he’d come to be here. But, like sifting through a hoarder’s house for something of value, it was futile and defeating. Something about a car. Then a field. Maybe. His mouth tasted like decay—sour, metallic, stale at the edges. Sweat clung to his skin, cold in some places, hot in others, leaving a faint crust where it had dried. His stomach churned with what was likely the dregs left over after vomiting.

Sarah, next to him, stirred. She was completely nude, so he felt compelled to ask, “So, uh, what did we do last night?”

She stared directly into his eyes until he began to feel nauseous. He turned his gaze to the ceiling.

With a heavy sigh that jolted the mattress, she said, “Don’t worry. You couldn’t get it up. You couldn’t cum… nothing. Nothing happened. But you did say you still loved me.”

He winced at that last sentence. Fucking stupid. Why couldn’t he be like other guys? Drink like other guys? Why did he have to make mistakes like this? It would have been better to wake up next to a stranger in a house five counties over than to wake up here. He could live with making a mistake—blacking out, sleeping with some girl. But a stupid mistake like this? He was sick of doing this. Just a stupid mistake.

She interrupted his thoughts. “I know. I know.” Then, in a mockingly deep voice, she exaggerated, “This was just a stooooopid mistake.”

He kept staring at the ceiling. Was that a crack? No. Just a shadow from a tree branch outside. Good. He could not afford to repair a crack.

“Don’t worry, hun. I know I’m five years of a stupid mistake for you. If anything, it’s my mistake. I saw you walking down the street crying, so I offered you a ride. You were so dirty. I brought you to the house. I washed your clothes—they’re there.” She pointed to a pile on a chair. “I’ll take you to your apartment when you want. Just thought since you pay for the house it wouldn’t hurt you to sleep here once in a while.”

Her voice softened then, almost imperceptibly.  “It’s nice… when you’re here. Just for a night. Like old times." She didn’t look at him when she said it, busying herself with smoothing the bedsheet over her knee.

"Well don't get used to it." He said as he picked up the boxers to put on, but even freshly laundered they faintly smelled of urine. Or maybe that was him. God, he could smell himself—stale sweat, sour skin, a note of something chemical and wrong.

“I need to use the bathroom.” He started toward the bedroom door but paused when he stepped over a plastic toy truck on the floor. She sensed his hesitation.

“Don’t worry. Your son is with your mother right now. He won’t see you.”

He heard the words come out of his mouth: “Sarah, I’m done. I’m going to quit.” They were heavy, automatic. He said them the same way every time, but this morning his voice caught on the last word—just enough to sound like maybe, for half a second, he wanted to believe himself.

“Oh, of course, hun. You’ve been quitting since I met you. It’s bound to actually happen at some point. But it wasn’t last night.”

Glancing at the calendar on the wall, he panicked. “Sarah, what’s today?”

“It’s August 1st. Monday. Mortgage for the house, rent for your apartment due too.”

“Yeah, Sarah, and I have fucking work! Goddamnit!” He looked down at his watch—8 a.m. “Can you drive me to work?”

“Yeah, of course. Let me get dressed.”

“Can we stop by a gas station on the way? So I can get a coffee, pack o’ smokes, maybe a sandwich.”

“Sure, hun.”

Yes. At the gas station he could get a tallboy of beer. He pictured it cold and sweating in his palm, the thin crack of the tab breaking the seal, the hiss that meant relief was coming. Sneak it past Sarah in his coat pocket. Chug it in three quick tilts before walking into work. The bitter sting down his throat, the heat blooming in his chest. Something to help him get through the day. Just for today, though. Maybe another at lunch if he needed it. He wasn’t going to get blackout drunk again tonight. He was really going to quit tomorrow.

He just needed a little something for today.

Tomorrow would be different.

He just had to get through today.

Not blackout. Quit tomorrow.

It would all be ok.