Two burly men are approaching my right side. I’m coherent enough to know that I don’t want any trouble, so I release the asshole, throwing my hands up. “Sorry, just a misunderstanding.”
The restaurant has gone silent, except for the diners holding up their phones and snapping away. Great. I’m going to be breaking news again on the morning talk shows.
I can tell the large men really don’t want to be the bouncers that throw the city’s Super Bowl-winning MVP quarterback out of their bar. Instead of messing with me, they whisper something to the old guy, and he follows them out.
The pretty bartender hands me a fresh drink as I sit back down on the bar stool. “I get off in thirty minutes if you need a ride home,” she says with a sexy little wink.
Do I need a ride home? Yes, because I have no money, ID, or phone. I can’t call anyone to pick me up. Do I need a RIDE home? No, as pissed as I am at my wife, I don’t want to fuck some random chick.
I down my third drink and can no longer feel my toes. “I could use a lift, but I’m not going to fuck you,” is what I’m sure that I said. What came out sounded like, “I cud us a fit, but I emmm not gonnnna fuck ya.”
She hands me one more and a glass of water. “Let me tell my boss where I’m going.”
She flounces back with one of the big guys who helps me to the bartender’s car. Just my luck: it’s a VW Beetle. The big guy puts me in the front seat where my knees meet my chin, and climbs in the back. God only knows how he fit. The bartender starts the car, and pulls into traffic.
Next thing I know, Big Guy is hitting me on my arm, and asking me to talk to the security guard. Something incoherent spills out of my mouth, but it’s good enough to gain us entrance to my neighborhood. It does occur to my alcohol-infused brain I never told the bartender my address.
I point to my house as I feel my eyes growing heavy again with sleep. Big Guy helps me stumble to the back gate, while Bartender opens it and my unlocked backdoor. Big Guy puts me on the couch with a thud. “You okay, man?” His voice is gruff.
I must give a satisfactory enough answer, because they leave me there. Pancho jumps on the couch, licking my face, but I swat him away. Standing up, I play pinball between the walls and furniture as I make my way into the bedroom. The last thing that I remember is shutting the door on Pancho.
****
I know that I’m sick, and I know why. I crawl back into bed and pass out.
****
My next coherent thought is “Why is Jenny standing over me?” Then I remember my daughter calling Brad Daddy. My run comes back to me. The bar. The altercation. My stomach turns as I’m reminded of the Jack Daniels.
When I open my eyes, Jenny says, “Caroline called. She’s beside her self.” Jenny’s hair is still a normal shade of charcoal black. What an appropriate color. My head throbs too badly to ponder if she dyed it in my honor.
Fuck Charlie. Let her be worried. How’d she feel if Ainsley called Jenny Momma? I roll over, trying to get away from the wicked witch of the west with her Goth-black hair.
“Shall I tell her that you reek of booze and vomit?” She’s using her “catch more flies with honey” voice.
I pull the covers over my head, and beg the jackhammer between my ears to shut itself off.
“Can I confirm for her that the news stories are true; that you got into a bar fight and were taken home by a blonde waitress?” Jenny says, pulling the covers off of me, tapping her foot with her hands planted on her hips.
I reach down and am relieved to discover that I still have my running shorts on. The thought of Jenny seeing me naked makes me shiver.
“Answer me, Colin. You have to be at practice in an hour. I suggest you do something with yourself, because you look and smell like a New Orleans Bourbon Street homeless person.”
I mumble, “Go the fuck away,” as I pull a pillow over my head, trying to find the jackhammer’s off button.
She shuts the bedroom door behind her. I gingerly roll to my back so as to not upset my stomach, but I know that before I go to practice, it’s going to have to be agitated. Fuck. All boozing it up did was add a sick stomach and pounding head to my shattered heart.
I yell to Jenny that I’m getting up so she won’t come back in here. My voice sounds like I’ve eaten glass. I test out my sea legs. Fortunately, I don’t think that I’m still drunk. I start my shower water, and then make my way to the toilet. Fuck, I’m regretting my decision to get wasted.
It doesn’t take much for me to get sick. When I’m sure that I’m done, I open a bottle of water and drink it, waiting patiently for it to come back up. I’m not disappointed.