One drunk night

This is the one night some years ago that put me off bourbon for life. One of the nights that is marked as a landmark in my life, for some bizarre reason. Abject depression, drunkeness and double-edged kindness render this night indelible in my memory.

The phone rings. I pick up the receiver. "Hello?"

It's Boon. "Hey Daph, meet on the roof? Have a fresh bottle of bourbon."

"Sure."

I pick up my guitar, grab a mug and am about to head out of the hostel room when I spot a small envelope on my desk. I'd just received it today and forgot about it until now. Tucking the guitar under my arm and balancing the mug from my pinkie, I quickly open the envelope.

Inside is a single, small, square piece of paper. Only two lines are scribbled on it. "Please return to me the baby photo and the picture of me in Ubin that I'd given you. WJ."

I stand there for a moment, frozen, staring blankly at the paper. Then, dropping the note and the envelope on the floor, I continue on my way to the roof. I spot the Big Dipper hovering in the northern night sky as I enter the roof from the corridor.

Boon and Brian are already waiting for me there with their hammocks, a bottle of bourbon and a few cans of Coke. Just like every other night when we'd enjoyed each others' company. Music and chatting and some soul baring.

Not tonight.

Passing the guitar to Boon, I make for the bourbon and start mixing myself a stiff drink. Wincing at the taste at first, I gulp most of it down in a flash and start pouring another. Brian starts mixing his own and Boon's.

I finish my second drink and start pouring a third. Brian looks at me.

I finish my third and start pouring a fourth.

"Slow down, Daph," Brian chuckles.

"Don't want to." By now, swallowing the drink is getting more difficult and I slow down.

Boon looks up this time, pausing in the middle of tuning the guitar. From the corner of my eye I see his face turned towards me. I think he frowns, but I'm not sure, as my peripheral vision is starting to blur. When my eyes start to feel hot and wet, I realise why. A familiar, twisting tightness begins in my chest. I raise the mug to my lips again but find it hard to drink when my nose starts to run. The tears roll onto my lips and I taste salt instead. After a while, all I can do is stand there, clutching at the mug and sobbing shamelessly.

Suddenly, I hold my breath and down the rest of my drink in a single gulp. I splutter and choke. A staggering cough mixes with my sobs. I try to take a step backwards and teeter instead. Brian catches my arm and steadies me. Putting his arm around me for support, he leads me to the side and we sit on the floor propped up against the wall. I bury my head between my knees and cry my heart out.

For a long time, that is all I do. Sob my pitiful heart out.

Brian gets up and walks away. He returns with a fresh drink and hands it to me. "What happened?" he asks gently. Boon is sitting aside, watching quietly.

I raise my head and look at Brian with my weepy eyes. I take a sip of the drink. After a moment's hesitation, I down the entire drink. "He...he...WJ sent me a note. He wants his pictures back."

He looks puzzled for a moment.

"Those were the first things WJ gave to me to treasure." I bury my face in my hands and start to weep again pathetically. For a while, Brian does nothing. I suspect he still doesn't understand. I don't fully understand it either. All I know was that I am hurting, a knife twisting deep within.

I feel the gentle weight of his arm on my back as he puts his hand on my head. We sit like that for some time.

I don't know how much time passes before he slowly gets up and walks away. I hardly hear him leave, still overwhelmed by the pain.

After a long time, I look up. Brian is not there, and his hammock is gone. Boon, who has been softly plucking at the guitar strings, stops and looks at me, concerned. I realise my head is swimming.

"Brian's gone off?"

Boon nods.

Using the wall for balance, I try to get up, and realise I can hardly balance myself. The world does a few whirls, and I can't see what's in front of me. Holding my hand out, I use my best effort to focus on the corridor light through the haze of tears and intoxication and haltingly walk towards it. After a few steps, I realise I am feeling quite violently sick.

Staggering as quickly as I can towards the stairs, I half climb, half walk down the stairs, clutching desperately at the handrails. At the bottom, I spot the harsh fluorescent lights of the toilet and stumble towards it. Finding the first toilet cubicle, I hurl a disgusting cocktail of bourbon, Coke, and semi-digested supper. The foul reek saturates my senses and I hurl twice more before straightening up and wiping my mouth. I lean against the cubicle wall, panting in exhaustion and nausea.

Eventually, I stumble blindly out of the toilet. I sit on the bottom step of the stairs with a thump and bend over, holding my forehead in my hands and moaning.

It is a few moments before I become aware that Boon is standing in front of me.

He holds out his hand to me. I take it and he helps me to my feet. With him half pulling me, I make my way back up the stairs with some difficulty. He leads me back onto the roof, towards his hammock. I allow him to help me into the hammock, my head pounding and my stomach squirming. I finally lie down, the hammock swinging lightly, but enough to dizzy me and make my head whirl uncomfortably. Boon takes his jacket and places it over me.

I spend the next few hours in a fitful attempt to sleep. Queasy, drunk and heartbroken, I fidget continuously in the hammock, wild half-dreams flitting uneasily in and out. Faces come and go, sometimes WJ's large, hard eyes and stubborn, fixed jaw, sometimes Boon's sad, haunting gaze, and they make me cry. I whisper in my semi-conscious haze but forget the words after whispering them. Amidst the dreams, faces, whispers and tears, I fall asleep.

I open my eyes, and immediately shut them tight when a rude shock of sunlight stabs them. I suddenly become conscious of the heat beating down on my face and I start to get up, pushing aside the jacket. Dazed, I look about, and I see Boon nodding off on a chair facing the hammock. The bottle of bourbon still sits on the ledge with my empty mug next to it. The Coke cans are gone.

I try to get out of the hammock, and then the headache hits me like a sledgehammer. Putting my feet on the floor and sitting up, I press the base of my palm against my left temple until the throbbing eases slightly. I then stand up, put on my slippers and walk towards the ledge. Boon opens his eyes then and, with bleary eyes, watches me pick up my mug and shuffle to the corridor and start down the stairs.

I walk three stories down and walk down the long corridor towards my room. I can hear Boon behind me but my head hurts too badly for me to want to turn around. I open my room door, remove my slippers, plonk the mug down on the floor and collapse on my bed. I hear Boon put down the guitar by the door. I feel him pull my blanket over my shoulders. He then walks out and closes the door.