Another Door Opens

27 - Alcoholics Anonymous

I'm not stupid. I've heard enough horror stories to know I shouldn't leave my drink unattended, even if I am busting to pee. I'd take the social shame of someone thinking I'm gross for bringing my drink with me to the bathroom while I empty my bladder, over someone taking advantage of my absence to drop something into it for me to consume and very likely be taken advantage of later on. It's not like I'm aiming directly for my cup.

I hate that I have to think about this. That most women do at some point. 

By the time I returned from the bathroom, which was maybe five minutes tops considering there wasn't much of a line to wait, he had already finished his second pint which was sitting empty at the table.

By my calculations, that's now at least five standard drinks within maybe thirty minutes, not accompanied by any food, and if his uneven blinks were anything to go by, he's starting to feel it.

Me? I'm still nursing my first glass of wine, and likely won't have another.

It's the very rare occasion where I'll have anything more than a couple drinks, and that's exclusively in the company of friends. With strangers, I'd prefer to retain access to my full functioning just in case.

"Can I get you another drink?" he slurred while moving his own glass to his lips to spill a little down his chin. This was just getting ridiculous.

I held my own glass up a fraction so his unfocussed eyes didn't have to work too hard to see I still had maybe half a glass left. "I'm good, thanks. Still nursing this one."

"Ah, right," he said, taking another sip. "I hadn't noticed. You're a slow drinker." 

Instead of arguing back that, no, I drink at a regular, normal pace, and his is the unnaturally quick intake, I just shrugged in agreement. It seemed the wiser thing to do with an intoxicated man.

"So what do you usually do when you're not working?"

Bottom of the barrel small talk, I know. But he hadn't given me anything to go off until now, and this is the level of interest I have in this conversation and our prospects for the evening. 

"Oh, I usually just head here at least once on the weekends with mates. I'm surprised none of them are here actually," he said, looking around in search of these friends he's speaking of while I'm praying none of them are around to see how bored I am.

I don’t even know how someone can afford to drink this much on a regular basis. I mean, I’m earning more here working at Moonlight than I was back in Melbourne, largely due to Luna and Nella’s carefully and painstakingly cultivated reputation and the simple fact that they have a beachfront business in a notoriously swanky part of town. They also don’t take a commission from what I earn, nor do they anyone else. Just the weekly chair hire rate, which is nowhere near what it could be. They really just take from us all what they need to cover the repayments on the place and to cover bills.

“You seem to be a regular here,” I offered as another conversation starter seeing as trying to talk about anything but beer hadn’t worked, and I’d noticed that multiple bartenders here have greeted him by name, which isn't unsurprising when you head to the same place to drink every week.

“Yeah, well it’s just around the corner. Saves a bunch of money being able to walk home and not have to pay for Ubers back by going somewhere further,” Beckett said, as if he was proud of his rationale behind getting plastered as his local pub. “Do you like it? It’s pretty cool, huh?”

I mean, it was just your run of the mill small, corner pub. There wasn’t anything fancy about it at all. Its wine selection was average at best, and the seats are wildly uncomfortable on the rear end.