CHAPTER 10: You're sitting at a nice, cozy, small restaurant at around nine o'clock Monday night after work eating a cheap yet delicious meal consisting of Chinese noodles, when your phone starts to ring. It's been yet another long day, and you've already decided to go straight home after dinner and just relax - a part of that meaning no cell phone. You choose to ignore it for now, and quickly reach down in the back pocket of your pants and turn off the sound to not disturb the other guests, and then you finish your meal in piece and quiet, pay the bill with tips, and start to walk home. You take a seat on the couch and turn on the tv as soon as you get in the door, and you sit there for ten minutes, before getting up and walking to the fridge in your kitchen, pulling out a beer bottle. You usually don't drink much, but you like the occasional beer when you're just being lazy on the couch - just like now - and you walk back and sit, leaning back on the cushions, before taking a sip. You're just starting to get really caught up in a Tom Cruise movie, and your bottle is almost empty, when you see your muted phone light up with an incoming call.
You pick it up.
"Hey, Adam," you say in a friendly voice, making sure that you don't seem mad about his call, but you immediately freeze when you hear him answer. "Hey, Emily. I, uh... Can you come get me? I, uh... I could kinda use your help..." His voice is deep and slurry, and his words have a weird tone to them, and you immediately realize that he's drunk. You take a breath and squeeze your eyes shut. Oh, shit. "Adam, are you drunk?" you ask sternly, although you already know the answer, and you hear him sigh, heavily.
"I'm... I'm sorta drunk, yeah... I guess," he confesses, and you feel like reaching through your phone and slapping him before you throw it into the wall and watch it break. God damn it, that's the one thing he shouldn't do. Fucking idiot. "Adam, what are you thinking?" you exclaim, but then you correct yourself. He isn't thinking. That's exactly what he isn't doing.
"I called you earlier," he drawls, his voice slow and thick with alcohol, and there's accusation in his voice now, but not in an angry way... in a hurt way. "You didn't answer me. I needed your help."
Well, why didn't you call someone else, moron?!
"Yeah, look, I'm sorry, but I'm here now, okay?" you point out, annoyed at him because he's being so damn idiotic, but sad because he's being so damn stupid. "Tell me where you're at, and I'll come pick you up."
Truth is, you don't have a car, so you'll be walking or taking a cab. If you need to go somewhere yourself, you usually take the bus or the subway.
"Uh... I, uh..." he mumbles, and then he hesitates. If the fuckup doesn't even remember what bar he's drunk at, you'll kill him. "I think it's, uh... HEY, WHAT'S THIS PLACE CALLED?!" he shouts very loudly into your ear, and you wince. "Uh, it's Danny's," he then says a second later, this time back in his slurry murmur, and then adds: "Danny's bar. It's... Do you know where it is? I dunno where it is..." You groan. "I'll find it," you say. "Just stay where you are. I won't go looking for you if you aren't there."
"Yeah, yeah, sure," he agrees. "I won't go anywhere." "Good," you say while standing from the couch. "I'm on my way." You hang up on him while swearing to yourself. Fucking stupid idiotic moron, why isn't he thinking?! Does he want to fuck up his life completely or what?! Has he lost his mind?! You walk to your front door and quickly put on the jacket you took off half an hour ago, and then you rush out on the street and get a cab to pull over. You take a seat next to the driver and says as you close the door: "Do you know where Danny's bar is?" The driver, a middle aged guy with a brown beard, shrugs.
"There's probably a million of those, but I know the one closest to this place," he offers, and you nod.
"Yeah, just take me to that one," you say, and the driver takes off, and after ten minutes, he pulls over by the curb. "In there." He nods towards one of the buildings, obviously a bar, and you look at him hopefully. "Can you wait?" you ask. "I gotta pick up someone... I think."
"Sure thing," the driver nods, and you thank him and jump out, walking fast towards the bar.
As you reach the door and pull it open, the smell of beer and alcohol hits you almost as hard as the sound of people talking and yelling, one higher than the other, and you try not to grimace as you look for that familiar face. You see it almost instantly, right by the bar next to what looks like a shot of vodka, and you walk towards him.
"Adam," you say as you reach him, loud so your voice won't get drowned out by everyone else, and in front of you he turns his head and looks at you with his hazel eyes, pupils blown wide. He smiles, but it's faint, faked, half-hearted, and it's sad more than anything else. "Hey... You came," he slurs, and his drunken state is twice as obvious now as it was through the phone. He's not just drunk, he's wasted. "I thought you'd stan' me up. I'm kinda impressed you care 'nough to be 'ere." You look at him, and smell the alcohol on his breath, see the sadness in his eyes, all-encompassing and deep, and suddenly you feel awfully sorry for him. You want to hug him, wrap your arms around him and tell him he's gonna be okay, and that alcohol isn't the solution. But you don't. Because you're in a crowded bar and he's Adam Levine and he's wasted and just broke up with someone, and you shouldn't. So you keep your hands to yourself and instead you just offer him an arm. "Did you pay the bill?" you ask calmly, doing an effort not to sound too sad, and he blinks in confusion, and for a moment he looks like he has no idea what you're talking about. "Oh... Oh, yeah, no... I'll pay now," he promises after a brief few seconds, and he flashes a perfect smile, yet the sadness still lingers as a clear emotion in his eyes. "'On't worry. I got cash."
You wonder whether he's drunkenly trying to impress you.
"Yeah, just pay the guy," you say, brushing him off, and his so desperately faked, sad smile remains on his lips as he reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a wallet, and from that wallet he pulls a stack of 100 dollar bills. You stare at it, and then you stare at the bartender who's standing before you, picking them up and counting them. "There's 1000 here. He owes me 1222 dollars," the guy says, and you stare at Adam in disbelief. "How much alcohol have you consumed?!" you ask, and he shrugs, seemingly not giving a flying fuck. He probably hasn't counted. "I dunno," he drawls, confirming your suspicions, and you have a hard time believing those digits. He pulls up a few more hundred dollar bills and throws them next to the others. Then he grabs your arm, obviously not caring for change, and sinks down from the bar stool. You feel his weight as you support him and prevent him from falling, and you start walking, feeling him slinging a bit, struggling to keep balance. With the amount of alcohol he's been taking in, you're impressed he can even stand straight. You manage with relative ease to guide him outside, and out on the street, and you spot the cab you hired parked on the curb, and take him to it. You open the door to the back seat and push him in, and then you sit next to him, and look at him. "What's your adress?" you ask, watching his drunk eyes meet yours in confusion.
"What?" he mumbles, and you take a breath. "What's your adress?" you repeat, getting slightly impatient, but despite your repitition, he still looks as lost as before, if not more. He hesitates, as if he's wondering.
"I dunno," he slurs.
You lean back you head on the seat and groan.
