Spontaneity [On Indefinite Hold]

Spontaneity: Prologue

~~April 27, 2013 [SAT] // 9:48 pm ~~

It wasn’t really that late; at least not by my friends’ standards. I knew I had solid intentions of staying another hour at least, but that was three hours ago, when I’d told myself I’d avoid drinking ‘enough’.

Now, having drunk ‘enough’ Smirnoffs and whatever else I’d resolved to refrain from attempting to remember at this moment, the lights – gloomy and dim and flashing – inside the King’s Head Pub started to fade in and out every couple of minutes or so. The upbeat music blaring from the speakers posted along the walls of the room repeatedly seemed to go mute, then play at a very distant volume, then at more or less as loud as any sober person would hear it. All this would occur before the cycle would repeat in a dull, nonchalant fashion.

The light feeling was occupying my head like some irksome parasite; for maybe thirty seconds, my senses and head would work just fine, then the alcohol would spin it all around – even the world – and I’d return to being this silent semi-mess sitting amongst his friends, who were coping a bit better with the depressive effects of who knows how many bottles they’ve each tipped.

See, I wasn’t drunk. Well, not heavily, I hoped. I could still look around and see some details and I didn’t feel severely imbalanced. I remembered everything I’d done in the past half hour, after the simple cognitive process sent waves of pain and dizziness throughout my head. I had admittedly never been this far from sobriety before; I drank only occasionally, and whenever I did, I made sure to stop drinking before the first traces of lightheadedness and haziness set in.

I was hanging in there, I think. Maybe just barely. My eyelids flickered open and closed here and there as I tried to fight the lightness in my head and body. Every once in a while, I’d vaguely hear maybe Jess Peralta or Caitleen Reyes or Aryanne Milante ask me from somewhere at our table if I felt okay. I responded with slow “yeah”s or waves of dismissal. Believe it or not, even with the majority of my friends who were relatively more sober than I was, I wasn’t the drunkest in our group right now. The candidate for tomorrow morning’s worst hangover sat across the table from where I was sitting.

Angel Bautista looked twice the mess I probably looked. One glance at her and anyone would be able to tell she’d had one too many glasses. Her dark hair, which she had stepped with into the pub a few hours ago in a casual ponytail, now freely and slightly wildly fell down her back. Her eyelids seemed to be weighing a ton each, judging by how long she’d had them shut now. Her face was a fiery scarlet – the most obvious indication of how drunk she was. Her minute side-to-side body movements topped it all off; she moved like an awkwardly designed pendulum.

“Guys, Angel’s not looking so good,” came Caitleen’s worried but clearly tipsy voice, “She ought to get going home now.”

I rose to attention upon hearing this suggestion, acting surprisingly keenly for a person who’s probably half as drunk as Angel.

“I’ll take her home,” I volunteered with a slight drawl to my voice, addressing the participants of this get-together party.

“But Martin, you’re just as drunk,” Caitleen reasoned in that same tipsy tone. Her face was turned toward me, but even in my state, I could see that her eyes were having difficulties staying on mine.

“I’m just a bit tipsy,” I said in a sloppy gesture of assurance, absently massaging my temples with my thumb, index, and middle fingers. “I’m not gonna drive or anything… I’ll call for someone to pick us up.”

My vision blurred for a brief moment, but judging by the sound of chatter breaking out at the table, none of my friends had any objections for my offer.