- EDEN -
To say my friends and colleagues found my first date fail amusing would be an understatement, though it was difficult to determine just which part caused the most laughter. The sharing of a thirteen dollar soup, the slurping mess of coconut cream caught in his beard and on every square inch of his side of the table, or the assumed confidence in a follow up date.
They made jokes about it all day at work, which left me in an especially good mood as I headed home to get ready for the second date I'd lined up this week. In hindsight, I should have given myself a break between dates, but I was pretty keen to get over my little, nervous first dates hurdle, so just booked a bunch in around each other.
Tonight's date with Beckett involves grabbing a drink at a small pub near his house apparently.
I met him out the front and he looked cute. He actually looked much the same as in his pictures, was dressed nicely in jeans and a shirt, and held the door open for me when we moved inside, so it started off well at least. I thought it was a little weird that he didn’t even bother to find a table for us before heading to the bar to order drinks, but he insisted on paying for my glass of wine, and carried it plus his own two pints of beer to a table like a seasoned pro.
Now, I’ve definitely had times where I’ve been throwing back multiple drinks at the same time. Granted, those days pretty much ended when I hit my mid-twenties almost a decade ago and I began to feel the after effects of having a few too many the morning after. But it seemed a strange move for a first date.
“Bit thirsty then?” I asked, trying to make a lighthearted joke while at the same time hoping for some kind of explanation as to why he couldn’t wait to finish his first before ordering another.
Beckett chuckled before taking enough large gulps of the yeasty, amber liquid to empty at least half the first glass. I’m sure a younger and dumber version of myself would have witnessed this in past and been impressed, but the only thoughts I have right now are those resembling the whooshing sounds of cyclone winds trying desperately to rip a giant, red flag off a flag pole positioned somewhere inside my stomach. Sounds my mother probably could have benefited from hearing with the majority of her ex-boyfriends after my dad died.
“A bit,” Beckett said, all but polishing off what was remaining of his first beer with another few gulps. “Weekends are for letting loose after all.”
More violent gusts are swirling uncomfortably around my guts. Weekends undoubtedly can be a time to unwind, sure. But the way he’s saying it with such conviction has me convinced that this is actually an every weekend occurrence, not just the occasional one. And that makes me feel uneasy.
“I guess if you have a hectic work week, a couple drinks can’t hurt,” I offered, not entirely faithful to my actual thoughts on the matter, but trying to deflect away from the alcohol conversation by prompting him to speak about his work. I presumed he’d have plenty to say about this particular topic considering he was the primary school teacher, but it became more and more apparent as time ticked on that I would never, ever be letting Luna and Wolfe send their kid to wherever Beckett taught, or would insist they request a change of homegroup if ever they were unfortunate enough to be placed in his class.
There’s no way a person who is this unhinged and lacking in basic self-control should be educating the next generation on how to grow up and be responsible adults. I’m actually surprised he’s able to hold down a full-time job.
After a while I really just needed a break, so faked needing to use the bathroom to get away from him and his constant chatter about booze, bringing my half-drunk glass with me when my instincts wouldn’t relent in insisting I needed to.
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.
"I really like it. It’s one of the few pubs I haven’t been kicked out from yet,” he persisted, not even waiting for me to reply. “I can't even tell you the number of times I've been kicked out of a pub. This one time, I think I finished a whole bottle of vodka on my own and passed out on the barstool, and security had to carry me out. It was hilarious.”
And so the one-sided conversation carried on much the same for the next hour seeing as I could find an opportunity for an exit seeing as the bartenders here seem to be so familiar with him that they basically start pouring another drink for him as soon as they see him get up from his stool to head over. I’m fairly sure there are laws that say you shouldn’t serve an already-drunk person, but no one here seems to care about that.
“I’m just going to go grab another drink. Do you want anything?” he asked, apparently completely oblivious to how drunk he already is or how disinterested I am in everything that he’s got going on tonight. I brushed him off with a “No, I’m good thanks,” and was about to suggest maybe he grab a glass of water instead and that I’m ready to go home, but he’d already started making his way to the bar.
He returned with yet another pint, and proceeded to regale me with yet another drunk story from his past.
"You see this scar?” he said, pointing to a scar I had indeed noticed across his eyebrow. “This one time a bouncer hit me over the head with my glass when I wouldn’t hand it over and it smashed. Blood everywhere. Needed five stitches and everything. Was so gross.”
Much like my evening, along with being a giant letdown. I’m actually wondering now how he was able to maintain a conversation via text at all given how much he seems to drink, not that his cognitive functioning seems to be too compromised, which is astounding given how much he’s consumed.
Towards the end of this particular beer, it all seemed to finally get the better of him. His slurring was getting more intense, and his barstool was wobbling dangerously as he tried to maintain his equilibrium.
“I feel like you might need some fresh air,” I said, completely fed up and genuinely worried for this guy’s liver or kidney, whichever one deals with processing alcohol. He probably needs both to help him anyway given the state he’s in. When he didn’t move to follow me on his own, I turned back to literally pull him from his seat by grabbing onto the back of his shirt and escorting him outside, where he proceeded to vomit behind a tree not far from the exit.
One of the bartenders followed me outside, presumably to make sure I had everything covered considering they are largely responsible for the overly intoxicated state he’s in. I want to hope he feels guilty for it seeing as he didn’t cut him off, but he too had a nonchalant attitude to Beckett being so drunk.
“Beck all good?” the bartender said, obviously knowing him well enough to call him by his name.
“Does he fucking look good to you right now?” I spat back rudely, very over this whole night. I would have felt bad for it if this wasn’t at least in some part his fault. Obviously it was Beckett’s choice to drink, but this idiot supplied them. The bartender held his hands up in defence, and backed himself towards the door he’d followed me from. “You’re partially to blame for this and taking no responsibility whatsoever?”
“Hey, I just serve drinks. I’m not a shrink.”
“Neither the fuck am I, and yet here I am all the same trying to help this poor bastard.”
“Well, do you need any help or not?”
“Do you not think you’ve done enough already?”
“Geez, lady. Don’t say I didn’t try,” he said, mumbling under his breath as he turned and walked back through the door inside.
Fucking hell. I’ve now reached an age and level of pissed off where barely adults refer to me as ‘lady’ while I chastise them for getting people drunk.
I feel like a teenager again, where I was almost always playing the responsible, motherly protector one from my friendship group and making sure that everyone was okay.
Beckett had finally finished vomiting, and pulled himself back upright to look at me with a hint of remorse for his behaviour and this whole shambles of an evening. “I think I had a couple too many.”
It took every ounce of strength I had to remember that I barely know this guy, and what I do know has me convinced he has some serious addiction issues and probably a range of mental health challenges to accompany it, so kept my impulse to respond sarcastically with “You think?” to myself.
“Yeah, I think it’s maybe time to head home,” I said, wondering whether he was able to get himself home in one piece if I left in my car now. “You said you lived nearby?”
“Just a couple streets away,” he slurred, swaying on his feet as he rotated and pointed in the direction of his house. “Want to come back to my place?”
No, I really don’t. But I don’t think I can comfortably let him walk there on his own. Knowing my luck he’ll stumble over his own feet and fall in front of a car or something, and I’d never be able to live with myself. “I’ll walk you home.”
I kept a safe distance from him so I didn’t get my feet crushed or my whole body crashed into given his constant stumbling as we walked to his house, which was probably only a five minute walk if we were both sober, fifteen in his current state, but at least he didn’t fall and smash his teeth on the sidewalk, which was a genuine fear a couple times there.
He struggled to pull his keys from his pocket as we stood outside his front door, and so I had to reach into his pants myself to get them out for him, which I’m presuming resulted in him getting kind of turned on because when I finally pulled them out, being nearer to him than I had been all evening, he leaned in for a kiss.
Pulling my head back away from his and stepping back to put some distance between us, I held my hands up as if to tell him to stay where he was. “I’m sorry. I’m not interested in... that.” Don’t even get me started on the repulsion I’m feeling as a result of smelling the vomit on his breath when he was so near to me.
“Aw, come on,” he insisted, closing the gap between us again, clearly not getting the message. “You’re already here. You may as well come inside.”
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, understating how much I was not interested and taking another step backwards and handing him back his keys. “You probably need to have some water and Panadol, and sleep this one off.”
He took another step towards me as he collected his keys from my hands and tried again to kiss me, this time extending his arm around my back to hold me close so I couldn’t back away.
“Okay, no!” I said loudly, ducking underneath his arm, being grateful for both my sober reflexes and petiteness in being able to do so without too much difficulty. “I said I’m not interested. I’m only here to make sure you got home okay and didn’t stumble into a car on your way home. Now I really think you need to head inside and sleep.”
The volume of my voice must have been louder than I thought, because someone else occupying his house must have heard and so opened the door to see this standoff between us on the front porch. He looked to be about our age, had a beer in hand himself, and so my anxiety about this whole situation continued to flare dangerously.
“So, Beckett’s had a few, and really needs to head inside,” I said to the guy in the doorway who was smiling down at me, and took another step or two back to create more distance between me and the two substance affected guys before me. “So I’m leaving him with you now, and I’m going home. Goodnight.”
I kept walking backwards, keeping an eye on them both as the guy reached for Beckett and pulled him inside, continuing to watch me in a way that made me so fucking unsettled I didn’t wait another second to get moving back towards my car, thankfully remembering the way without needing a GPS and legging it so fast that I’ll have to thank Wolfe for his insistence of us running with the dogs over the past few weeks that I actually have some increased stamina and speed in my legs.
Of course that would also mean having to explain this situation to him, which I think I’ll avoid as he may never let me go on a date unaccompanied if he knew about this one.