Hurricane Drunk (Josef)

[Rhea Hartman]

[follows this conversation]

Damn damn damn Facebook. Damn Facebook to the fucking pits of damn fucking hell.

It took Rhea several tries to hang up on Josef, and ultimately the phone slipped out of her hand and split into two with a crack on the floor of the dark, pounding bar. She swore and looked down at two or three weaving phone cases and disgorged batteries. It took her several minutes to get off the stool without knocking anything over and retrieve all the necessary pieces. Since trying to put the thing back together in her current state was akin to threading a needle on a plummeting helicopter, she just shoved it in her pocket and crawled back up to the counter. She wiped off her face and was surprised to find her eyes wet.

She had been at the club for barely an hour, and she slumped in the middle of a fleet of sugar-rimmed martini glasses. Here and there an umbrella poked out of a quarter-inch of turquoise liquid. Her conversation with Josef was draining rapidly out of her memory, but it left behind a sense of urgency. No more drinks. Maybe one more drink. She ordered another cocktail by flinging a lemon slice at the bartender's head, drained the remains of her something-with-vodka-in-it, and pointed herself towards a dark-haired man talking to another woman by the door.

His mouth tasted like cigarettes. The wall behind her was cold and swayed along with the rest of the room as they fumbled. His skin was hot, clammy, his breath uneven, his hands mashing her backside. She counted his molars and groped whatever presented itself. They'd go to his place.

[Josef Muller]

Josef was grouchy. He’d been woken up very early in the morning—quite a feat, actually, so well done Rhea—to a very drunk friend. And while he was a good man (much to his surprise, he never would’ve thought he’d get to that point) and would do the thing that was best for his friend, he didn’t have to be particularly happy. Especially because he had a deep, sinking feeling that he was going to have to stop being grumpy very soon because soon, he’d have to be the good friend again. Whatever went on tonight was not gonna be good. He couldn’t even remember the last time Rhea got drunk, let alone said she was going to go sleep with someone random she’d never met before. Except he was pretty sure there had been a bad time, before, and this…seemed to be following those patterns.

Sure enough, when he showed up, she was locking lips with someone. Not the tattooed bartender, which was a shame, because he and Josef had an understanding and that would’ve been easier. Josef didn’t know this one. Surprising. It wasn’t that big of a town. Which made this part both easier and harder.

Now had Josef been older, he would’ve solved this with a punch. Which would’ve been really easy and which was very tempting. But instead, he tapped on the man’s shoulder, and when that didn’t work, he shoved them apart with all the exasperation and very finely toned muscles that years of teaching karate to very reluctant students inspired and pinned the man to the wall.

“Here’s a tip,” he said calmly. “Get lost.” He released him. The man stepped forward, but Josef’s glare would’ve convinced a much more sober man to stay away. The man was much taller than Josef, but he made a soft mutter around the lines of “fine then, not worth it anyways” and left. Then Josef turned to Rhea.

“What the hell were you thinking, Rhea?” he asked, anger momentarily taking hold. Then it drained. He never had much of a temper. “Are you all right?”

[Rhea Hartman]

"Whaddaya mean, na' worth it?" Rhea roared at her retreating paramour. She moved sharply forward, overbalanced, and seized Josef by the shoulders to keep from falling over. "Pansy ass!" she bawled after him. Half the club had gone silent. "I audda take yer balls and shove 'em...shove 'em up yer balls! What d'ya go an' chase him off for?" she added, voice suddenly calm and staring at Josef on a bleary level. She was tilting sideways enough to remove her extra few inches of height. "You're great, but I can't have sex with you. You're great, though. Real great." She listed forward another few inches, and Josef could smell the lemon and vodka on her breath. Her eyes were dull, unfocused, and one lid fluttered on its own accord. She blinked, hard, and a few tears slid free without her seeming to notice them.

She leaned forward, and her forehead landed on Josef's collar with a thud. "Fuckin' Fssbook. Broke m'promise." She shuddered, then took a few wild steps sideways, dragging Josef along with her. "Got t'go," she said urgently. "Find 'nother bar."

[Josef Muller]

Josef swayed under the hard grip on his shoulder but managed to keep himself upright. He remembered the days in college when he would’ve been drunk too do anything more than laugh in this situation and they both would’ve stumbled home or at least into a cab or the nearest bench. It was better to be sober in this situation, he decided. He stared back at her as he struggled to recover his balance. “I don’t think he was best for you,” he said. “Couldn’t keep up. And no, you can’t have sex with me. Think that’s kind of the point.” He wrinkled his nose at the alcohol and placed a hand around her waist to gently steer her back upright. The tears were alarming. Josef didn’t quite know what to do with tears. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something to say when he was yanked forward.

“Woah there,” he said, digging his heels in. He found a bunch and promptly pushed her onto it, gently. “No more bars. What do you mean Facebook? Promise? C’mon, Rhea, give a bit.”

[Rhea Hartman]

"Aw he wouldda been fine," Rhea slurred, flapping her arm in the rough cardinal direction her tongue buddy had wandered off to. "Assholes r'my type, 'member?" She tried to give Josef a jocular shove, missed, and stumbled a few feet to the left.

She had told many stories, often humorous ones, about boyfriends and flings from that eventful period she always dismissed with a wave as "in my twenties." Chadley, for example. Her three-month relationship with the man had finally ended when Rhea found out that her bras had been disappearing not because of a weirdo at the gym, but because Chadley was selling them on eBay as the used lingerie of fictional WWE fighter Stacy "Guns" Stiletto. When confronted, he said that she aught to be flattered, and when threatened, conceded that they could split any future profits 70/30.

Most of the time, Rhea told these stories with a burst of laughter, or to pull a smile out of someone going through a bad breakup. Tonight, it just made her want to drink more.

She was interrupted by a mysterious force pulling on her shoulders, and the next thing Rhea knew she was sitting on a bench. Josef said some words. "S'not..." Rhea made dismissive gestures with her wrist. "Just out t'have a good time. Good time, 's that so bad? V'got your Sam at home, can't talk. Daniel. Dammy." She gazed at him reproachfully, color high in her cheeks. "Prolly gonna be sick soon," she added with equal indignation. As she said this, her eyes left his face to track a backside heading towards the bar.

[Josef Muller]

Josef sighed. Even though Rhea was built like a rock, he probably could’ve taken a shove from her. After all, he was sober, and she wasn’t. That alone would’ve allowed him some advantage, and then there was, of course, the fact that she’d completely missed him at all. “No, didn’t know that. I’ll be sure to mind it in the future and leave you alone.” Although he did remember the story of Chadley. Josef hadn’t been able to counter. Most of his boyfriends hadn’t been terrible, with a few notable exceptions (William being one, the future politician being the other). He’d actually said she should’ve gone in with him, but that had earned him a prompt tussle when they’d been sparring next. However, he could tell these thoughts were definitely bothering her, and frowned. Normally, she didn’t seem so—well. So what caused this transformation?

“What do you mean, good time?” he asked. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I’d consider—” he paused because she did have a point, even if she didn’t have the names right. He sighed. “Damien.” The name Sam brought up a brief pang, but he regained his control. “You know him. And yeah, I have him at home, but even when I didn’t, Rhea, I never tried to have fun like this.” He was sounding like a mother again, and he shook his head. Sick, huh? That was more in the realm he could handle. “C’mon, come out with me.” He led her toward the car. “Your apartment isn’t too far. You got keys?”

[Rhea Hartman]

Rhea waved a triumphant finger in Josef's face. “That,” she slurred, “Is because you meet a guy an' move in with 'im three fuckin' months later, an' in six you're talkin' 'bout havin' gaybies. Baygies.” Her balance was considerably better sitting on the bench, and she leaned forward without tilting too far to one side or the other. Her finger drifted around Josef's left cheek. “Some of us, have a lil'mor self-restrain.”

His request to leave was met with loud protests that drew alarmed glances from nearby tables, but little actual resistance. Her keys were found in a sweater pocket (after announcing to the entire room, “Not in my bra! Not wearin' a bra!”), the pieces of her phone reassembled, and her enormous tab negotiated with the bartender. Passes at men alternated with progressively urgent reminders that she was going to be sick, and twenty feet down the street from the Dunking Duck she finally grabbed a stop sign, doubled over, and emptied her stomach onto the curb.

The first round took several minutes, and by the time she finished her face was clammy with sweat. Her head lolled to one side and she groped for Josef's shoulder with her free arm. “I feel like shit,” she moaned. “Where's my...how d'we get back t'my 'partment?”