No One Drinks Alone
Joe Braun
Janet stood in the hallway of her apartment complex, frail fingers fumbling with cold keys. There was a low and deep grating sound as the key finally slid snugly into the lock, old pins rattled and groaned with the turn, protesting each second. She slid into her apartment, shut the door quickly, and dead-bolted faster. She exhaled slowly and turned to set a brown paper bag down on the counter of her kitchenette.
“You’re home.”
Janet started, “Oh,” she exclaimed, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I wasn’t about to let you drink alone.”
“Oh,” Janet said again, “Thanks?”
Janet turned towards her small living space, and there, flopped on the couch, sat Despair. He was a young man, no older than twenty and sat casually, feet outstretched, legs crossed. On his feet, a pair of flip-flops, leg wear consisted of casual fitting jeans; his torso was adorned with a simple white T-Shirt. His face was by no means remarkable, rounded jaw line, eyebrows equidistant from the bridge of his nose. Short dark hair bristled on top of his head. In fact, he was remarkably unremarkable, except for his expression. His lips pressed together in a thin smile that never reached his eyes, eyes that looked as if they should be bright now sat vacant and lonely.
The couch, upon which sat the young man, was pastel green with pink arm covers; a love seat that had seen none of the aforementioned. The walls of Janet’s small apartment were dressed in faded flower-print wallpaper, they were garnished with no pictures of friends or family, nor were they accented with paintings. The ceiling told stories of a flood through spots of water damage; the carpet was coarse from age and use. The room seemed to reflect the emotions in the young man’s eyes.
The young man stood up slowly and adjusted his jeans; he shuffled across the carpet and into the kitchenette. Leaning on the counter next to Janet, he opened the paper bag that sat in between them. Inside he found two bottles, one with a pale, yellow, clear liquid the other with a very dark red, they both sported corked tops.
“Do you really think you need more?” the young man faced Janet.
“No,” she replied, “More the merrier I suppose.”
“I suppose, I hope you don’t mind I invited some friends.”
“More the merrier,” she barely whispered.
The toilet flushed, and out from the bathroom shuffled Anxiety, a middle-aged woman in jeans and a loose fitting T-shirt. She held her hands with thin fingers folded together in front of her chest. Her hair was tied in a loose ponytail; stragglers to this knot plagued her gaunt face. Her eyes were large and darted about, never lingering on any one thing for longer than a second.
She sat down in a wicker chair opposite the love seat but then rocketed to her feet and exclaimed, “You weren’t sitting here were you?”
Janet looked very startled in contrast to the young man’s absent response. “No,” she said, the young man, still smiling, simply shook his head.
“Oh good,” said the middle-aged woman as she sat down again, constantly crossing and uncrossing her legs. “What are we drinking tonight?”
“Wine,” replied Janet as she took a seat on the couch, bottle and three glasses in hand. She set the group on the central coffee table, poured three glasses of the red wine, took her own and leaned back into the couch with her feet on the table. Janet started to sip her wine, slowly at first, but resorted to a method of drinking with much less grace. She finished and leaned back in the couch, her head slumped slightly and her gaze fell to her knees.
The young man came to sit next to Janet; he sipped his wine and his smile, although it remained on his face, it seemed to fade as the glass emptied. He threw one arm around Janet’s shoulders and turned to face the kitchen. On the counter sat Loneliness. She couldn’t have been older than seven; she was chubby and fair skinned. Her hair was dark and draped eyes that were large, curious and brown.
The girl hopped down from the counter and began to skip towards Janet. As soon as the girl had leapt from the counter a faucet had turned on to fill a basin in Janet’s eyes. As the girl approached closer Janet’s situation became dire and the basin began to brim. The girl sat squarely in Janet’s lap and the basin overflowed, tumbling down Janet’s cheeks.
Hope began to chuckle, he leaned on the counter behind where the girl used to sit, and had been revealed when she hopped down. He was middle aged, balding, short and fat, but he had a demeanor that said he was truly a gentleman. He wasn’t attractive; in fact he looked like he’d never had the privilege of being introduced to a bar of soap, but the greasy hair he had left was neatly kempt and spoke of previous habit, misplaced but not lost. His shoes were old but polished, and the suit he wore was faded and patched, but the man had made an effort to dress up that no one else had, but his deep chuckle had given him away. Had he been introduced formally he could have passed for a man simply down on his luck. His odor could have been ignored, his hair could be washed, and his smile could seem hopeful. His opening chuckle ruined the charade; it made his odor seem more pungent, his hair seem more unkempt, and his smile seem hideously smug. “What are you moping about?” he laughed again, “we’re drinking, cheer up!”
He stumbled off the counter and reached into his pocket to produce a silver flask, he undid the stopper and swigged mightily.
“Fuck, I need some air.” The man stumbled toward Janet’s open window.
“There’s no need to be rude,” scoffed the middle-aged woman, she had nearly finished her wine, and brushed stray hairs from her face as if swatting flies.
“You know what deary? Fuck you, I’m too damn drunk to deal with your shit.” He had turned around and was now stumbling backward towards the window. The curtains blew inward on the cool breeze, inviting the drunken man’s shambling gate. He continued backward until it seemed it would sit on the sill to enjoy the breeze, but the man was large, and the man was drunk. He missed his mark and instead he tripped on the rough carpet before the window and tumbled through to disappear on the breeze that had beckoned him.
The woman jumped to her feet, “Who opened that window?” she demanded.
“I did,” replied the young man still looking to the kitchen; he had started his third glass of wine and poured Janet the same. “I was hot.”
“Well now he’s dead!” yelled the woman.
“I see that.”
“I’m going to be sick!” the woman ran to the bathroom with a hand on her mouth.
“She can’t be that sick,” Janet said, confused, “she’s only had one glass.”
“Think of it like seven,” replied the young man.
The girl on Janet’s lap turned and hugged the back of her makeshift seat, then slid onto the floor only to reappear some few seconds later next to Janet in the lap of the young man. “Hi daddy!” the girl beamed.
“Hi sweetheart,” replied her father.
Minutes passed and the air grew thick with the smell of bile. The wine seemed to have rotted the occupant of the bathroom. The toilet flushed and from the bathroom did not emerge its original occupant, out of the bathroom glided Fear. She was tall and shockingly beautiful, clad in a red dress that was simply a silhouette. The only thing suggesting the girl walked was a swing in her hips that conducted the even rhythm of soft footsteps. The girl sat down in place of the middle-aged woman, the only movement she gave was a flip of her thick, dark hair as she took her seat.
“I don’t recall inviting you,” said the young man.
“You didn’t,” replied the girl in red, delight rimmed her face as she said her next words. “I just came anyways.”
“You’re not particularly welcome, Janet’s rather upset.”
The young man was correct; Janet’s eyes once again threatened to tip their small basin.
“Is this your daughter?”
“Yes,” the young man said curtly.
The girl snorted “How old is she, five?”
“I’m six!” The girl held up six small fingers.
“Well isn’t that…” the girl in red stopped abruptly as a warm hand was placed on her shoulder.
“It’s time for you to leave.” It was Love, it was Compassion and she was much more beautiful than the girl in red could dream to be. The new woman was young and blond, her skin glowed and her hair bounced on her shoulders. Her eyes, although the girl was no more than twenty-five, knew of sorrow, they knew of pain but they were warm and inviting. She wore a loose fitting black dress that hung to the floor. The girl in red jumped to her feet and strode out the door with great alacrity. “And I think you two should leave as well.”
“That we must. You’re just as beautiful as the last time we met,”
“Thank you, you’re just as charming.”
“I try to be.” The young man walked out the door with his daughter in arms.
As the woman sat down on the table, Janet looked up. The woman kissed Janet’s forehead, she dried Janet’s tears with a thumb and took her left hand. Then through the door walked Death, an average man in a faded black sweater. He took Janet’s right.
