We talk of the Kings and Queens of Faerie as we would speak of the Kings and Queens of England. But Faerie is bigger than England, as it is bigger than the world (for, since the dawn of time, each land that has been forced off the map by explorers and the brave going out and proving it wasn't there has taken refuge in Faerie; so it is now by the time that we come to write of it, a most huge place indeed, containing every manner of landscape and terrain). Here, truly, there be Dragons. Also gryphons, wyverns, hippogriffs, basilisks, and hydras.
--Stardust by Neil Gaiman & Charles Vess
Pretend you're me for a minute. You're a single guy at a bar. Pretend that you're having, let's say, a nice Black Russian, taking it slowly, and that you're by yourself, at the end of the bar, with all of this noise and confusion around you. There are a few empty bottles of Bud in front of your from earlier in the evening, sitting there idly like lonely soldiers. And pretend that it's all making you feel this lead weight in your stomach because you're alone, and you admit that you're alone, and you want something else, something more. You work during the week, a fun-filled nine-to-five office job at a no-name computer company doing a lot of things with paper and phone calls, with the weekends in between usually turning into a blur.
You want to get drunk, so drunk that you get horribly sick, but then again, what would be the point, when all of the people around you, all talking and drinking and being foul-mouthed and belligerent, could make you just as sick, and quicker at that?
Because, you think, that if I don't get drunk now, I'll remember all of these people, and how much they depress me. And hey, if I get drunk enough, I might even get lucky and not remember it. Who knows?
Pretend that you decide to move over to the corner of the small crowded bar, a place that feels more like a pub than a bar with all of the stools and the bar itself made out of old wood, and you sit in the far back booth, over in the dark corner of the room. Sure, you think, it's just like in those dusty crime novels where the big boss meets one of his henchmen in a bar like this, so that they won't be caught by the cops, the cigarette smoke like a heavy mist in the air.
The thing is, you don't smoke, and you are not meeting anyone here, which makes you even more depressed. You slunk down in the seat, frowning the biggest frown you could ever frown as you watch all the people from the shadows, wondering why you can't be them, wondering why none of them really pique your interest, why they all seem to look like older people and you feel fifteen again, shy and naive to how drinking really is, even though most of the people in there are the same age as you and those who have seen you before think you're a professional drinker.
The bartender, whom you've known for a couple of years, looks over at you, and winks. She's seen you like this before, and vice versa. And hey, you think, why can't I get with her? She's pretty, she's intelligent, she's got a job--
--and she's got a husband, you think with regret. Damn.
I didn't have to pretend. That's how I felt that night. I couldn't figure out what had gotten me in that mood. It wasn't the drink, that's for sure, because when I'm in a bad mood, I can't seem to get drunk for some reason. I even tried to go for some vodka straight up, but that didn't work either. I'm just one of those people who can't get drunk when they're depressed-- I mean, not just that kind of depressed where you drink yourself into an almost-cirrosis-causing stupor-- but the kind of depressed that, when you think about it, makes you so pissed off that nothing else affects you. That's how I felt, depressed and a little pissed because I was depressed.
And it wasn't like I didn't want to become one with what I was drinking, either. I was totally open to getting drunk. In my mind, that is. But my body was like, no way, my friend. Ain't no way you're gonna get shnockered tonight. I've got you right where I want you, and it's going to stay that way.
Stone cold sober. Damn.
I just kept thinking how much I missed being really drunk. It was like a meditation, almost. A couple of weeks ago I could have been here on the same night, nursing any number of beers, tequilas, Sexes on the Beach, Gin and Tonics, and I could have drunk anyone under the bar. It would have gotten me a few numbers, a few new acquaintances, maybe even a one night stand.
A heart scratched on the table caught my attention. I looked straight down at it. Crudely done, but it was the thought that counted. It looked like it was not very old-- it stuck out like a sore thumb, a tan image on the darkened table. In fact, if I didn't know any better, I would have thought that I did it with my own little Swiss Army knife that I had in my pocket.
"What's that?"
"What?" I looked up. The voice seemed to come out of nowhere. At first I couldn't place it, but then I saw her. She was standing right in front of me. Was I really drunk after all?
"What are ya looking at there?"
I looked down at the heart. "I didn't do it."
"Just a heart."
"Yeah, as if it never really existed in real life, right?"
"Mind if I join you?"
The prospect of someone, anyone, joining me in my journey was a great idea at that point. "No, no," I said. "I don't mind at all."
When she sat down across from me in the booth was when I could see her in the full light from the lamp above us. Looking at her made me wake up. A lot. She was a redhead, a natural one, and her hair went to her shoulders, straight. Her skin was slightly dark, not in a bad way; her face was a medium between chiseled and rounded, and her eyes were green. Sometimes they were blue, but I couldn't tell in the light. The way she dressed looked totally out of context with the pub: a dark long-sleeved red velvet dress that went to her feet, a v-neck that looked tailored perfectly, and went quite low. She looked like she would be more comfortable in a Gothic club, but that would not be an insult to her. There was a mystery in her that I couldn't place my finger on, something that would be a central figure in an Edgar Allan Poe story, or even a distant memory of a hero's tale. She was even drinking red wine. It all made her look very comfortable.
Her hand reached out to me over the table. Or at least that's what I wanted to think. What was she doing here, talking to me of all people? "Hi, I'm Clover," she said. Her voice was deep, but not too deep, polished in a way that wasn't too snobbish. There was a slight accent in there that I couldn't place.
"Clover?" I asked. Then I realized what I'd said, and how I'd said it. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way." I shook her hand. "I'm Richard."
She smiled at me. It was a very sweet smile. "Nice to meet you Richard. Don't worry about offending me, about my name and all. I'm used to it. That's what you get from being born to parents from the country. Nature kind of people, you know."
I smiled. It made sense to me. "I like that name, actually. It fits you, somehow." It was the best thing I could think of that wouldn't make her run away from me.
She smiled back at me, amused. Or at least she'd looked amused. "So, what the hell are you doing here in the shadowy corner by yourself, huh? You look like you'd be catching every girl in this place."
I laughed. "Me? With girls? You'd have a better chance at catching Bigfoot than to see girls hitting on me in this place these days."
"Done that already."
"Huh?"
She smiled. Perfect teeth too. "Never you mind. You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think that you need to get drunk, that's what I think. And I'm going to help you. You don't even have to worry about paying for anything. It's all on me."
How did she know? "Wait a minute," I said. "You mean you're going to get me drunk, with your own money, and you don't even know me?"
She leaned over the table to look into my eyes. Her cleavage in the v-neck was very nice, and not very well hidden. Not that that was a bad thing or anything. "I know your name, and you know mine. Isn't that a close connection? Your name already determines who you are, what your karma is here to establish in this life." Slowly, she leaned back into her seat. "Besides, I'm doing you a favor aren't I? A friend to a friend. I'm even challenging you to a Jose duel."
"A Jose duel?"
"Oh yeah. A duel to see who can get drunk first. With a shot glass filled with Jose Cuervo as the Colt 45 in your holster."
The idea sounded way too tintilating. "All right then. You're on. It's a duel to the death." She smiled, wickedly. "Or at least, until a nice little annihilation of the senses."
Yes, I got shnockered that night. Quite easily I might add, after Clover joined me. In fact, I never quite remembered what happened after the Jose duel. I think she won.
I awoke the next day, surprisingly not sick and with no headache, in my bed with just my boxers on. Aw man, I thought. I didn't get anywhere with her. Damn it to hell.
Strangely enough, as I thought that I swore I smelled bacon. In fact, I did. I sat up. Wait a minute, I thought. I'm in my apartment. How on earth did I get that drunk and make it back here? Wait a minute, who's cooking bacon? I didn't know I even had bacon.
Slowly, I climbed out of bed and crept down the hall into the little living room. There she was, Clover, cooking breakfast, looking way too sultry in one of my white t-shirts and a pair of my boxers. Her red hair was in a bun behind her head. She heard me walk into the room and she turned to me. "Well good morning sleepy head," she said.
I sat down at my old beat up kitchen table. "Good morning. I guess." It was all I could say. "Um. What exactly happened last night?"
She picked up a pair of tongs lying on the counter and carefully laid the bacon she was cooking on a paper plate, on top of a small but significant pile of more bacon. She set the plate in front of me, giving me a look that said "yeah, right."
"You got so drunk you were practically poisoned, that's what happened," she said, taking a piece of bacon and eating it. That motion in itself made me want to cross my legs. "The bartender--Jenny was her name?--and her husband helped me to bring you back here after her shift was over. Took us a while, but we finally got your clothes off and under the covers. I stayed here just to make sure you were okay." She went to the refrigerator and produced a couple of eggs from it. I had eggs too? "And no, nothing happened," she said. "You were way too drunk to even form coherent sentences. I slept out here on the couch."
"Oh. I kinda figured that." She looked at me. "Not that I was expecting for us to be doing anything. Or something like that."
She smiled. "Right."
"So you won the Jose duel. Don't you deserve some kind of prize for it or something?"
She cracked an egg on the side of the pan. "Now that you mention it, yes."
I moaned. I thought about all the humiliating things that she could make me do in front of any number of people. Dress like a woman, drop my pants in public... "Okay, what do you want?"
"Nothing real special. You can just take me out to dinner at the place of my choosing and we'll call it even."
That sounded reasonable enough. "That sounds fine to me." Whew. But then when I remembered the dress she wore the night before, the thought hit me: What if she has expensive taste? Oh God.
"Sunny side up?"
"Huh?"
"The eggs, hon. Sunny side up?"
"Oh, yeah. Sure."