Swig

There are few things I can say with certainty, one being I should not be here, and two well, that is without a doubt shit on my kitchen floor. I poured half a quart of rum into a tumbler and took a swig. It didn’t melt on my tongue like the commercial said it would. I taste no caramel or coffee sweet on my tongue, instead the inside of my mouth feels like an ashtray and my throat clenches up. Gaging, I take another swig.

Standing tumbler in hand, I looked down upon the linoleum, down at the shit. Perfectly perched in the middle of my charcoal speckled flooring. I don’t smoke, but right now, I really wish I did. The idea of lighting a cigarette felt inevitable in this moment, solidifying even. The rum giving me no sediment. I don’t even own a lighter- The doorbell rings and my thoughts still. Another swig and I make my way towards to offending noise. A triple knock echoes through the wooden frame as I retch the door towards me.

3B is perched against the doorframe, a piece of paper crumpled in her hand. 3B is Natasha, no older than 25, looks 21, she could have been an Olympic swimmer by the looks of her, that taught, overly defined body, the kind of shape an athlete would envy, but she teaches 8-year-olds grammar and times tables for a day job. Which makes sense because her soft brown curls shape her face in a way that makes her just that more approachable, you know? the kind of shit that kids just eat up. “We need to talk about last night” she squeaks. “We do?” I parrot.

“It’s just not courteous to behave in such a way, I’m sure you can understand where I’m coming from” her words are almost as diaphanous as they are pleading with me. “No, It’s not?” I half agree, half question. Perplexed I follow up. “What did happen last night?” 3B pauses, looking into my eyes. Swollen and red no doubt. I take another swig. “Are you still drinking?” I don’t appreciate the tone of her voice. So I tell her, “I don’t appreciate the tone of your voice”. Another swig, gag, hiccup. Then it hits me.

“Do you have a cigarette?”

She shakes her head no. I beckon her inside anyway. We gravitate towards the sofa. We sit. How pleasant. I consider this my socializing for the day. My head is pounding, I feel as if my skull is between two knock em’ up boxers and the malicious little bastards are tapping away, tenacious red and blue fists against my temples. Let up. No one’s head is popping up but mine. There’s no winning here. 3B is cawing at me again. “I’m sorry what are you saying? I can’t hear you with all this noise” I punctuate my point with my free hand flailing in the air. Nailed it. She should take this as the cue to carry on talking but again she just holds my gaze and pauses. It’s intimate perhaps? No, not with an eyebrow arched and ready to deliver another string of words at this lucky bastard.

“Look. I don’t want to make this a big thing but-”

 The door again, the bell, the ring-ding-ding. Shouldn’t it be ding-dong? What kind of doorbell echoes a ding. Where the hell did I get this piece of crap. I say nothing to still her words but wave my finger in the air haphazardly. My feet staggering towards the offending noise, yet again.

3E, his name escapes me, must be because he is new, I’ve only seen him around the building a few times. Hell, I couldn’t even tell you honestly if he lives in 3E, I’m filling gaps here bear with me. Big brown eyebrows in a bunch. The 6ft stranger is hardly as welcoming to receive as is Natasha. Tense square jaw, Clark Kent here is no friend. I break the ice “Sorry I don’t remember your name?”

“I didn’t give it. But I’m not here to talk I just want-”

I interrupt his assertive bark, even though I’m sure ‘Mr-deep-and-I really mean-what-I’m-saying-in-baritone’ can hold his breath for a moment. “I’m not alone, you better come inside” I tell him. I’m entertaining guests. There’s no time for ideal chit-chat at the threshold. He doesn’t hesitate to walk past me into the living room. I’ve decided I hate him. It’s fast I know, but everything about him rubs me the wrong way. I mean what kind of bastard comes barking at your door and doesn’t have the decency to even introduce himself. It’s just bad manners, bad fucking manners. I take another swig and close the door behind him.

I catch the puzzled expression on 3B’s face as he lurches towards her, his expression mirrored I suppose, I can’t see through the back of his head, all I see is him taking the seat next to her on the sofa. I mean, it’s not like I was sitting there… but it’s fine. Guests and whatnot. They look at each other as if they want to talk. I don’t give them the chance. “You were saying something 3- Natasha” I correct myself, no one likes to be spoken to in numeracy, or perhaps a math teacher would.

“Can I call you 3B?”

She finally finds her voice, “I’d prefer Natasha…” She crushes my theory, no time to dwell, what. A. Day. Mr-Dark and stormy makes no attempt to speak, what a gentleman. “If I had known I was going to be entertaining I would have bought more rum” Ice breakers, they’re my thing. I can’t swallow the smirk at crawls across my face at my own words. No one laughs, why is no laughing? I swig, she speaks again. I take a swig. “I think… you’ve had enough for all of us” slips past in a venomous tone I didn’t know she had in her, I’m half impressed. I sputter my mouthful, it spurts through my lips, half into the tumbler, half onto my hand. What a waste, what a mess. I might just be describing myself right here.

“Wow…okay” I swig again. Smiling almost.

At this point she almost looks as if she feels sorry for me. I won’t have that, I won’t have any of that. I have half a mind to rip her a part for thinking me something to pity, I’m a person not a fucking deer you hit with your headlights turned down, then left on the side of the road because what else can you realistically do in the middle of the woods? Before I can speak, 3E reminds me he is here. “Look… you are obviously going through something here… I don’t even want any trouble, all I want is-”

 RING-DING-DING.

I’ve never been so popular, I take a glance at the clock over my magazine ridden breakfast bar breaking the living room from the kitchen. It’s 11- fucking-37 AM. AM, can you believe it. Why am I even awake? Wait, I feel like I should be somewhere, somewhere now, I- My thoughts are interrupted by a second RING-DING-DING.

I’ve got to change that fucking bell. I’m collecting 3’s, if this were rummy I’d be winning. Standing on the other side of my door this time is 3C. I’ve got the whole collection. I’ll let you in on something, I’m actually 3D. Plot twist I know. This time no words are exchanged before she enters my apartment, only stalling once she lands her eyes on her fellow 3’s.

“Natasha… Jake… what are you guying doing here?”

Her words are rushed, she seems tense. Maybe I should ask, maybe we’re not there yet. We’re only elevator friends you know, when you’ll say ‘hi’ in passing, make idle chit chat about your day and the weather, boy is the weather a good go-to when you need to fill the void of an elevator ride with an essential stranger. I can hear them talking among themselves as I’m fiddling through my thoughts.

 “I would really like to know why all of you are – HICCUP- here” I put down the rum, pinching the bridge of my nose, I mean business now. “Is that shit on your floor over there?!” 3B squawks. The horde of 3 gravitate towards the offending shit. I sigh.

“Yeah… that’s another question I’ve been meaning to find an answer for…” There’s no time for silence, to ponder the possibilities. “Do you have any idea what you did last night” 3C questions, Lauren, her boring name to match her boring personality, Laurens’ the kind of women that peaked in high school and now she works in admin and realizes life will never be more than this. She has one of those annoying fucking dogs that all those damn girls carry around with them too. It’s fucking pathetic. They’re talking again. Talking at me, I should listen.

“She has no fucking clue?! This is ridiculous! Just give them back or we’re calling the police”

Clark, the saviour he is talking all loud and clear, or he would be the hero if I had any fucking clue what he was talking about. The ever so righteous Lauren marches towards my bedroom, the only closed door within view, swinging the door open with force.

“Where the fuck are you going?!” I yell after her and with a hand shot in the area swallowed by big ole Clark, I don’t fucking care what his name is, I’m calling him Clark. “And what the fuck are you talking about?!” Lauren makes her way into the bathroom as superman marches towards me, it’s at this point I feel like a goalie awaiting the offence hurling towards them. I’ve just got to catch the ball, I’ve just got to catch the ball.

 “OH, THANK GOD”

Lauren with her outcry breaks my inner mantra and demands the attention of the remaining 3’s. I follow them into the bathroom to see what all the fuss is about. Once I step into the bathroom I see them coo-ing into the bathtub. Fucking weirdo’s, but sure enough, Fast asleep are a dachshund, a whippet and a miniature pincher. They individually scoop up their dogs and start pouring out of the cramped room, only 3B pausing to hand me a note and look of pure disbelief, with a side of disappointment. Who is she, my mother? Scowls form the rest of the crew are thrown my way. I hear the door slam behind them. I bet Kent closed the fucking door. I look down at the crumpled paper in my hand as I make my way back into the living room.

‘Borrowed your dog, got fired and dumped so I neeeeeeeeeeed em’ for the night xoxo’ is scribbled in eyeliner across the paper in my hand. I take my tumbler from the breakfast bar and pour the remains down the sink.

“Huh-shit makes sense now”.

Patricia Poulton is a writer from London, England. Currently residing in her home town, her work consists of short fiction, prose and poetry, and is influenced by writers such as Raymond Carver, Haruki Murakami and Lang Leav.