"Marcho! One more for the road, if you don’t mind."
"No problem Rooney! This ones on the house!"
"Thanks Marcho, much appreciated," punctuated behind steely cracks of pistachio nuts. This was his eighth shot of Milagro Tequila, half off on Thursday nights at the Nineties. Foosball, pool, and pinball background noise made most civilized conversation nigh impossible.
He did a funny jig and snaked around the immobilized high stool patrons to the double oak wood doors. He pulled his brown trench coat off the rack, obscuring his tan chinos, black/white oxfords, and blue blazer. Puffs of fresh cold air greeted him like a lost love, dazing him and causing him to sway. The effects of the tequila conjuring evil humors.
Messian Avenue wasn’t all that its made to be, in-congruent to his pleasant attire. Streetlights flickered, hazy fog crawling through dark alleys and cracks, scantily clad sky, and animals of four legged proportions scraping leftovers from Waste Management dumpsters.
He went west, toward the harbor, meandering gently around pea-coated and jovial youth. I need human contact. None of these barmaids and tenders who mix better metaphors than drinks. Hmph, another day wasted away. Where do I go from here? Maybe find the American Dream?
He kicked a stray bottle, clanking down the Messian and making a sharp left into Homestead Court. I wonder what everyone’s doing back home, its been so long. Most likely charades, still have no idea why they enjoy it so much.
As if on cue, an eruption of laughter broke his thought and a man on all fours rushed by the window pane at a startling clip. Middle class drunk…sad isn’t it? No ones at home waiting for me, not even a soul I would call “friend.”
He wandered still toward the harbor, the small town a hub for ship building and fishing markets. People come in and out, none the wiser. Deaths occur daily, part of the occupational hazard of living here, even if you don’t have a job. Parched to the marrow, wobbly, and near delusional, he waxed solemnly:
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I wanna drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow
Time to sober up. The waters always so nice…
None the wiser this town, none the wiser…
*This post is in response to YeahWriters prompt: Write about wandering around alone at night.*