borracho

                                      :

a                                 

 memoir

                      by

Chandler            Williams

It’s instinct. I slam my fist as hard as I can into his face, and I start running. This is no morning jog or stroll in the park, but a full-out, balls to the walls sprint for safety. My mind is amuck with thoughts, but the only thing that matters is getting my legs to turn over as fast as they can. I catch a glance back, only to see a lanky boy hot on my heels. Fuck this I think, and I’m gone like the wind. If I wasn’t sprinting before, now I’m practically flying over the pavement, full speed ahead. I jump over a curb and peek another glance over my shoulder. Just as I turn my head, I see the boy face-plant as he eats shit on the curb. Thank god he didn’t see it.  I almost feel sympathetic for the guy, but then again, fuck that fool. My legs don’t stop -they won’t stop- and my heart is pumping blood harder and faster with every bound I take. My brain is moving just as fast as I am as I try to connect the dots. I’m drunk as tit in a foreign country, it’s four in the morning, and I’m Usain Bolting it home. As my intoxicated brain begins to trace from point to point, it hits me…How the hell did this happen to me?

__________

            Eight O-clock. Time to ditch the host family and get shwasted. My roommate Brian hands me my deodorant.

“You gotta smell good, para las chicas,” he says with a smile. I nod my head in approval. This fool will never get laid. I cover my entire upper body in Axe deodorant. I feel like a douche covered in kinky manscent. How cliché.

“Are you gonna try and get with Allison tonight bro?” I ask, twisting around to look for a clean shirt. Brian is in the bathroom, and he obviously didn’t hear me. He is picking at his face. I slip my only clean white t-shirt over my head and walk over to the bathroom.    We make eye-contact in the mirror, as I begin to ask him again. He interrupts me halfway through my question,

“I don’t even know dude. I mean, she doesn’t seem very interested in me…”

Maybe because you never try I think to myself.

“How do you know that bro? You should at least give it a go. Maybe some shots will get you going, ya?” I encourage him.

He mugs me disapprovingly. Brian doesn’t drink.

What a fucking pans, why is this fool so scared to drink? You’re in a foreign fuckin country, where the drinking age is “Height of the Bar”, what is he so scared of anyways?

He finishes scratching away some dead skin from his forehead and turns to face me. I’m leaning over in the doorway, trying to look badass as hell and he knows it.

“You look gay,” he says will a grin. I won’t deny it, it’s the European style.

“At least I’ve gotten with someone,” I mock him casually. He knows not to take me seriously, but I can see the pain flash across his face. Remorse sweeps over me, and then, it’s gone. He brushes past me, back into our room. I follow him.

“Do you even remember her name?” he asks me.

“You know I don’t speak fuckin’ Dutch!” I say to him as I jump face first towards my bed. I bounce onto the bed then turnover to look at him.

“Was she Dutch? I could’ve sworn she was German…” he says, snatching his manscent out of his luggage. Who gives a fuck?

 “Yeah, I don’t really remember that much,” I admit to him. He finishes dousing himself with perfume before looking directly at me.

Brian is a “mama’s” boy. He is six feet tall, blondish-brown hair, clean shaven and a decent set of eyes to match. He is lanky like me, but doesn’t show it. His shirt is a little big for him, same with his pants, and he wears a whooped baseball cap with a curved rim. This fool will never get laid.

“I think I might drink tonight,” he says, the words snap me out of my daze.

“Holy shit fool, are you serious?” I scream out of shock and disbelief. He looks taken aback by my reaction, but a Grinch esque smile slowly creeps across his face.

“I’m down to get hammered,” he says.

Thousands of thoughts; I have pictured this moment for a while. Weeks. I get up from my bed, and I say with a smirk, “Hellz yeah.”

_____________

Eleven Thirty. I stumble out of Jacko’s, the most hoping bar in Salamanca. The humidity hanging in the night air doesn’t help to cool me off. It has been nearly two hours since I’ve seen Brian and I’m starting to feel legitimately worried. I walk towards Johnny who appears to be shitfaced. Johnny is seventeen and blessed with beauty. Close to 5’ 10”, his distinctive jaw-line, scruffy bear, and blonde hair make him every indie girls’ dream guy.  His face lightens up as I approach him and what appears to be an even more wasted Jasmine.

Her eyes are focused on Johnny as she listens to his every word as if he were a preacher, she being the devout follower. This fool is’ bout to get laid.  

“What’s up Chandler?! I haven’t seen you all fuckin’ night bro!” he shouts in my ear. Damn this fool is shwasted. Jasmine waits for our broment (bro-moment) to recede before diving at me for a hug. They both reek of tequila, but I keep it to myself.

“Whashu guys been up to?” I slur a bit. That last round of CapMo has me tipsy and I feel the alcohol settling in to its new home. They both start blabbing at once about their nights and where they’ve been. Their words go in one ear and out the other as I smile and nod to them both. Jasmine stops talking and runs away to hug Chris who is leaving “La Jungla”. Chris looks sweaty as hell, drunk and tired from grinding with Spanish babes no doubt. Johnny recaptures my attention.

“Soo u tryna get faayded?” he asks me.

“When am I not dowwwn bro!” I question him back. He smiles and throws his hand up. I reach down and grab it, straining a bit to pull him up. We regain our balance and start heading towards Mack’s, a bar that smells of pure vomit, but sells some chronic drank. I had been wanted to ask Johnny about his “relationship” with Jasmine and the alcohol gives me enough courage to do so. I grab Johnny by the shoulder and pull him towards me as we stumble down an alley. As I look down I realize the two of us are walking in nothing close to a straight line, and decide to take the pace down a bit.

“Dude…I wanna ask you sumthin, but you can’t get mad…cuz…” I begin but he interrupts.

“Bro, yoooou…are like…my best friend…so, just shoot bro. Go for it. What bee your qwetshun?!” he replies, his eyes glazed over.

I decide against asking him about Jasmine and shift my thoughts. “Bro have you seen Brian tonight?” I ask him as we begin to reach our destination.

“Fuck yeah I have!” he shouts. I question his validity, but give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Swear?! Where fuckin at bro?” I ask him as I slip on some gravel.

“At fuckin’ Mack’s that’s where!” Johnny shouts back. Drunken ass fool.

Just as he says it, we get to Mack’s and immediately the familiar smell of vomit stings the nostrils. Johnny makes some witty comment about the stench and I laugh as I follow him inside. This fool is one funny cat when he’s drunk. Johnny heads over to two empty stools, and I slap my two front pockets and listen for the clinking of Euros. My pockets sound full, so I assure myself I’m good for the tab. One hell of an easy way to avoid not paying, make sure you got the dough. No telling what they would do to you in a place like Mack’s without paying a tab when you’re due.

I slide onto the ripped leather stool next to Johnny and glance around the bar; no sight of Brian. My attention refocuses on the burly bartender towering over me. What appears to the untrained eye as a hairy boulder is actually the bar-owner himself. Handlebar-moustache and a bald head to boot, he reaches under the bar and grabs two shot glasses without even looking down. Johnny must’ve already ordered. Mack turns around slowly and after noticing a green-tinted bottle is empty, he makes eye contact with Johnny, and lets him know he’ll be right back. He slowly walks away from us towards the backroom to grab another fifth. Johnny, who is watching Mack’s every movement just as I am, breaks my stare with a quiet burp. He blows it in my face like a bitch. His breath smells like ass and I let him have it.

“You fuckin wang!” I punch him square in the shoulder and he absorbs the blow like jello as he nearly tips off the bar stool. He regains his balance and I question him about his drunkenness.

“Three shots of Bicardi Lemon, five of the keeyla, and like...half a cup of Sex on the Beach,” he counts off on his fingers. By the end of his count, he is holding up two fingers in his left hand, and only three on his right. This fool is fucking on.

Mack comes back and we fall silent as he pours us what appears to be a bright green liquid. I look down for the first time and realize the shot glasses are extra tall. That’s more like two shots instead of one. He gives us a slight nod, and continues on down the bar. True to our pact, Johnny then asks me about how much I’ve had to drink. Our pact states that before either of us drink together, we question each other on how much we’ve had in the night (that we remember) up to that point; to keep each other in check. I feel a little disgruntled as I realize Johnny may not have asked me, if I had not first asked him. The thought quickly fades and I recite my drinks for the night, counting them using my fingers.

“Uno chupito de goose, a couple shots of blu, and six of the CapMo,” I conclude as I raise my glass. Johnny lackadaisically nods his head in approval. We stare at each other, and proceed to countdown.

“Tres, dos, uno, cero!” we say somewhat together. At ‘cero’ we slam them back. The larger than life shot is thrown into my stomach as the bitter taste of licorice and alcohol stings both my throat and eyes.

“Holy fuckass!” Johnny murmurs as we put our glasses down in unison.

“What the fuck was that shit?” I ask Johnny, not questioning the substances origins, or content before I had gulped it down.

“The fuck if I know,” Johnny spits out. As soon as he says it, Mack appears out of nowhere and hands us the bottle. His emotionless eyes pierce into mine, and I somehow get the message. I begin to read aloud to Johnny.

“Holy shit bro, this shit is dank as fuckkkkk. 73 percent?!” I slur, my eyes as big as golf balls.

“Damn dude, thasss wasssssup,” Johnny slurs back, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a few Euro coins and tosses them onto the bar. I begin to stand to leave but a strong hand pushes me back down. It takes me a second to realize what was going on and how Mack had reached across the bar and was pushing me back into my seat. Nervous as hell, scared shitless, and fearful for my face, I do as insisted and take my seat again. The next thing I know, our glasses are full again, and Mack is waiting. I glance over at Johnny.

“Dude, we gotta do this shit,” I say to Johnny. He sure as hell knows it.

“Bro, it’s what best friends are fucking for!” he says at he raises his glass. This is gonna be one hell of a fucking night.

________________

Three Fourty Five AM and I’m beginning my walk home. The ground moves back and forth beneath me as I try to walk more forward than sideways. Holy shit am I DRUNK. I manage to make out the green glow of a corner store sign, and I have a slight recollection as to where I am. I slowly but surely stumble my way past the store, and pick another object as my next target. With each sign/mart/crossroad/bench I manage to get past, I know I’m that much closer to home.

“Tienes uno telefono?”

Who the fuuuc…?!

Two older looking boys approach me from the rear. Not good.

“Yo!” I say back with a drunken smirk. They ask me another question. Don’t they realize I haven’t even figured out the first one?

“Yo soy de Canada!” I explain. Never tell a local you are from the U.S. Even in my state of mind I clearly remember this advice. That obviously wasn’t the answer they were looking for…

The taller of the two boys jumps in front of me and gives me a little shove. His greasy black hair and breath reeking of gin make him appear more devilish than expected. He shoves my shoulders and starts yelling at me in Spanish. My mind begins to solve the puzzle. Dude, it is crucially bad for me. The other boy comes into view from my left and gives me another little shove. I clench my fists as the first blow hits me. I knew this was gonna be a jacking from the very beginning. The boy from the left has decided it would be a good time to sucker-punch me in the stomach. How kind of you, you fucking bitch. Right then, it’s instinct. I uppercut the fool right in the jaw and boy does it feel good. The adrenaline flows through my body, and the second of natural instincts kicks in. RUN. The alcohol and adrenaline pumping through my veins spurs my ability to sprint. There is no fucking way I’m stopping now.

_________________

Four AM. I’m covered in hot sticky sweat as I slow my pace down to a run. My heart rate is probably near 200, it’s eighty plus degrees outside, and I hope to fucking god that Brian is home safe. The rest of the run home is a blur, but nothing really matters. All that matters is getting home. I’m there. The heavy metal gate creaks open, blindly looking for my key in the darkness. Where tha hell is this damn fucking key… The gate opens and a member of the apartment complex I’m staying in opens up the door. I mumble a thank you, in English, as I rush past her.

Up the stairs I go, faster than the elevator and a bit quieter too. I get to my apartment. I twist the knob back and forth, forgetting the trick to the latch, until it finally opens.  It’s only a few steps into the hallway and a quick right turn until I get into my room. I swear to god, if Bri…

My thoughts stop mid-sentence as I switch on the light. My eyes are focused on where Brain would be, if Brain were there. But he’s not. My mind is racing. Where, who, how, what will, when, how am I, how did he…The pointless thoughts stop as my sober brain takes over. No matter how fucking drunk you are right now Chandler, no matter how fucking tired you are, no matter how bad you feel about letting Brian do this to himself,  you need to fucking find him. It’s true. I know it’s true. My body is so withered and worn, but my brain is right. I’ve got to find Brian. Hot sweat stings my eyes, my shoes are wet with sweat, my hair is greasier than my lanky-boy jacker, my legs are shaking, and I’m on the verge of tears. Life never felt so hard. Brain revs back to life. Why the fuck are you still standing here? Good point, and I’m gone.

__________

I spin around and dash to the front door. I’ve probably woken up my host family by now, but I could care less. Sprinting down the hallway to the stairs, I jump flights of them, slamming into the walls as I flash by. Fuck this. I don’t deserve this. How could he fuck this up so badly? What could’ve happened to him? Where do I start to look? The last of these questions whizzing threw my conscious throws me off. Where do I start to look for him? I have no idea if Johnny was remotely serious about Brian being at Mack’s, or if he was just drunk. I burst threw the metal front gate to our apartment, the clanking of the fence slamming into itself makes one hell of a ruckus. Whatever.  The cool night air compared to the stuffiness of the apartment is orgasmically relieving. I still can’t process that Brian is actually gone, so I do the only thing that has saved me tonight.

I start running. My legs burn and I beg them to stop complaining. I can feel myself getting a little more sober and it isn’t helping the situation. Less alcohol in my system wouldn’t help me find Brian. I’m at the bottom of the block and I run towards the bars. He couldn’t have possibly made it that far… The absence of people allows me to relax as I get into a steady jog. My heart is pounding in my ears, and my shirt sticks to my chest. I feel suffocated so I tear the shirt over my head as I run, nearly careening into a streetlamp. I regain my footing, holding the shirt in my left hand. But I soon drop it. It’s not fucking worth it. As I jog past dark and empty shop-fronts, I glance at myself in the reflective windows and realize what a fucking mad-man I must look like. Then again… Who gives a fuck?!

I keep running, my head hurts and my legs are starting to go numb. My hands feel enlarged, as if the blood that’s been pumping into them has made them twice as large. It hurts to even hold them up. But I keep running. I know that if I don’t find Brian, the consequences will be severe. I just can’t have that happen. I’m better than this. I’ll find him. The words of Dory the fish from Finding Nemo pulse through my mind and body, only, with a slight alteration. Just keep running. Just keep running. Just keep running. The sweat from my hair has run down my back and is dripping from my underarms. My breathing is heavier, and my pace has slowed down dramatically. I realize being drunk has also caused the inopportune consequence of dehydration. My vision begins to get more blurry, I feel like I’m getting more drunk, but know my body is running on empty.

It has probably been an hour, and I can’t keep this up.. I’m like the dying engine that needs gasoline, but with not station in sight. My pace slows to a walk, my arms stop their timely sway and instead move to my hips as I gasp for breath. Life has never felt SO hard. I feel the tears coming and there is no stopping them. It is not sadness that sweeps through my body, but utter exhaustion and pain. I feel like I’ve left someone down, I’m just a fucking failure. This moment of hardship and dysfunction lasts minutes. I’ve been running for an hour, and there has been no sight or hinting at of Brian’s location. I feel boned by God himself, a big ‘fuck you’ as he shits on my chest. I feel worthless. I’m terrified, emotionally unstable, and about to give up, when I see a familiar baseball cap twenty feet in front of me. Holy fucking shit, there is a God.

____________________

Brian is alive, but asleep. He is passed out on a park bench, lying down face-first, missing one shoe. Hundreds of emotions overwhelm me, as I limp towards my partner. I want to scream at him: What the fuck are you doing?! Don’t you realize what could’ve happened to you?! Do you even know where you are? Do you know what the fuck I have just been through? Fucking hell that’s what! You selfish prick, I can’t believe I just… Anger, relief, and a sense of completion overcome me. I collapse from exhaustion onto the ground, nearly slamming my head into the arm of the metal bench. I sit up and turn, so that I’m sitting down with my back against the foot of the bench. I let my head fall, relaxing every muscle in my body. Pain begins to seep through everything as I wipe my face on my pants. I hear a grone behind me and turn to see Brian’s eyes peeping through his eyelids. They are bloodshot and glazed over. This fucker is still drunk. He turns over, nestling himself into a more comfortable position. I let him sleep. As I rest my head on Brian’s shoulder, I gaze skyward. Hints of light creep across the sky; the sun is beginning to rise. I let my mind go blank, breathe deep, and relax. As I free my mind, I realize that no matter how much drama, danger, chaos, and drunkenness can be packed into one night, life goes on.