How Junk

I stagger, a nuclear powered furnace of intoxicated incapability. The world is my slightly blurred, slowly spinning oyster, and I intend to do to it whatever it is one does to oysters at one am in the morning. I know there is something I should be doing, or somewhere I should be going, but I’ll be damned if I know what. So I do the next best thing: I choose the direction which has the brightest lights, and walk.
    Beneath my feet the pavement twists and whirls in a weird, elusive dance. I know I am moving far too fast for gravity to catch me; excitement gives my feet wings, and I speed across the street to where a gaily glowing lamp post beckons invitingly. For a moment the world tilts, and then, somehow, miraculously, I am sitting on the side of the road. My subconscious mind, in its eternal calm sobriety, must have taken control and slowly, elegantly, lowered me to the kerb. In my mind’s eye, I am the very embodiment of soft grace and unexpected co-ordination. I feel so proud of myself that I begin to sing, of far away places and long ago times; of masters and of puppets, and of monstrous things beneath my bed. I sing of a man drinking a whiskey drink, and then a vodka drink, and some other drinks I don’t seem able to remember. And then I round off my Bacchanalian opera with the point of it all, the veritable crux of the matter: getting knocked down, and then getting back up again. No-one, ever, is gonna keep me down.
    But someone is standing in front of me now, looking worried in the orange light. A girl, my age or thereabouts. Is this one of my friends? They ask me if I am alright, and I decide that whatever they were prior to this moment, they are my friend now anyway. No matter if they weren’t one of the ones that I wasn’t looking for; because of her being in the right place at the right time, this concerned young lady is now absolved of all her sins and reborn into a nameless place in my heart. Arms around me help me lurch to my feet, and I rejoice in the fact of being alive. It all hits me at once – the cool night air, the warmth of a stranger’s hand, the wonderful glow of the streetlight. And all at once, my love for the world resolves itself into something able to be expressed. I step forward, confident, looking at the object of my affection. I wrap my arms around the light-post, and close my eyes in bliss.
    What follows is a montage of scenes and faces and places, rendered in Picasso-like abstraction. I float in and out of understanding, often feeling just on the verge of discovering the meaning of life, the universe and everything. Evidently, I have mentioned this to someone, because the number 42 is drawn in lipstick on the back of my hand. I frown. Both hands, by the looks of things. And up my arms. A sudden, bleak, euphoria-shattering thought strikes me like an arrow between the eyes.
    I am drunk.
    And then the montage resumes, this time involving lots of crying, and hugging, and leaving somewhere extremely quickly, and finding a group of people in a backyard. They have music, and I am happy again.
    And then I am standing on a table and everyone is looking at me. How did I get here? Where is here? Who are all these people? I’m sure I recognise a couple of faces in the crowd below. Everyone seems to be expecting something. I’m not sure what they want, but a horrible feeling welling up inside me tells me what they’re going to get. So I do the only thing left to me. I gesture wildly and run towards a dark corner of something. And then I empty my stomach. I hurl, vomit, puke, and spew my guts out. And then I fall to the ground, a smile on my face.
    My work here is done. Tomorrow, I will wake up somewhere near my bed, and I will only remember the good bits. I think its starting to rain.
    I hope its starting to rain.