He leans over and casually checks his boots for splatterings as he types away on his laptop.
“That third Vodka drink, before even leaving their house for the bar,” he thinks to himself, “probably wasn’t the best idea.” Chuckling quietly, he figures that the Orange Juice must have accounted for the color and viscosity of the previous night’s oral eruptions.
Friday evening, he and his beautiful wife had gotten cleaned up, or put The Hotness On in her case, and headed over to ThirdSister and Bear’s place in Fremantle for an evening of drunken catching up. ThirdSister had greeted them with extremely strong Screwdrivers and a fist-sized ball of puppy that provided much entertainment.
Live music and much alcohol at Clancy’s were followed by our hero’s forgetfulness at the increased alcohol content of certain local brews such as “Smoky Bishop,” the lack of a meal in his belly, and the volume of Vodka that WAS already in it.
At the evening’s end, the fact that he got so emotional should’ve been a sure sign that he and his wife had entirely too much to drink, but it was as they lovingly braced each other onto the train for home that he first came to that realization. His head lolled onto his wife’s shoulder and he pleasantly dozed after assuring her that he was “jezz feen.”
He was incorrect, of course, and was awakened unpleasantly by the loudest, most obnoxious, teeny-boppin’ idiot on the train, who was apparently telling a story involving her phone, a boy, or both. He felt his wife’s tender hands covering his ears as she braced his unstable head on her shoulder and he KNEW that he wasn’t alright, and his drool only compounded this notion.
It wasn’t quite panic that jolted him from his seat, but the simple fact that it would be far more prudent to be Not Alright somewhere other than on the train. He informed his wife of his need to exit and made for the quickly closing door. Too late, as it turned out, and he gritted his teeth in frustration as the train pulled away from the station.
“How far is the next station? Can I make it? Is that empty Doritos bag on the floor watertight, and how much can it hold?” were all questions swimming murkily around in his addled brain.
As he stood against the train’s door in defeat, the windows felt cool and comforting on his forehead as much as his wife’s loving hands rubbing his back. Then, the train jolted, and the former comfort was quickly substituted with serious discomfort as he groaned and his stomach gurgled.
“Don’t worry mate,” he heard a young Aussie voice say laughingly, “you can spew soon!”
He turned with a drunkenly wry smile and was greeted with 4 excited-looking faces of other youngish folks making their way home on the last train from the bar. He would’ve laughed, as he genuinely found the statement quite funny, but similar to picking up the Doritos bag in preparation, it wouldn’t have been a good idea for his poor soured innards.
More words of encouragement, or of mocking even, may have been uttered in his direction, but he wasn’t able to hear anything over the constant battle with his digestive system and it’s reguratory needs.
Salvation came in the form of the train’s brakes squealing, but his stomach only jolted further as the doors opened and he was greeted with a windowed booth full of Police Officers across the platform. He spotted a suitable vomit receptacle in the form of a rubbish bin, and began making his way towards it with serious intent, when the constrictive powers of his throat finally lost their battle with his explosively upset belly.
How he missed not only his chest and legs, but his boots as well, is still a mystery to him as he currently sits and types away on this rainy morning. His wife, who is normally someone that feels moderately uncomfortable around a puker, was undeterred as his night’s worth of poor judgment erupted onto the tile of the empty train platform. She lovingly rubbed his shoulders as he finished off his Technicolor Yawn into the large metal cylinder and he couldn’t have been more appreciative of her.
Any hope that he went relatively unnoticed on the train, or at least didn’t make a complete spectacle of himself, was totally shattered as he heard the Youngish Ones cheering loudly as the train doors closed and pulled away. Once again he was tempted to either laugh, or at least raise his fist in mock triumph, but his body was fighting yet another battle involving his internal workings and their associated openings.
“I need a toilet honey,” he slurred while wiping his mouth off. She nodded affectionately, assuming he wished to wash his mouth out, and started aim him towards the most likely place. There were none nearby however, and the thought that the Cops behind the glass were now working their way around to arrest his PubliclyDrunkenSelf was enough to hasten their exit just as much as his G.I. tract’s incessant urgings.
His wife, who was almost as drunk as he was, still held his arm and compassionately led him towards a set of stairs as he repeated his request, only with a much deeper sense of urgency so that it there would hopefully be no misinterpretations, “I need a toilet honey.”
Her eyes widened comprehendingly and they frantically hurried to the elevator, eventually ending up outside the station after a fruitless search for the facilities.
Relief was gained, though the “wheres” and “hows” are not suitable to be shared publicly, and the better part of his consciousness left him for the evening as soon as his head hit his wife’s lap in the back seat of the taxi.
As he stirs chocolate powder into his milk the next morning and begins breakfast preparations, he vehemently denies his wife’s urgings to take something medicinal for his tympanic head.
“Honey,” he says self-punishingly, “if I take pills to make it go away, how will I ever learn not to do it again?”
She smiles lovingly through her own hazy, bleary-eyed, thundering headache and says, “Baby, you’re 31… do you really think you’re ever going to learn? Now shut up and let me look after you.”
He grudgingly and internally admits that she’s right, of course, and accepts that the only true hangover cure that he can think of is a big greasy breakfast, his children being unusually quiet, junk food, a good movie playing, and cuddling with the love of his life.
And he’s right.