Time's Arrow

I say, “Officers,” because there are two of them. Then I say, “Officer, I’m fine, officer.” I have no idea what I have done wrong, but a policeman is there, pushing me down on the cool grass. I see the flashing light, and close my eyes. I hear the sharp burst of the siren.

When I open my eyes again, a fog has fallen. A few street lights throb in the dark. The hotel across the street tilts in defiance of gravity. I stand up and walk to clear my head, but walking makes it worse. Under the awning of the bar, Brian tells me I’m barred, but he pulls me inside, all the way to the bathroom, where I sit until the walls slow down, the white tiles appear, and the ice in my temple thaws.

I find my way to the bar. I fill a short glass quickly and hand it over to Keith, who hands back ten dollars and an empty glass. I wonder if the second, larger glass is mine, as I fill it half way. I move quickly towards Larry, who acts sober enough, then pretends to be drunker than he is, and then I slowly make my way towards Robbie. Keith gives me more money, a fistful of scrunched bills, and then says my money has run out.

Robbie and I watch, as the sound of glass being remade, a splashed cymbal in reverse, announces Larry’s decision to pacify a rival drunkard at the bar. He over-sways, hands out of sight, faking a drunker self so the headbutt won’t be expected, but he quickly stops swaying, gets back on the stool, and the noise of the bar starts up again.

I look at the crossword with a view to erasing it. Half of it seems to be written in a foreign language, Latin-based, maybe, but even then with the alphabet shuffled, in code, not crossword code, but military code. “So the barman gave her one,” says Robbie.

I put one pint glass after the other onto the bar, and Keith clears them as quick as I can put them there. The crossword clues are difficult. I have two answers for seventeen across – I prefer “fuckwit” to “asshole,” but neither has a “q” in it, and neither will fit in the six blank squares of the grid provided for seventeen across. For a while, I speak to a girl who noisily pulls up a chair to my left. God knows what she’s angry about, but the longer I speak to her the more she seems to calm down.

Robbie comes in with a book. He reads a lot. He’s a good person to drink with because he reads when he’s drinking. Sometimes he can’t help recounting a curious ending and insisting on working you back to the mundane beginning of it, but mostly he is happy to sit beside you and read. Robbie says, “A woman walked into a bar and asked for a double-entendre.” And then he goes back to the book.

The sunlight streams in, refracted by all the crap on the high windows. The crossword clues get easier. Gain nothing for inebriate, four letters. The setter should be working for the tabloids. Keith hands me a large bill. I say, “Let me know when that runs out.”

I give up my place at the bar, as more and more people come in, taking up stools, sending back food. I leave the place, and look on over from across the street. I check my watch. I have a number of options. There's plenty of time.