A Toast To His Demise

He sits quietly in the passenger seat, nodding his agreement and mumbling words of apology more for his own benefit than that of his friend in the driver's. They've been talking so long the Driver has turned off the car altogether, and they sit in near darkness but for the glow of the streetlights outside, idling, doing nothing but run down the battery. A lot of what's said has been done so before, and (he thinks) will probably be again sometime down the line, but he doesn't say this; he barely even wants to believe it let alone admit it. So instead he listens as lines are drawn before him, as his latest offenses are added to the list that has already grown uncomfortably long.

I am neither the Driver, nor the Passenger, and i am both of them. I see where they both stand; separated by no more than a handbrake and a few feet of air, but threatening to be by much more if something does not change. The Driver, perhaps, has lost faith in the other, and maybe more than a little respect, though the most he says is 'disappointed'. And the Passenger? He feels these things too. The week passed he has directed them inwards; a loathing only hinted at in any other guilt he has fouind here in full-force, and maybe this is why he lets me write it down.

The night begins, as most others have, at Jim's place; Morgan (who they call 'the Captain', though not for any leadership role played) and Carly are already there, with Bundy on his way They are excited for the night ahead, smoothing hands over their suits, admiring Carly in her dress, making crude comments all round for a laugh. Jim passes out shots of Beam, they raise them to the night, and only half-jokingly Jim and the Captain lock eyes with the Passenger, "Take it easy this time", and he rolls his eyes in response, more than a little irritated they don't trust him. "Come off it, yeah?" he laughs, and in unison they throw their heads back, cringing slightly as the liquor burns their throats.
What's worse than their reminder of past mistakes, he tells later, is that it spurs him to prove them wrong.
They cab to the Ball and waltz into a room full of unfamiliar faces, not caring but to spend the time with each other they seem to have less and less of these days. Of course, the open bar helps to smooth their tongues to new people, and before long the volume of the evening goes up a notch. Meals are served, and a waiter passes by with drinks. Jim instinctively aims for the bourbon, while Bundy and the Captain ask for rum, but must settle for scotch (which doesn't upset them so much as a compromise), and Carly is content with draught beer. The Passenger, though, says something altogether different, and much more dangerous: "Surprise me". And with a smile, the waiters and waitresses oblige. Soon he wears a second tie around his head like a bandana, his voice raises to a near shout when he communicates, and he has several drinks in front of him, "to keep my options open", he says.
Time plays tricks, and he's on the dance floor, Jim and Carly are nearby, and he holds his hand up to them in waiting as he knocks back the rest of the liquid n his glass, mouth open so wide that he crunches on ice as he swallows before heading in to join them; he doesn't want to risk spilling any amongst the bump and grind of drunk uni students. Carly genuinely laughs, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder, he hears, or thinks he hears "real man" amongst her praise, and he plays along, flirting more than a little, unaware of Jim's guarded stare. Later he stands with his friends in the parking lot, all out for a smoke, but slightly apart from them, and words spill out instead. "Seeing you tonight... makes me remember..." and he almost tells Carly what he feels, but for his stumbling sentence that tells him he's not yet confident enough, and on his way back he stops at the bar, and asks once more to be surprised.
And he is.

He feels like he's walking around with his eyes closed, hearing more than he sees. "Come on mate!": it is his own voice. "Get him home safely": Bundy. "I thought you were staying out": his Father. The words seem mumbled, or like they're heard through a door, and it frustrates him as he keeps trying to come back to those moments. But the one that disturbs him most, the one that will haunt him, is the one he hears clearly. Jim shouting, like a knife cutting right through the darkness, "WHY DO YOU ALWAYS FUCKNG DO THIS!?"

It is the Captain who sits n the driver's seat a week later and fills in the gaps for him. Apparently he'd made it to the end of the Ball, at times seated with up to six drinks in front of him, continually grabbing Carly inappropriately as she spoke to someone else, and while everyone went to the after-party, he passed out on a couch in the foyer. When his friends finally came out looking for him, they find him in a shouting match with a bouncer. They try to reason with him, and in the excitement he vomits on the bouncer.
Bundy and Jim pack him on his way, paying the cabbie $50 to get him back safely, and after he's gone Jim doesn't let up. The Captain is glad the Passenger remembers the shouting, that something broke through his stupor. Jim has talked to the Passenger, many times, like the Captain does now. But he had never gone off like he did that night. So here the Captain sits, for it seems Jm has washed his hands of him, and he is straight with him. "You keep dong this... we just won't invite you out anymore. It's not a threat", he threatens, "just a fact".

"On its own", he says later, never looking directly at me, but instead intent on studying his cigarette, "it doesn't sound like too much, yeah? A pain in the arse for sure, but they're looking too much into it. Just a big night that went a little overboard". But he knows this is hardly the case. What if they told you then how this was only one in a long line of such times, or when sometimes he'd call when they weren't around to brag about how much he'd had. Even then, he tells me, he felt the need to show them how wrong they were about him; he could hold himself when they weren't around. t was, he reflects, more for his own benefit that that of his friends. Yet all it did was to confirm for them what practice and experience had already said in far less words. On how he'd never listen, never learn, and they'd always pay. In cab rides, and humour.

And the Captain goes quiet for a second, staring at him from the driver's seat with serious eyes, though he hesitates over the words, "Do you... have a problem?" The Passenger almost scoffs at it, "Come on... it's not that serious... nothing so cliche", yet even he's not convinced.

So he'll make his promises, to himself and to his friends, he'll imagine that his small income will keep him in check, and that he'll be the one watching out for them next time. And he'll try his best to keep them.
But in some small corner inside, he knows he'll be right back here, with enough time. Maybe his friends do too, only half-joking as they raise their glasses, knowing he won't change, though they'll keep telling him to, though he'll keep telling himself he needs to.
Though he'll never say as much.