On the shoulder

Brandon wished he'd stop drinking more than he fantasized about sleeping with Janelle until he saw her in a sparkly dress at the holiday party. He wanted to be trapped in a snow globe with her, and his eyes followed her greeting each coworker in the room as if she were a shooting star burning across the clear night sky. Her shoulders were tanned and perfectly shaped. He lusted over their roundness and how they seemed to glisten when the light hit them. They were like the tops of cupcakes and just as sweet, he was sure. He was standing with his back to the bar holding a soda water with lime, when she noticed him. His face went flush, and he smiled at her in embarrassment, feeling unworthy of her. 

Without the benefit of liquid courage to combat his nerves, he was hopeless and at a loss for words when she finally said hello and gave him a soft hug. There was a terribly awkward pause that he swore stopped conversation in the bar. The cold sweat on his forehead was like rain on the window. When he finally managed to unclog his throat, he offered such a weak response that he felt like a student giving their teacher the wrong answer.

 "What are you drinking? "she asked as she inched closer to the bar.

"Club soda," he said. 

"You don't drink?" She asked, waving her hand at the bartender. 

The question caught Brandon off guard. He did drink. He drank too much, too often, and 

too hard, like a skull smashing against concrete-only saying no just then, he worried, would make it seem like he had a problem, which he didn't want her to know. 

"No, I drink," he said. 

Janelle was looking just over his shoulder as he replied Was he invisible? He shifted awkwardly before her, lifting his left leg and bending it like he was doing a quad stretch. I'm 'like a god damn Flamingo, he thought, and quickly put his foot back down. 

"What do you want?" Janelle asked him. 

The last time Brandon drank, he ripped his TV off the wall. He shouldn't drink. Then, a devil on his shoulder, one of many that stood there, told him he could quit in the New year. The devil argued it would be better then: a fresh start.

 "I'll have what you're having." 

It rained harder outside. The bar was loud with holiday music, chatter, and the steady clanking of utensils, glasses, and plates. The school they worked for hadn't rented out the bar, but there were at least a dozen or more teachers, and the space was filling up fast. The windows became painted with steam. Above all the noise, Brandon heard a roaring stream of water from a clogged gutter splattering onto the sidewalk. It was constant, but that wasn't all that distracted him. There was also the drinking and the continual ordering of another drink (he'd switched from red wine to whiskey), and he was most distracted with keeping track of Janelle. The first hour or so, he stole glances at Janelle, but after several drinks, he began watching her so obviously that one of his colleagues, Jeff, turned over his shoulder to see what had Brandon's attention. Jeff saw he was mesmerized by a group of female coworkers.  

He asked, "Are you ok, man?" 

Brandon's drinking became out of control. As he reached his seventh whiskey, his personality transformed. Everyone he'd interacted with earlier, who he was speaking to again, noticed it and talked in hushed tones about him as he slunk around the bar, spilling his drink. Unlike the beginning of the night when Brandon latched onto whoever was willing to offer him their time, he now effortlessly bounced from group to group like Mario jumping from cloud to cloud to skip to the next level. And though he no longer had anxiety about his interactions with his peers, he still was unhappy. No one was worthy of him, and all of them were boring. He found that the women talked about giving birth or home decoration, and the men only talked about sports. He yearned to see Janelle, believing conversation with her would be worthwhile and prove people weren't all a waste of time. He tried to go to her, but she never stayed still for long enough.

 Janelle levitated, sliding from group to group like she was being pulled on invisible rails. When he was finally near her, he became shy and decided that the moment wasn't right; it wasn't perfect enough. What was perfect was cloudy to him, like trying to recall a dream, but he knew he wanted her to be alone and that he needed another drink. He had a sensation inside him that he mistook for intuition; he thought if he could profess his love privately, she would reciprocate.

Brandon wobbled forward and back as he ordered another Maker's Mark from the bartender; it reminded him of the holidays. Perhaps it was the way red wax clung to the bottle's neck like a fly to a spider's web or the caramel color of the booze inside (the nectar of love). Or maybe, it was because Maker's Mark was the last thing he saw his uncle drink the night he crashed his car in the Caldecott tunnel. The bartender didn't care how Brandon enjoyed Maker's Mark. He also didn't care for Brandon. 

"I'm cutting you off," he said. 

Brandon didn't understand, "It's an open bar." 

"Closed for you," the bartender said, sliding a glass of water to him and then moving on to someone else. 

Brandon's self-conscious eyes rolled around like a Ferris wheel to inspect if anyone had seen the exchange. Of course, no one from this school knew about his drinking problem, and he had to keep it that way this time. The exchange brought a moment of sobriety or at least clarity to him. He should leave the party, he thought, before he got into any trouble. He left the glass of water untouched and turned to exit the bar.

The windows were gray, and people's faces were sweaty from indulgence. Brandon's legs felt loose. He tried hard not to stumble as he walked through the crowd. The room was swirling, and his reality was distorted, presenting him with something like the ballroom scene in Titanic, not real life, red and jolly. If anyone spoke directly to him as he tried to exit the room, he didn't know. His vision seemed to swoop around each group like a bird with a GoPro attached to its head. He was nauseous, but he promised he would not puke since he was so close to the exit.  

He reached the hallway to leave the bar and saw the bouncer sitting on a stool. He looked like he used to be a powerlifter in a rock band. Beyond his thinning hair, he saw the rain coming down hard. It was good, he thought, to get out now and leave without saying goodbye; it was better than embarrassing himself. Suddenly his eyes focused on a shimmering object in his peripheral. It was Janelle, and she was alone, waiting for the restroom. She was just there like a girl in a movie waiting for her prince charming. He was attracted to her like a fish to a lure. Any thought of leaving the party or trying to save face disappeared; this was his shot, and he swam to her. 

Janelle's face lit up when Brandon said hello. She was so nice and radiated joy, youth, and pleasure, which Brandon desperately wanted. 

"Hi, again," she said to him, "fun party." 

Brandon swayed. This moment was his chance, "Berry Good night. Or sure."

It was like he'd just come from the dentist, and his mouth was full of Novocaine. The words coming out of his mouth sounded nothing like his own. 

He tried to speak again, first clearing his throat, but he slurred and what he said was not what he wanted to say aloud, "You look so pretty, Janelle, like a sexy sparking fairy." 

Janelle's face went from pleasant to concerned and maybe even annoyed. 

Brandon felt rejected. His reasonable side told him to calm down, but his lips were already flapping, "Don't look like that, Janelle," he leaned toward her, "It's a compliment."

She backed away. The bathroom door opened, and Jeff came out. 

"Hello," Jeff said enthusiastically. 

Brandon didn't want Jeff to ruin his only chance to speak with her. He thought she didn't get it; he was a good choice for her. She just needs to understand that. 

He grabbed her wrist. 

Jeff raised his eyebrows. 

"What are you doing, Brandon? Let go," Janelle screamed. 

Jeff pulled them apart and put his hand on

 Brandon's chest.

 "Janelle, I just want to talk," Brandon pleaded.

"Go home, Brandon, "She said, "You're drunk." 

Brandon didn't like when people called him drunk.

His face got red. There was a devil on his shoulder again, and it was talking to him. The words were familiar. It said burn it down, Brandon. You don't need these people. They don't get you. 

Brandon shouted, "Get off me," and slapped Jeff's hand off his chest. He stood there panting like he was about to attack. Jeff held his hands out, "Dude go home." 

"Dude, Go home," Brandon mimicked. 

He looked at Janelle for the last time. He thought she probably tasted like vanilla. His mouth salivated. The bouncer had left his post by the door and asked the group if everything was alright. Jeff and Janelle looked at Brandon to answer. 

He was furious, and his mouth was watering. For fuck sake, he thought, this isn't a big deal. He opened his mouth, "For fuck-" and then vomited and fell to the floor. It was sticky like blue tape and wet from the rain dragged in on people's shoes. He threw up again and felt the heat of his bile roll down his chin. He tried to look up at Janelle, perhaps to say he was sorry, but before he could, the bouncer grabbed him by the back of his sweater and carried him to the front door. In the blur of what we saw, he made out his coworkers, watching him in disappointment. The men had their arms crossed; the girls covered their mouths. 

He was thrown outside on the sidewalk on his hands and knees. The rain pelted his back. He stayed there for a while, like a baby learning how to crawl. The cold felt suitable for some reason. He decided to lie down. He put his cheek on the concrete. He knew it was dirty, but what else was there for him? Something told him this was it. He wasn't meant to be sober. He wasn't meant to have a girl like Janelle. All he needed was the bottle. At least he could count on that. 

Jeff came outside and tried to help him up, but Brandon stayed glued to the sidewalk, letting the world soak him. He shouted, "I deserve it here." 

Jeff begged him to stand and told him it would be alright, but Brandon didn't budge. Jeff rushed back inside to get help. The devil on Brandon's shoulder demanded he got a drink. He was going to listen. He got up and stumbled away from the bar. When Jeff came out again, Brandon was gone. He never saw Brandon again.