" AND FUCKING STAY OUT ! "
I could feel my feet trying to gain traction on the concrete as I went skidding, slipping and sliding across the pavement. Then I felt my ankle twist as I went off the edge of the kerb.
BANG !!!!
A shudder ran through me, all the way from my knees as they hit the road to my head as it jerked around on my shoulders.
"Well, that's one way to leave the pub' " The thought bubbled, burbled up to my concious mind from somewhere beneath all of you the Guinness and whiskey and cokes. " Pretty fucking stylish too ." I tried my best to cling on to this thought in my drunken befuddlement, it was better than the reality.
Oh Shit, the reality, the last thing I remember was being involved in a stupid argument with some woman about how rap music had gone downhill and lost any integrity that it may have had at one time..
Then I stood up, in a way that I thought brought the discussion conclusively to an end. I stumbled towards the bar to get another drink, lost my footing went head firnignto a table full of drinks, the bar man grabbed me by the collarand that's where we came in.
" AND FUCKING STAY OUT ! "
I slowly manipulated myself onto my hands and knees, crawled back to the pavement. As I got to the wall of the shop next to the pub, I put my hands on the wall and slowly, carefully worked my way back to my feet.
I leaned against the wall, taking several deep breaths. In, out, in, out, in out, in, out.
Once I was sure that I wasn't going to vomit, I tried a tentative step. That went O.K., I'll try another. O.K.
Left, right, left, right, left, right.
The coloured lights outside the takeaway seemed blurry, as if I was looking at them through water.
I hobbled on down the road, pain in my knee and my palms from hitting the road.. Every few steps I stopped, wobbled slightly, reviewed my position, then slowly, uncertainly I carried on.
Let, right, left, right, left, right. I kept on repeating the rhythm in my head, it seemed to help
The bus stop looked about a hundred miles away, and at this rate it would take me the rest of the night to get there.
I could see the taxi rank,, not much nearer, but easier to get to in my state. A taxi would leave me pretty broke though.
As the thought of money entered my head, I instinctively checked my pockets for. cigarettes.
" YES " Victory ! At least I hadn't left my fags in the pub, or crushed them as I fell.
I fumbled them out of my coat pocket, felt around in my trousers for a lighter. I stopped, leaning against the wall as I struggled to get a gag into my mouth, then I had to work out the complicated mathematics involved in lighting my lighter and touching the flame to my cigarette .
That wasn't easy. I took a long, deep pull, filled my lungs and then exhaled. Wow ! That felt good !
I felt a bit more in control of the situation. If I could achieve that, I could achieve anything.
Next problem, transport.
I couldn't walk home, it was at least a couple of miles. That just wasn't possible.
The bus stop looked too far away and having to stay awake and alert so that I could see where I had to get off just seemed too much. It had to be a taxi.
I stumbled, staggered to the nearest cab, " Newchapel, please mate."
The Asian driver looked blankly at me, or it might as well have been, straight through me. I tried again type " Newchapel, mate ? "
At this, he unlocked the doors, they keep them locked most of the time, whether they are driving or not. I guess it's so that the drunks can't get IN to rob them when they are parked up, and the drunken passengers can't jump OUT to run off without paying
Anyway, I climbed in, put on my seatbelt and collapsed back into the seat with a sigh.
Off we went.
The end of another night.
Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer ( I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting, thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror Sleaze Trash .
