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John’s kind of… drunk.
Well. Wasted, really. Super wasted.
The kind of wasted that has him sitting on the floor of a bathroom stall in a club downtown, forehead pressed against the door, contemplating just how incredibly wasted he is.
For the recored: very wasted.
He’s also alone, abandoned by Walks who’d fucked off earlier after a call from his missus. And John’s not, like, blaming him for that or anything — he’d probably do the same if he had an actual for-real adult relationship and not just, you know, the occasional hook-up that always tends to leave him feeling even more alone.
It’s just — he was counting on Walks to help him drown his sorrows after what can only be described as a really fucking shit day. There’s not even anyone else free tonight; at least, no one who’d put up with him moaning about his dickhead boss(-and-sorta-kinda-ex-boyfriend-but-not-really-its-complicated) for six-hours straight while simultaneously mainlining vodka-lemonades and Apple Sourz like the fate of the world depends on it.
He takes a sip of the sweet-tasting drink he brought into the toilet with him and contemplates staying in the cubical for the rest of his life. It wouldn’t be so bad: it’s warm, the music’s good, he wouldn’t have to pay bills or council tax. Smells a bit, but not as bad as the disabled toilet he and Walks once spent an entire night locked inside when they were still students.
That was — yeah, that was real fucking bad.
Another thing that’s real fucking bad: he’s hungry. And now he’s seeing his first real big issue with the whole moving-into-the-toilet scenario. How would he get food? The realisation dawns on him immediately: he would beg. Stick his hand out underneath the toilet door as nightclub goers filter in and out. No group of people on Earth more generous than a bunch of happy drunks in a night-club toilet.
‘Mostly this is a student club,’ he says aloud. ‘They’re proper nice, students. They’ll help me out, no problem.’
‘What?’ the person in the toilet cubical next door calls out.
John pulls his head away from the door briefly. ‘Nothing, mate,’ he calls back. ‘Just having a drunk existential crisis. Don’t mind me.’
The toilet flushes and John hears the man leave the stall. ‘No worries, fella. You carry on.’
John’s eyes land on a particularly artistic rendering of a dick drawn on the wall. He reaches up and traces it with his finger. ‘Closest I’ll get to one tonight,’ he mumbles miserably, sounding especially pathetic even to his own ears. ‘Or maybe ever.’
Another issue with the toilet proposal: no sex. He’d be known far and wide as the man who gave up sex for a lifetime of sitting on the floor in a 5-foot cubicle. His chamber of celibacy. He can just see it now: thousands of people every year embarking on a pilgrimage to catch a glimpse of the world’s biggest loser. Would do wonders for Manchester’s tourism, mind.
His eyes find the messy call me! scrawl written underneath the dick. There’s a phone number written just beside it.
Huh, he thinks, and fumbles for his phone.
It takes him ages to actually dial the number, mostly because when he’s this drunk his fingers feel like they’re about ten times bigger and fifteen times clumsier than usual. He manages it eventually, though not before having to hold his phone up against the wall to figure out if the numbers match. He lets his mind wander a little, absently counting the rings and sloppily fist-pumping when there’s a connecting click.
‘Hello?’ a voice down the other end says, soft and warm. ‘Who’s th—‘
‘Did you draw the dick?’ John asks seriously.
‘Uh. You what?’
‘The dick,’ John prompts. ‘Did you draw it?’
There’s some shuffling on the other end. Then, ‘I ain’t got a clue what you’re on about, mate.’
‘The dick. On the wall. In the toilet.’
The guy on the other end of the phone groans. ‘Chilly, is this you? I really ain’t in the mood…’
‘Who’s Chilly?’
‘He’s… a mate.’
‘Well, I’m not him. I’m John,’ John says simply. ‘Wait a second. Do you mean to tell me there’s a grown adult man walking around out there named Chilly?’
The guy snorts. ’S’a nickname. And I’m starting to get this, by the way. It’s an initiation thing, innit? You’re one of the lads.’
John traces the dick again. ‘Well, I’m a lad,’ he says absently. ‘Though maybe not one of the lads.’ He frowns. ‘And what do you mean by initiation? Are you part of a cult? Can I join?’
‘No, I — Nevermind.’ There’s a moment of silence. ‘How did you get this number?’
‘It’s written on the wall.’
‘Right.’
‘Can you tell me more about your cult?’
‘After you tell me how you got my number.’
‘Deal. So. I’m out with Walks — he’s one of my best mates. He’s pretty cool. Do you know him?’
‘I… Nah,’ the guy says, sounding vaguely amused. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Oh, well. You’d like him. Anyway, so I’m with him, and then he gets a call from his girl and leaves. Which is — it’s whatever. They’re super solid. But I’m like, I’ve been drinking. I’m drunk. I’m in the toilet on the floor and I see a drawing of a dick — it’s good by the way, you’re a great artist, or maybe you just see lots of dicks, like, on the regular — anyway, and then I saw the number and then I called and then you picked up and — are you from Birmingham, by the way? — and then you said hello and then I asked if you drew the dick and then you said I ain’t got a clue what you’re on about mate and then I said — ‘
‘You’re in Wonder,’ the guy interrupts suddenly. ‘The club.’
‘More specifically the toilets in Wonder. My new home. You can come and visit if you want.’
There’s a long, long pause. It’s so long that John almost has to check that the guy hasn’t hung up on him or anything. ‘Hello?’ he sings into the receiver. ‘Hello? Are you still here?’
‘M’still here.’
John breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Great. Lovely. What’s your name?’
There’s a beat. ‘Jack,’ he says, almost hesitant.
‘Nice name. I’m drunk.’
Jack snorts again. ‘Really? Couldn’t tell. What you been drinking?’
‘Vodka lemonade. Want some?’
‘Got work in the morning, don’t I.’
‘It’s Saturday tomorrow?’
‘I work weekends.’
John makes a face. ‘Unlucky. I hate work. If I had to work weekends I’d proper off myself.’
‘Bloody hell, man. What you do for work?’
‘I’m a physio. But I’m gonna quit.’
‘Why?' Jack asks through a yawn. 'S’not a bad job.’
‘I hate my boss. He’s a right dick.’
‘Why?’
‘He — ‘ John stops. ‘He, uh. He got engaged.’
There’s another long pause. ‘What an asshole,’ Jack says finally, barely suppressing a laugh. ‘Proper dickhead move, that. How dare he.’
John tries to laugh but he doesn’t enjoy it, mouth moving with the laugh like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
‘What about him getting engaged’s annoyed you?’ Jack sounds amused again.
‘He, like… Well, it’s complicated, I guess, uh. He and I, we were, you know, a thing. For a bit. Not real serious, proper casual, mostly. I just thought that, like, you know…’ John trails off.
It pains him inside, this. The whole thing. Something deep inside feels like it’s come undone. He didn’t know how to describe the feeling at work earlier, when he’d heard the news, and he doesn’t know how to describe it now. Sadness, maybe. Maybe something as simple as sad is enough to describe how he feels.
‘You wanted it to be more,’ Jack finishes for him, and he doesn’t sound amused anymore.
‘Kinda,’ he replies, hand coming up to rub his eyes. ‘Well, no, not really. It’s just. He didn’t, like, tell me. He didn’t tell me. Just, yeah. Wish he had. I think it would’ve told him, if it was the other way around. But s’whatever. One of them things.’ He takes a long sip of his drink. It doesn’t taste so sweet anymore. ‘But enough about me,’ he says quickly, before the reality of this can hurt him any more than it already does. ‘Why’d you draw a dick on the bathroom wall?’
‘It weren’t me that done it,’ Jack says after a second, letting the conversation move on. ‘It was my mate.’
‘Chilly?
‘Nah, different one.’
‘Well, he’s really good at drawing dicks.’
Jack sort of snorts. ‘I’ll tell him you said that.’
‘Good, he needs to know. It’s like. Art. With a lot of detail. Must’ve spent hours down here. He must see dicks on a regular basis.’
Jack begins to honest-to-god giggle. It’s kind of a laugh? But mostly a giggle. Cute, surprised. It sounds nice. John smiles proudly, feeling like he’s accomplished something.
‘Nah. Just his own, I think,’ Jack says once his giggles have subsided.
‘He must study that thing,’ John replies. ‘Like, for hours on end.’
And Jack laughs, laughs like it’s the funniest thing ever, loud and bright and real. John has never been prouder. Once the laughter’s died down, Jack says, ‘What you gonna do now?’
John rests his head on the back of the wall and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about anything. His head's beginning to hurt right in the middle above his eyes where it always gets sore when he drinks and smokes. Everything is a bit muddily, like time keeps stopping and starting. ‘I’m gonna stay here for the rest of my life,’ he mutters.
‘On the phone to me?’ Jack asks, voice teasing but soft.
‘If you’ll have me.’
There’s a pause before Jack says, ‘Yeah, go on then. Think I can handle that.’ He’s smiling, John can tell. ‘How you gonna sleep in there?’ he continues, and John can hear him shuffling around in the background.
‘Dunno. I… hadn’t thought of that. And, oh fuck, who’s gonna feed my cat?’ He lets out a little wail. He knows the battle’s lost now. No one and nothing has a hold on him like that bloody cat of his and all her — meowing and stuff. He lets out a forlorn, ‘Farewell, toilet cubicle. You served me so well.’ Then stands on wobbly legs.
Jack’s laughing on the other side of the phone. ‘You’re such a state, in’t you?’ he says. ‘What’s your cat called?’
‘Kyle,’ John replies flatly. ‘Had to name it after my mate. Lost a bet. Don’t wanna talk about it.’
‘Aight, I won’t ask.’ And he’s doing that thing again, that thing where he’s talking and smiling and John can hear it. He can hear Jack smile through the phone and it’s… nice. It's nice.
John tries to move, throwing a hand out to the wall for balance. ‘Fuck me. Everything’s spinning.’
‘One step at a time, John,’ Jack says softly. ‘Think of the cat. He needs you.’
‘He needs me,’ John echoes, and that’s enough to get him moving. He lets his legs carry him back through the club, wobbling right and lurching left like some oversized toddler learning to walk, almost tripping over his untied shoelaces.
‘There’s a good chance I’m going to be sick,’ John says relatively calmly, as the cold air hits him. It’s nearing December and chilly as hell, the air cold and wind sharp.
‘Don’t think about it. Just look for a cab,’ is all Jack says.
‘Uh, oh yeah,’ John says as he flags one down. ‘Got one.’ He hobbles into the car and gives his address to the driver, then presses his cheek to the window and closes his eyes, phone up against his ear.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ John asks thoughtfully as the car begins to rattle through the night. He hadn’t noticed the rain when he was outside, but he can hear it now, lightly hitting the roof of the car.
‘Sure,’ Jack says. ‘Anything.’
‘What did you mean by initiation?’
Jack huffs out a laugh. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘I would.’
‘I’ll tell you. Next time.’
John cracks an eye open. ‘There’s gonna be a next time?’
‘Sure. Why not. You’re a right laugh, you are.’ John hears him yawn again.
‘Sleepy?’ he asks.
‘Hmm. S’alright, though. You can stay on the line.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ Jack’s voice is almost a whisper now. Everything feels slow and warm and hazy. The streetlamp filtering in through the window, the sound of the cars driving on the other side of the street, the raindrops drumming on the car. And Jack. Jack, a stranger who doesn’t feel like a stranger, who never really did, who’s here, so close he might as well be beside him.
‘Jack?’ he says.
‘Hm?’
‘Thanks for picking up.’
A small laugh. ‘Any time.’
‘How’s tomorrow sound?’
‘After five and I’m yours.’ Smile-voice thing. John could be drunk on just that.
He leans back in his seat, feels himself smile. Maybe not such a shit day after all, he thinks, and closes his eyes to the sound of Jack's steady breaths.