Avory

The midday rush hadn’t affected the quiet flow of drink in the dusky pool room of The Pelican. Although the winters sun was low and spectacularly blinding, laying siege to those who dare walk in its wake, it couldn’t penetrate the chipboard barricades that covered the only two windows in the bar, making the exterior look coarse and undesirable, and deterring many of the would-be lunch time drinkers.
         Any brave enough to venture inside didn’t stay long. It’s patrons faces were hidden beneath a thick blanket of blue smoke, emanating from smouldering cigarette ends in powdery grey ash trays and snaking seductively upwards from the blazing red embers of thick single Hamlets and lumpy liquorish roll ups, in a defiant stand against the smoking ban forcefully put in place by health conscious MP’s. However, a few steps further and the faces of these working class revolutionaries would slowly emerge, basking in the low orange glow of the tobacco stained low wattage light bulbs, and the realisation would dawn on the casual visitor that this wasn’t the sort of place that MP’s would bother themselves with. It wasn’t really the sort of place that the police would bother themselves with, either. Despite the accomplished watercolours of Cornish brooks and Cotswold springs that covered a large proportion of the available wall space, hung in greening copper frames, with yellowing price cards wedged in their bottom left hand corners, and the cracked emerald leather sofa’s, fitted tightly into stony alcoves, surrounding dark varnished oak tables, the overpowering sallow stink of deprivation hung in the air like remains of mustard gas in the rusted carcass of a disused gas chamber. This could largely be attributed to one man…
         “’N more, s-same again, barrr keep (hic)”
         Avory Lynch was drunk. Normally a concise and eloquent speaker, the copious quantities of whiskey he had greedily consumed had rendered him as verbally competent as a husky on meth. He wasn’t to mind. He had had a bad week, the third bad week of a bloody rotten month, which, now he came to think of it, was preceded by two other equally dreadful months, meaning that the last quarter could be described best, to anybody who could stand to listen to him, as the season of ill will, and to get himself in the festive mood, he decided to get himself plum tuckering shit faced.
         His tall, taught frame stooped over the whiskey splashed bar, the leather patch on the right elbow of his tweed jacket, soaking up a fresh spillage of cheap double malt, along with his striped navy and scarlet tie, askew about his neck, and growing darker at the tip as his jerky movements spread the small spillages on the surface of the bar far and wide, engulfing the remnants of ash, crisp crumbs and peanut shards, tainting them with alcohols indelible stain. His white cotton shirt, once a symbol of his pride, was now a marble work of self pity, with grey streaks of ash, and yellow rimmed burn holes from fumbled cigarettes, greasy smears of mayonnaise on his lapel, and hanging, caught between his fly, a small yellowed triangle from his last trip to the gents. His pressed black nylon trousers told much of the same tale, as did his turd encrusted shoes.
         Originally, when he entered the bar, he was in possession of a smart leather brief case, with 18 carat gold catches and a purple velvet lining, but hours of having focused on nothing other than the fluid levels of the spirit bottles on the wall, had led to him neglecting to notice it’s disappearance, which would have upset him somewhat, seeing as inside, buried amongst the creased and torn, coffee stained pages of his Big Presentation, was a three quarter full pocket flask of vodka, now discarded on the bedroom floor of a post-coital teenage couple.
         But instead of taking time to notice, he remained, locked in a duel between the forces of chemistry and biology, winning each small battle, but loosing the war, as well as his dignity, and, as he knocked back another neat double, one of his shoes.
         Slowly and unsteadily, he raised himself up from a slouch, to standing strait for all but ten degrees, not so much as leaning on his outstretched arms, as trying to hold himself up against the current he felt flowing from the bar, pushing against the chest and knees.
         It didn’t take long for the force of the tide to overwhelm his already emaciated arms, and he flailed backwards into the centre of the mostly empty room, the eyes of it’s occupants briefly observing his change of place, but soon looking away. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen Avory Lynch’s drunken barn dance before; he’d been doing it every day for the last two and half weeks. It was a wonder to most of them that he hadn’t got himself run over or mugged, and jokes had stated to circulate as to where about he slept at night, and who with. One observer, however, kept watching.
         Avory didn’t notice. The world was running around him in circles as he searched the walls for the door to the toilets. He spotted a sign with a blue silhouette of a rooster, and ‘Cocks’ written in a mock hand written font, but couldn’t grasp the complex iconography until one of the shady characters from the bar lumbered out of the lavatory, readjusting the line of his waistband. He fell forward, staggering towards the door, the pressure of his bladder against his hip the only thing his thumping, blurry mind could concentrate on.
         He reached the door, and leant, allowing his weight to force it open. It obliged, giving no resistance, and he fell though the entrance way, his left jaw crunching under the impact as his face collided with the cold white of the ceramic tiled walls, leaving a small streak of blood as his fragile skin split viciously open . Avory didn’t care, he just pushed himself up, bouncing like a ping pong ball off of the now closed door, and travelled smoothly through the thin puddle of urine, to the stainless steel urinal. The urge to relax his bladder had become stronger than the will of Zeus, and warm, wet urine began to rundown his leg, soaking into the front of his trousers, before his clumsy hands could fumble his flaky penis out into the bleach and piss scented atmosphere of the restroom.
         Behind him, as he stood swaying slightly, drawing figure of eights, the lavatory door opened, briefly allowing the soft chatter float through from the bar, filling the room, and a shabbily dressed individual entered, swinging the door shut behind him, cutting the noise, and took up place to Avory along the steel convenience.
         Both men stood there, silently relieving themselves of their previous indulgencies, making no acknowledgement of each others presence, until the stranger packed away his piece, and walked over to the basin to wash his hands. Avory remained standing, confusing the sound of the running tap for his own relief, unaware that he himself had stopped just before the stranger. The stranger turned to leave, but as he reached out to pull the door to, he retracted his hand and put his index finger against his bottom lip questioningly, looking back at Avory. He held the pose for a moment, and smiled to himself, as an idea formulated in his head. 
           “See you outside, Avory” he said in a cheerfully dry tone, and snapped his fingers as he exited.
         “How do you-“ stuttered Avory looking back towards the door, momentarily unaware of any change, but the stranger was gone.
         However, just as he noticed the strangers absence, he also noticed several other immediately distressing facts. The first thing he noticed was the smell. The stench of piss and whiskey burned and insulted his nostrils, as did the subtle nuances of dog shit and dried vomit that were emanating from his remaining shoe, forcing him to wretch, and swallow back the whiskey tasting puke that arrived at the back of his mouth, setting fire to his tonsils.
         The second thing he noticed, almost immediately after noticing the smell, was how troublingly damp the front of his trousers were. It didn’t take a genius to realise how they had got that way, and as panic filled his gut, threatening to rise, as the freight train hit him and the pain of dehydration started throbbing relentlessly behind his eyes.
    Realisation finally dawned. Although he couldn’t understand how it happened, and as far as he was aware, it was scientifically impossible without the use of some expensive equipment or chemicals, it definitely had happened. He was sober.
         The panic that had gathered in his gut finally erupted, and he began rapidly pacing up and down the bathroom, trying to recall what had happened in the last two minutes, but completely failed to recollect the stranger’s presence. As he paced, his trousers stuck to the front of his skinny legs, outlining them against the shiny damp nylon, the wet material sliding up and down his thigh, cold and heavy. Revolted by the feel of them, Avory pinched the tops of the wet patches, and continued pacing, waddling like a duck straddling a barrel. 
         He walked back towards the basin, leaning into the mirror and despaired at the shadow looking back at him. How many days had he been drinking? One? Two? More? He wasn’t even sure it was days, maybe weeks. The stubble on his face was more than just a five o’clock shadow, it was a full beard, complete with remnants of kebab, mucus, fag ash and-
         ‘Is that blood?’ he thought
    His skin was red and puffy, and had developed a film of grease making it shine under the artificial lighting of the florescent bulb hanging overhead.
    His eyes told the worst tale. Not only were they bloodshot, and thumping from the inside, but the once brilliant whites were now a tarnished yellow, as though he had tainted them with his nicotine stained fingers.
         His heart fell further, and he started to asses the scale his predicament. He was in the bathroom of a rough downtown bar, mid afternoon, covered in a wide pallet of bodily fluids, jobless, probably homeless (if he wasn’t yet, he had a feeling he soon would be) and painfully, painfully sober.
         He knew that he couldn’t stay in the bathroom, at the very least it would look suspicious, and nobody likes a peeping tom. No, he had to venture outside, but that of course had its’ own complex set of problems and, more importantly, consequences. Firstly, if anybody he knew saw him, what could he say? He couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth, and even if he could, the fractured memories of the recent weeks would make his rendition sound akin to the ramblings of the long term committed.
         Secondly, he wasn’t really sure where he was, or how exactly to get home, and although his appearance and fetid odour would be enough to deter even the most desperate of thieves, he still didn’t fancy the idea of aimlessly wandering through the town, especially at night.
         ‘If I were to get arrested though…’
         Capturing the attention of the police and spending the night and day in a cell held a certain appeal, and Avory began weighing up the consequences of tarnishing his unblemished criminal record against the possibility of free food and maybe a change of clothes, yet brushed the idea aside, understanding that as a drunkard, he could quite easily get himself arrested, and make quite a star studded spectacle of himself in the process, but sober…
         The image of him stumbling up to a park squad car, leaning in the window and trying to negotiate his way into handcuffs, floated across his mind, and he became brutally away that the closest he would come to his desired result would be a point in the direction of the nearest soup kitchen.
         Yet he was certain about one thing; he needed to escape the bathroom. He peeled his moist palms from the cold tiles, pushing himself upright as he did so, and walked to the looming oak stained door. He reached out, grasping the brass handle, pausing a moment to take a breath, and pulled the door open an inch, allowing him to see into the bar. Little had changed. The constant murmur of conversation flowed undisturbed like a rhythmic motif, with the tinkling melody of ice hitting the rims of glasses playing softly over the top, punctuated by a captivating chorus of laughter from the barman, Avory stared out, mesmerised by the stasis that had gripped the bar. How long had he been in the bathroom?  Was it minutes? Seconds? Hours, even? Nobody had come or gone, that much he could gather, but he hadn’t bridged a friendship with any of them for them to care what had happened to him, regardless of the amount of time he had spent in the bathroom. He counted half a dozen bodies by the bar (unaware of the watchful eyes of the stranger), and closed the door softly so it made the quietest of knocks as the wood hit the frame. Nobody at the bar noticed.
           He rested his back against the wall, smudging the coagulated streak of blood, the tail of his shirt absorbing most of it.  He began to asses his options, which didn’t take long as it was quite apparent that he only had the one. It was a simple enough idea, it just involved him walking across the bar, through the door, down the street to the worst smelling payphone he could find, and make a couple of calls. So long as he could get to a payphone, one possessing the regulation acrid odour of ammonia, he could mask the scent of his own deprivation, and maybe passers by would confuse him for a lost stag, or the office clown on the regular morning after excursion.     
         ‘Easy’ he told himself, wiping the clammy sweat from the palms of his hands on the front of his trousers, in hard strokes, scratching long red lines into his thighs with his sharp uncultured nails.
         He reached out again for the door handle, taking another deep breath, and pausing for a moment, before pulling the door towards him and stepping out into the main bar. He stood still, his body quivering with anxiety, before gingerly manoeuvring himself towards the door. He walked stiffly, his face directly forward, his eyes flitting between the exit and the huddled group at the bar.
    As he walked he could feel the eyes of hundreds burning into the back of his neck, the temptation to turn around and confront them over whelming, but he managed to control himself, comforted by the knowledge that the crowds of observers where just a by product of his paranoia.          
         The further forward he got, the easier it became. The cold stiffness of his knees warmed, and his tight right-angle shoulders began to soften and fall. He became elated at the glowing prospect that his goal was obtainable, and started to walk faster, the beginnings of a broad victorious grin twitching at the sides of his mouth. His arms began to swing by his sides, and the slipping of his damp heavy trousers no longer bothered him. Within the seconds the door was only feet away from him, and he lifted his arm, holding out his hand in anticipation of grasping the cold greening copper coat of the steel handle. Soon enough the cold metal was a reality, it’s smooth edges teased the skin on his palm like the play of a flirtatious geisha, making him tighten his grip, denying it any impromptu escape. The grin finally broke out into a fully blown smile, but it was short lived as a familiar voice mocked hoarsely,
         “Hey Avory, I got some spare trousers if you want ‘em? Sit your pissy arse down here, and I’ll let you try ‘em on!
         Avory froze, and heard the movement of half a dozen bodies turning in their seats to witness the sight what the stranger called his ‘pissy arse’. The smile fell, as did the colour of his cheeks, and all his joints felt like they were lubricated with scrambled egg. Embarrassment bloomed across his face, its roots reaching around his chest, tightening, the impact of the stranger’s words, winding him. His bladder became a weight, holding him to the spot, but was quickly dispelled as the even heavier weight of his fear forced another barrel load of urine ran down his legs and into his trousers. His shame was too much, and he burst through the doors, rallying a scream of despair as he fled down the street, the laughter of the patrons running through his head.
         The stranger leant back into his chair, and held his empty glass up, waving it in the direction of the bar, smiling profusely with the knowledge that Avory would never touch another drink again.
         “Another blackcurrant if you would, Roy”