'My God!' He is drunk as a lord. 'Blame it to Carrie, cause she forgot my fucking birthday.'
His head feels like pudding, as if his alcohol drowned brain cells are dancing salsa. Sledging their pitiless rhythm. Again, and again, and again.
He's sitting in a bar in North Bethesda. A place where you REALLY need to get drunk to forget the misery around you. Most guests are male whites who perfectly match to the shabby look of the bar. The few females could be best described as sluts. Some of them have gone far beyond their expiry date. Sam, the bartender, is not the talkative type of his fellow species. Most times he prefers to communicate with his guests using different sorts of grunts. Which fits to his appearance. He looks like huge teddy bear. Wookiee style. But don't get it wrong. If he gets pissed at you, you might hope you could vanish from earth. Beam me up, Scotty.
Our dearest friend Peter Quinn is sitting on his bar stool since hours. Drinking bourbon, tequila, beer, vodka, all mixed up. Following a last-ditch strategy to shut down all this little dancing brain cells that are whispering 'Carrie, Carrie, Carrie!' Celebrating his birthday. Yeah!
'Fucking Carrie.'
He has hoped the whole week she would stretch out her arms to him. Ask him for a date after he placed the hint about his birthday. But she fucking ignored it. Today she has told him how busy she's with preparing her departure to Kabul (he believes this, yes he does) and the arrival of the baby (he doubts this). Giving her time for nothing else (especially no time for him).
Well, time and tide wait for no man or woman. But damn he would wait for her, right? There is nothing to stop his desire. Nothing. The alcohol would just stop his grief and despair for a couple of hours. And then? It would come back. Fuck.
"I need another drink." He barks at Sam.
"He?" Sam asks back.
"He!" Quinn points to his empty glass, using his recent learned language skills.
"Ple!" Sam puts another drink in front of him.
The alcohol rinse down his throat, swinging his brain cells around. Tiki-Taka.
"I really hate her!" He blurts out to Sam.
"Wha?" Sam asks without looking up from behind his beer tap.
Quinn tries to think about the right grunt, but quickly gives it up. "My friend Carrie. Actually she's not my friend. I mean, she's not my girl friend. She's pregnant."
"Huh?" Sam sends him a look that tells he isn't pleased. Doesn't matter. He has to open up to someone.
"I'm not the one. I'm not the father. I wouldn't sit here then. Right? I would be with her, take care of her and the baby. But she doesn't want me." He stares into his empty glass, wallowing in self-pity.
"I'm really reliable, right? I mean. Man, I'm a killer, but still reliable. And she doesn't want me. Ignores me. Doesn't care about my feelings. Even at my fucking birthday." He shakes his head in disbelief.
"Be." Sam sighs deeply and fills him another drink.
"I'm such a sissy." His brain cells are whining in his head.
No reassurance from Sam. He stares at the TV where the Netherlands just make the fifth goal against Spain's soccer team. Unbelievable! Then he looks back to Quinn.
Another try.
"You think I'm a limp-dick?" He closes his eyes. That's a bad idea. Because the sudden dizziness nearly knocks him off his seat.
He opens his eyes again. That's much better.
"Do you think, Sam, I should call her? Tell her what I feel for her." He pulls at his hair.
Sam nods his ok.
It's decided. Quinn pulls out his cell phone. With shaky fingers he types her number.
"Quinn! Where the fuck are you?" She seems angry at him.
He looks like a school boy caught in act. Eyes wide open. Mouth agape.
"I'm in a bar." He babbles a weak excuse.
"You're celebrating without me?" She's really upset.
It's unfair. He did nothing wrong. She is the one that has ignored his birthday.
"I'm just drinking some drinks. Alone. But that's none of your business. Right? You forgot my birthday. You doesn't care about me." He blurts out his whole drunken frustration.
"I didn't forget it. I thought I could surprise you." She tries to explain. "Anyway. Where are you?"
He tells her the place.
"Stay right there. I will be with you in a minute."
He looks at Sam who has been listening to their conversation. He seems to be pleased with the result. Well, maybe he's just a fan of happy guests.
"I have to sober up. Please Sam, bring me a coffee."
"He?" Sam asks back.
"Please!" Quinn is really serious.
A minute later a steaming coffee mug is put in front of him, followed by a basket with bread. Sam is really taking care of him. He starts to like the guy.
Twenty minutes later he feels much better. His brains cells have stopped their vicious dance.
Then she's there. Gosh, she's beautiful.
She gives him a hug. Short, but still it's a hug.
"What are you drinking? Coffee?" She looks at his coffee mug, then at him full of expectation.
He doesn't know what to say. He's stunned. A mute like Max. His brain cells seem to have moved down to his heart. Dancing, hammering like crazy.
It's somehow heartbreaking. At least for Sam who is watching them. Waiting for Quinn to say something nice to this beautiful lady. But Quinn is scared stiff.
And he's not the one who speaks first. Not the one who blurts out his feelings.
"Mam! Your friend here really likes you and your baby. Take him home and make him happy."
Sam, the really likeable bartender, the grunting teddy bear speaks up for poor Quinn. Because sometimes you have to give the luck a little kick. Tiki-Taka, right?