It was 2am and now he was singing about Dwarf Porn. ‘Dwarf Porn, Dwarf Porn, it’s deep down in my soul. Dwarf Porn, Dwarf Porn, that’s my ultimate goal.’
The window was open. Reefer smoke drifted out onto the hillside. He was eight pints of snakebite into the night. I watched him sitting there in my cheap armchair, singing, laughing to himself, older. He’d talked almost without a breath for over an hour. Rambling, laughing, trying his best earnest dissection of the latest problems in both of our lives. The trouble lines on his face had eased from earlier in the night. I was glad to see the change. He’d swerved responsibility again – we both had – for the zillionth time. Just a few hours back in the good old bubble. Two old hands at this now, slowed down and world-weary, going over the same things we’d been chewing up for the past thirty years. Same, same, same. Someone told me it takes ten thousand hours of practice to become really good at something. We had those sorts of hours under our belts for sure. And the bruises.
He went to sleep on the sofa. I don’t know what time, because I was in bed while he was crashing around cursing, looking for ways to open the window again for one last bedtime smoke. Scared to sleep.
In the morning I cleared up the cans. Little ground particles of weed had worked into the rug by the low table we’d been using to roll joints on. I had a train to catch. He was mumbling about bus times and trying to help his brain through the ice of post-blow-out emotional deadness. If his head felt anything like mine then he’d need a couple of days to get back to some form of equilibrium. But we knew all this. You either accept the brain reset or you go hard against it and keep the momentum going. I knew what I’d be doing: the former. A post-binge hangover is a personal thing. You’re on your own. There is no guiding light and no patron Saint to calm the fractured synapses.
I hugged him goodbye at a lonely bus stop in the middle of nowhere – never seen anyone use it, let alone a bus drive past – and walked on to the train station. He sparked up a cigarette and stood leaning against the wind, eyes on the little road.