Diana

Don’t let that be the guy. Don’t, nope—do not—don’t let that be him.

It’s him.

Of course it’s him.

This drowned-rat-looking jackhole peels himself off the curb the second I slow down. I’m tempted to accelerate over his foot. I don’t even have to crank down the window to smell the whiskey rolling off him.

I hate motel-strip pickups. They’re never good news, especially after Labor Day. Nobody comes to the Falls in November and snags a $35-a-night room because their life’s going great. This guy’s a prime example. He flops into my back seat like a bag of wet rice. Wouldn’t be bad-looking, if it wasn’t for his waxy-pale complexion, not to mention those great purple smudges under his eyes—and is that blood drying around his nostrils? Ugh.

I go easy on the gas. Feels like jostling this guy’d be a bad idea. Got to say, I’m getting good at this. I’ve got this whole technique for drunks, where I drive like they’re open jars of water on my back seat. Gentle braking, smooth acceleration, an eagle eye for potholes—haven’t had a puke incident in a month. Still, this guy looks rough. And he’s going all the way to Fonthill.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. I’m not sure he’s addressing me, at first: the rearview mirror tells me his eyes are closed. Might even be asleep.

I’m debating whether a response is warranted when he speaks again.

“I know I kinda stink.”

I steal another glance. He’s cracked one eye open, and is sort of smiling. He’s actually better than not bad—he’s handsome: shaggy black hair, deep brown eyes, chiseled features. Nice body, too. He hasn’t bothered to do up his shirt, and I can make out some nice pecs. Sculpted abs.

But—and it’s a big ‘but’—he doesn’t just kinda stink. He full-on reeks. You could strip paint with those fumes. “What’d you do, bathe in grain alcohol?”

He makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a groan. “Something like that.”

I decide not to tell him he also smells quite strongly of vomit and floor cleaner. He looks like he’s suffering enough. Besides, if I don’t make conversation, maybe he’ll go to sleep. I like it when they sleep. Lets me relax, concentrate on the road.

“What’s—what’s your name?” He kind of chokes, and swallows audibly.

“Diana. Hey, you’re not going to ralph back there, are you?” I root around under the passenger seat. My fingers snag a plastic IGA bag, which I toss his way. “Tell me if you need to pull over. But if you can’t make it, use that. I can’t afford.... Just don’t.”

“Sorry. I’m not. I’m...I think I’m already empty.” He shakes the bag out, anyway. Just in case. Well, at least he’s considerate.

There’s something kind of forlorn about him, the way he’s scrunched into the corner of the seat, like he wants to vanish into the vinyl. I can hear him messing with the barf bag, twisting it this way and that.

“I’m James, by the way,” he says. There’s this sweetly hopeful note to his voice, like Can we talk? Am I bugging you? Don’t get that much with young guys. Most of them assume I’m there for their entertainment.

“Well, James, I’m going to get you home quick as I can, and you can have a nice long bath. Order in some hangover food. I could pick you up something, if you need.” Wait, what? Didn’t mean to be that nice to him! Can’t be puttering around Fonthill all morning, picking up this guy’s favorite hangover cures.

“Mm...wouldn’t that be nice?” He’s got kind of an accent, something soft, Southern—Georgia, maybe, or Alabama. Definitely American. “It’s a quick shower and straight to work for me, though.”

I whistle, long and low. This guy—hate to say it, but I can barely picture him making it up his driveway, much less managing a full day’s work. Or a half day’s, I guess, once he’s bathed and dressed.

“Gonna...ugh.” He makes that gulping sound again, but again, he holds it together. “Gonna need you to wait around, if you don’t mind. Won’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, uh—“ Shit. Got another job to get to, myself. Still, if he’s going my way, I can always drop him off. “Where’s work for you? I need to get back to the Falls by eleven, but if you’re on the way....”

“I’m headed back, too. So, we good?”

I nod. “All good.”

“So....” I hear him shuffling around, trying to get comfortable. “You know any, uh, miracle hangover cures?”

“Hot ginger tea, mixed with honey and brown sugar. And a hot bath, and a long nap, and some quality couch time with Netflix and a cuddly dog.” I shoot him a smile in the rearview mirror. “Guess you don’t have time for all that.”

“Think I got the tea, though.” He cracks the window. A draft instantly finds its way down my neck, but anything that keeps this guy from getting carsick is fine by me. “So, you a dog person?”

“A dog person without a dog.” I bite back a sigh. Sneaks up on me, sometimes, how lonely it’s been, how quiet, since Dad passed. I shake myself, shrugging off the sudden sting. Now’s not the time. “Haven’t had time for pets lately. Used to have one of those great dopey mastiffs—total drool machine; face like a crumpled towel.”

“I got a Pharaoh hound. We go running together. Most mornings.” He leans his head against the window. “He gets mad if I’m gone for a while. Gonna get the cold shoulder today. Tomorrow too, probably.”

“He’ll forgive you.” What is it with this guy? He should be annoying the bejesus out of me, going on about dogs and running and hangover cures, but instead, I have this weird compulsion to comfort him. “That’s the beauty of dogs. Unconditional love. Where else can you get that for a bowl of kibble a day?”

“Mm...you seem nice.” His voice has gone thick, sleepy. Maybe he’ll drift off, after all. “We should get married.”

“Hilarious.”

“No, I mean...if I were....” He yawns so hugely his jaw pops. “You’re so nice. You drive me around; you give me bags to get sick in.... You like dogs. Nobody bad ever likes dogs. ‘Specially the drooly kind.” His accent’s thicker, like this, on the verge of sleep. Not sure I’d marry the guy, but it is endearing.

“You’re not in your right mind,” I tell him.

“Mm? Nah, I’m just hung over. Not drunk. Not any more.”

I laugh. “You might not be drunk, but your pupils didn’t dilate when we went through the tunnel. You’re definitely on something.”

“I.... You think so?” There’s something worrisome in the way he says that, all hesitant and unsure.

“You need me to take you somewhere? Hospital, maybe? Think someone might’ve slipped you—“

“No, uh-uh, just....” He groans so deep it’s like he’s dragging it up from his boots. “I’m all right. Or I will be. Once I get that tea, and you marry me....”

And we’re back on that. I laugh, so he knows I’m not taking him seriously, and let him get on with the serious business of falling asleep.

It’s hard to find it in my heart to wake him when I pull up at his door—or, more accurately, at his gate. This guy doesn’t have a house: it’s more of an estate. I’ve been to Fonthill before, but I had no idea this was here, nestled between orchards and wooded hills, on the outskirts of town.

“Mm...already....” He fumbles with something on his keychain, and the gate rolls open. The driveway’s long enough that he’s fast asleep again by the end of it, and I’ve got to ruin his dreams yet again.

“Need help getting inside?”

“Nah, think I’ll make it.” He staggers a bit, and I catch myself holding my breath when he hits the stairs, but he’s as good as his word. He tips me a wink at the door and disappears into what looks like a huge, empty house.

I catch the quickest glimpse of a dog’s ass flouncing up a sweeping flight of stairs, and the door swings closed. Guess the pooch snubbed him, after all. Some days aren’t worth getting up for.