Lost Night

Alan woke up as he often did: confused, preemptively apologetic, and filled with deep and lingering concern. Where am I? A brief scan of his surroundings revealed the normal and expected features of his motel room. He rolled over and checked his watch. It was dead. That was probably for the best.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed and the rest of his portly body oozed after them. He checked his sleeveless white undershirt for stains, but it was only a matter of course. He had no other shirt to replace it with. His jeans were tossed over the side of the chair in the corner of the room. Alan decided to tangle with them later. As he approached the mirror, a biometric scan initialized.

“Good afternoon, Alan. Your body temperature is elevated and you are suffering from increased swelling through all visible tissue. You have an abrasion running from the middle of your left calf around, counter-clockwise, towards your ankle. Would you like me to request medical attention?”

“No. I’m fine.” Alan knew a doctor could not solve his problems. “When did I get in last night?”

“You arrived at the door at approximately 3:07 AM, you entered the room at 3:12 AM.”

“What did I do for five minutes?”

“Your watch had died and you had misplaced your key.”

“My watch is still dead. How did I get in?”

“Eventually, a report was made of a noise disturbance and the attending employee recognized you and let you in.”

“Which employee?”

“Hector.”

“Perfect.” Alan did not like Hector almost as much as Hector did not like Alan. There was something about the two that was fundamentally incompatible. Alan rinsed his face off and dried it on the well-used towel hanging on the bar beside the counter. “That’s enough.” He said it in a tone worthy of his sullen mood. The mirror blinked off leaving him, again, alone in the motel room he had called home for the last five nights. Five nights he could not remember and that he was afraid to ask anyone about. “Today is going to be different.” It sounded more desperate out loud than it did in his head.

The night before had begun like any other. Alan had gone to one of his usual haunts, Ava; it was a disco punk bar that was soft on drug enforcement and heavy on pours. That alone should explain his headache, it usually did, but there was something strange about last night. At some point, it had got away from him. When Alan drinks, typically, blacking out is not an unforeseen consequence it is the primary objective. Lately, it is the only time he feels at ease. Nevertheless, there was a predictable pattern.

Alan starts drinking almost as soon as he wakes up, usually at about one o’clock. This very retracing of steps reminded him to pour a drink. He hoped it would help him think. He stays on a steady two drinks an hour until sundown, then he hits a bar for his one meal a day and a cocktail. Usually, he does not black out until sometime after midnight; but last night he did not remember anything after dinner. Which meant there were eight hours unaccounted for as opposed to the usual three. Where was I? What did I do?

Where he goes varies by the day of the week and the specials. Last night was fried white fish, half-off, at Ava; tonight was twenty for three Hula Burgers at The Luau. There was a second reason for this pattern, aside from the savings; it ensured that whatever mistakes he made the night before the staff and the patrons of that bar had a full week to forgive or forget. He decided that today there would be a break from the pattern. He has to go back to Ava and see if anyone knew what happened to him. He was sure he owed at least a few apologies. Eight hours was simply too much time to forget.

He pulled the jeans over either leg and shot out the door as he wrestled the button through its slot. He didn’t worry about the zipper, at least not right now. As he made his way to the stairs his bad luck continued in the form of Hector, the last person he wanted to see.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Weather. How did you sleep?” Alan felt the contempt in his tone and saw it in his eyes. Hector was the son of the owner of the motel. Both men had dark eyes and dark features. The main difference between them, aside from visible age, was that the father had an awful scar traveling down the side of his face that he always pretended to have received in a sword fight.

“Hector! What do you know! I slept alright, a bit of tossing.” Alan reflexively overcompensated for the negative impressions left on Hector the five nights before. “Say, I’m awfully sorry you had to let me in last night.”

“I’m surprised you remember that, and I appreciate the apology; but, if we receive one more complaint about you, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop my father from kicking you out.” He smiled as he said it.

“Well, you won’t have any more problems from me!” Alan smiled trying his best to be reassuring. “Now that that’s settled, do you think I could use your watch charger?”

Hector was visibly displeased. The distrust and, really, the disgust for Alan was palpable. However, deep in his heart, his father has forcefully ingrained the eternal principle that the customer is always right. “Of course, Sir.” Alan handed over the watch and Hector pulled a thin black brick out of the interior pocket of his vest. He rubbed it across the backside of the device and it gave off a chirp. “Here you are Mr. Weather.” He dangled the watch in a way he was certain Alan would grab it without touching him.

“Thank you, Hector. I will be back early tonight!” Neither of them believed him.

Alan began the walk to Ava’s. It was not far. He picked this motel for a reason; it was about six blocks from downtown and about a third of the price of being in a hotel three blocks from downtown. He spent the walk searching for any inkling of a memory of the opposite walk back from the night before, but found nothing. This was a serious blackout; he had complete memory loss. Usually, his tolerance allowed him to fade in and out so long as he was not drinking the hard hard stuff. He reflected on that fruitlessly until he arrived.

Ava was an all-black brick building with a neon pink sign that simply announced its name. He checked his watch; it was almost two now. Alan gathered his courage and walked through the door. Even at this early hour it was smokey and dark, just like he remembered. The atmosphere encouraged everyone to act like, and believe, it was a Saturday night. It was a lovely dive bar.

“Alan you son of a bitch. Return to the scene of the crime? I thought you weren’t that stupid.”

Alan turned to face the threatening voice and was met by the gaze of the same bartender from last night. “Alyssa! It’ great to see you!” For once he was not lying, he had come back to discover what happened. There was no one better to ask.

“You have a lot of nerve strolling in here like nothing happened.” Alyssa’s tone grew harsher. Alan began to realize that the initial ‘son of a bitch’ was not friendly banter.

“Alyssa, I can’t say I know what you are talking about exactly; but I am deeply sorry for whatever it is” It sounded more insincere out loud than it did in his head. Alan tried to recover. “That is actually why I am here! I don’t remember anything after dinner last night. And, for me, that’s strange. Even if I am a heavy drinker, I usually don’t lose myself that early in the night. Did something happen to me last night? Was anyone suspicious around me?”

Alyssa’s face twisted mockingly. “Alan. Nobody drugged you. You had seven tequila shots with dinner.”