The one-eyed man is king

The first thing I remember thinking once I emerged from the fog – that’s not a metaphor for my mental state, it was actual fog, it was November after all – was “Why do they even make these?” A strange thing to be preoccupied with when not two minutes ago I woke up face down in the parking lot of one of those god awful 24-hour McDonald’s sure, but also a train of thought I couldn’t shake off.

As I stumbled my way through the eerie autumnal mist, the golden arches glowing fiercely like the gates of Hades before disappearing in the murk, all that was rattling around my aching head was the ridiculous idea that an actual company had decided manufacturing and selling a one-piece tuxedo was a viable business plan. What niche was it exactly that they were targeting, those fellas that wanted to be formal but for whom more than one piece of clothing was too complex? Someone cosplaying as Jeeves the Butler?

Of course the more pressing question about the outfit should have been, why the hell was I wearing it? As to the issue of how and why I had ended up with a slightly unusual sleeping spot, well the pounding I felt behind my temples answered that - this wasn’t my first rodeo. But the bizarre dinner jacket onesie? I’m pretty sure I left the house in my usual tight jeans, desert boots and a plain white tee – that’s right, I’m your average vanilla fuck-boy but without the charisma or the confidence to actually carry the behaviour off. I dipped my hand carefully beneath the surface of the murky waters of memory, neatly avoiding the strewn trash and clumps of algae that lurked within and tried to go back to the start, before the haze of alcohol descended. Now, I know I left for Brian’s around nine, and I was already three beers deep at this point, no it had to be at least four, because my roommate Murph was drinking with me, which always eggs me on – I’m a typical male in that respect but thankfully very few others.

If I ever looked at my life from the outside, if that were possible, I would recognise the incongruence between the appearance and my daily reality. I have been told since I hit puberty that I look like I just walked out of an Abercrombie casting – a fact that I neither loved nor hated anymore, it just exists and I’ve made my peace with it. But the fact was I hadn’t walked any sort of casting, the very prospect of any sort of real employment seemed like a distant dream for I was still languishing in the dark depths of academia, plodding through a thesis on philosophy that I had long since lost interest in but didn’t have the imagination to reinvent or the courage to give up on. And instead of blonde bimbos hanging off my arm, it was usually Brian, my blind, gay best friend. Brian argues that he should get double disability allowance – he’s joking, I think. When I play along and ask him what he’d do with the extra money and all he can think of is to buy more weed and some dog treats for Barrow, his flatulent but extremely badass guide dog.

Brian prefers using Barrow to get around, even when we’re together, just in case people get “ the wrong idea”. I’ve half a mind to be offended but like with most things in my life, I just shrug it off. It’s probably why I’m not hugely perturbed by last night’s adventure or what I can remember of it, especially when I feel the reassuring bulges of phone and wallet somewhere inside my strange suit-like contraption – good thing it has pockets. I am worried about Brian but he usually lands on his feet after a night out, or on his back I should say. I should call him though, I think to myself, digging out my phone via some very uncomfortable jiggling. When I see the display telling me I have a new voicemail from Brian, I don’t panic, guessing he’ll be wanting to go for “a hair of the dog, with the dog,” which means cider tinnies in the park whilst Barrow farts aggressively at passing children.

Instead what I get when I press the phone to my ear is Brian whispering in high-pitched hysteria.

“ Hey fuckface, why aren’t you answering your phone? Please surface from your drunken stupor and help me. I woke up next to that barman from last night – at least I… he was the Aussie guy wasn’t he? The one who let me feel his abs in the bar I mean. Well, they’re the same abs this morning; trust me. Anyway, thing is, I also woke up to a ring on my finger, and yes it’s that finger. And all I can say is that it feels fucking expensive. Please, please, please tell me I didn’t drunkenly get betrothed or something. I mean these abs are cool and everything but… shit. Look pal, you better get over here and – oh, fuck, Barrow! That fucking stinks, what did you eat?”

The message cuts out but instead of deleting it, I hit the button to save it, ensuring its survival for future blackmail material. I go to return the call but I can’t think of what to say just yet; Brian really has outdone himself this time, I better just head over there. I go to check the time but since I’ve dropped my phone back into its pocket deep in the suit and don’t feel like performing the strange dance to get it out again, I look at the watch on my left wrist. Perhaps if I still had the phone in my hand, I wouldn’t have noticed until much later. But I did see it, and something like that can’t be unseen. Like a lead fishing weight dropping through the river, it has substance and pushes away everything in its path in its rush to make an impact. There was no denying it: the time was 10:47am, I was wearing a one-piece penguin suit and on the second finger of my left hand, there was now – nestled just below the knuckle - a wedding ring.