But I do wake up and, judging from the musty basement smell mixed with lemon cleaner, I’m probably still among mankind.
The room is dark, no windows, so I don’t know what time it is. Or where I found a couch to sleep on, one leg propped on the arm and the other swung over the edge. I don’t know how I got here, or if anyone helped me either. I could be trespassing for all I know.
I don’t know what happened last night, but I feel crazy even thinking about the dreams I had.
When I sit up and push back the small, thick knit blanket, I expect a killer headache. Rebecca and her friends are always warning their theater buddies about hangovers. My head feels fine. I must be lucky.
I could use something to drink, though, so I get up.
The room is some kind of break area. I don’t inspect it longer than I need to. I find the door and inch my way out.
“What the…”
I’m still at that bar. It was all real.
“Awake, I see,” says a voice over by a large cooler door. I turn to see the bartender I’d spoke to before. “You were so dead drunk, I worried you’d sleep past noon.”
He carries a crate of lemons with him to the counter where he leaves them. He points to a barstool and I take the advice.
I say, “Mind if I get some water?”
He pours me a glass. “You’ll need a pitcher to get all the booze through your system, I reckon.”
Pained by the thirst, I greedily guzzle the icy water while the bartender talks.
He says, “Don’t worry. I didn’t call the cops or try to find your parents or anything like that.”
“Thanks… I think.” I set the glass down. I’m still thirsty, so I motion for another.
“Special circumstances,” he explains as I drink. “You being underage and all. Plus, I doubt anyone would believe me if I gave a detailed report of how you came to be in my care.”
“I don’t think I would either.”
It occurs to me that it’s not thirst I’m feeling. It’s more like when I really could go for a pizza or some McDonalds. A craving.
I say, “Do you have any soda?”
He raises a brow. “Sure. What do you like?”
“You have Sprite?”
He grabs a little hose with push buttons and injects the glass with the clear liquid. “You feeling okay, kid? No headache? Hangover?”
I don’t answer him. I take a sip of the Sprite and shake my head. “Maybe Root Beer, instead?”
He freezes, watching me. Then he takes out several shot glasses.
I asked, “What are you doing?”
“A theory. And I hope like hell I’m wrong.” He squirts a mouthful of different sodas into each small glass. Then he takes a bottle off the shelf, like the whiskey I had last night, and drops a splash of that into the last shot glass. He leans his folded arms onto the counter, points to the first soda and says, “Drink. Tell me what you think.”
I do so. “Not good,” I say.
“The next one.”
More of the same. The bartender tells me to keep drinking until I find one I like. But none of them are any better. Some are even tasteless. My tongue and throat are still crying out for something!
When I reach for the whiskey, the bartender says, “Let’s hope this does the trick.”
I don’t like the sound of that.
I toss back the few drops of whiskey. This one is the worst of all, like ash in my mouth. I gag and sputter and, in response, I hear the bartender wailing.
“Damn fool kid!” He says, “You drank something he gave you, didn’t you?”
“I… I think so?”
The bartender shakes his head. He looks mournful, like he just heard his dog was run over.
I ask, “What’s the matter with me?”
He hangs his head, muttering, “Should have turned that old trickster out the moment I saw him. I’m sorry, kid. You’ve had a taste of Faerie drink.”
“What the hell does that mean?” My voice is shrill. My throat aches and scratches. It’s like I have a desert in there.
The bartender looks at me with his deeply set eyes, sunken there among the wrinkles of age. He shakes his head again as he says, “You can wander all the world of man, and you’ll never find what you’re looking for. The best you can hope is to find some good folk who takes pity on you and brings you back to their land. You have my pity, son.”
I practically fall off the barstool, trying to get away from the bartender and his doomsayer words. “No. No, this is a nightmare. A bad dream. I’m still passed out. I went to that party. I got piss drunk. Rebecca probably thinks I’m an idiot. But this isn’t real!”
The bartender calls behind me, but I don’t hear him. I stumble into the daylight, blinded, thirsty, so thirsty.
Should I go home? No, home doesn’t have what I’m looking for. It doesn’t have what I need.
I need a drink. A good drink, one that tastes of honey-moonbeams and smoky-serenity and time eternal. I need that flask. I need that drink.