I was awakened by the terrifying screech of iron chains, which someone was stubbornly trying to drag across the glass-paneled courtyard. I lifted my head slightly from the bed to immediately hear the sounds of the forge, where the blacksmith was beating out a steady, loud rhythm on the anvil. After a moment, I noticed with astonishment that the sounds were coming from very close. From my temples.
I moved my neck and felt a pulsing beat, matching the rhythm of my frantic heart. Slowly, jagged fragments of memory began to come back to me. I began to recall the familiar morning pain.
A libation. A little better even than usual, though I barely drank yesterday, considering my recent poor health. A hangover that appears out of nowhere can knock me to the floor and completely immobilize me for hours. It's like a white straitjacket, depriving me of freedom and the right to self-determination for people considered, more or less rightly, to have an "eccentric" understanding of reality. And now the hangover arrived, creeping up like a shadow and attacking me unexpectedly. A shot in the back.
With disgust on my face and after a moment of terrible effort, I managed to roll over. I decided to try to sleep and wait out the bad moments. It's times like these that I especially notice that life is just a monotonous string of suffering, with pleasant moments occurring only sporadically and lasting only a short time. Yesterday I drank two, maybe three large glasses of vodka, a few smaller ones, and at most two beers. It wasn't the amount you'd expect to have such a massive hangover, but my body had once again completely surprised me...
***
Several similar-looking young men sat around the table. They all had red faces, rumpled shirts with buttons undone at the neck, and untied ties, the ends of which disappeared under the table. The drunken gibberish of those gathered was constantly interrupted by uncontrollable bursts of choral laughter. The atmosphere had long since heated up.
He sat in the center of the room on a high chair. Empty vodka bottles lay in front of him, clattering with every movement of the table. There was a half-empty bottle and several bottles still unopened. Pickled cucumbers lay on a small plate. Under the table were crates of beer, from which someone was constantly pulling out a can, immediately opening it, and emptying it.
He drank in every imaginable way. He poured glasses and flutes, and finished the bottle by pouring the last of its contents directly into his mouth. He washed down the vodka with beer, nibbled on pickles, and sometimes accidentally drank another glass. He tried his best to outshout all the neighbors on either side. Every now and then, he'd take a long gulp of air, followed by a loud belch intended to express his pleasure at meeting friends. Sometimes, he'd also pat someone familiarly on the back, twisting his lips into a dramatic attempt at a smile.
***
I don't know how it is that people adore me. At every party, I'm the life of the party and an invaluable entertainer. I'm excellent at capturing attention and engaging the audience with interesting remarks, and I also have a wealth of anecdotes. Flash, tact, and wit compete with each other in my speech, making me consider myself a man capable of finding a lightning-fast answer to any topic in any situation. Yesterday was no different.
I remembered pondering complex existential issues, cornering great philosophers and their worthless views and insights. In fact, I often did this, without even realizing my above-average intelligence. This only came later, when I recalled from a distance my enlightened thoughts and well-organized convictions. My aching head flashed back to the previous day, when I stood in the doorway to the room, everyone's eyes fixed on me. I felt like a movie star, everyone listening to my words with a tense expression. Sometimes being a star becomes downright boring...
***
He stood leaning against the doorframe, swaying heavily, his face the color of his crimson tie flowing freely down his left shoulder. He gripped the back of a chair by the door with one hand tightly, the other tucked under his shirt, which was now open at the chest. He kept trying to smooth down his hair, which was completely disheveled, but the clumsy movements of his arms couldn't cope with the chaos of the curls sticking out in all directions. He gazed hazily at those gathered in the room, trying in vain to attract the attention of those gathered in the middle of their conversation with his shouts. He tried to explain something to those closest to him—the incomprehensible sounds escaping his mouth, however, resembled the meaningless babbling of a small child more than human speech.
The strong stench of alcohol surrounding him mingled with the now-diminished scent of the aftershave he had applied before leaving and the now-faint aroma of cheese and pepper sandwiches sitting on a large plate in the center of the table. An uncapped bottle of vodka, peeking out from his right trouser pocket, completed the whole look
.
I stretched and felt a sharp pain throughout my entire body. It felt as if the alcohol had filled my entire body from head to toe, and was everywhere—in my head, my tormented stomach, my arms, and my back. I felt terribly heavy; placing my hand on my burning forehead took all my energy.
I never complained about women. Some were so intrusive that I had to fend them off like annoying insects on a summer evening. No wonder—no girl could resist the charm of a brilliant and charming handsome man, a man confident in himself, his knowledge, and his intelligence. I often wondered why they wrote manuals on etiquette, describing rules of proper behavior for everyday life. Does anyone even read them? The information contained therein is obvious to everyone.
But for now, I can't think clearly; beads of sweat have just formed on my forehead, and my body is fighting another battle against a surge of heat. I threw the blanket aside and took off my shoes and jeans – they were the reason I was so warm. A crushed beer can flew out of my pants pocket, spilling a few drops, leaving stains on the blue carpet.
Exhausted, I lay still for a moment, breathing heavily. My memory brought up a new image – the memory of last night's disco. Although today the king of the dance floor was sprawled on the bed, suffering agony, yesterday I was dancing really well. Admittedly, it was a bit strange, because I've never been good at moving to the music, and watching couples dance, I've always been amazed by the grace and ease with which the more talented ones can move. However, I usually made up for these minor shortcomings with class and the right approach to women – not difficult for someone who simply understands the human psyche and treats girls with respect and understanding.
I remembered that I'd hit on two girls yesterday. One of them left her boyfriend to party with me, and I spent a pleasant time with the other while her friend disappeared, leaving her completely alone...
***
He had a fantastic time. Admittedly, he fell twice, once dragging a beer table with him, broke two glasses, and wet his pants turning on the bathroom faucet, but he still considered the party a success. He wasn't picky, and anyway, he'd always liked this club—it was one of the best parties in the city. The music was exactly what he liked, and above all, there were a lot of really pretty women here, eager to meet this charming stranger.
He then staggered over to the couple enjoying the dance floor, then stopped and began to watch the dancers intently, swaying from side to side. Finally, with a decisive movement of his hand, he pushed the dancing boy away and grabbed the girl by the buttocks. She immediately froze in fear, and he tried to explain the situation.
"Zzzzaa-ddaaan-are you szz ... He mumbled something incomprehensible and sat down next to her, placing his hand on her knee. The girl abruptly slapped his hand away, immediately stood up, and ran out of the club. She had no idea what was going on and was a little frightened – she'd only been married for three weeks, and her husband had gone out to move the car. With a heroic effort of will, I forced my body to its feet. After a brief struggle with the nausea that was flooding me, I headed for the kitchen, taking small, slow, and incredibly careful steps, and relishing the cold floor. I turned on the water; the faucet snorted and spewed a stream of brown liquid. The color of the water wasn't a problem for me, though – I pressed my lips to the soothing stream and drank, slowly swallowing the rusty liquid. I felt a little better. I remembered that at the end of last night's party, I couldn't convince the cloakroom attendant to give me my coat for a long time. Someone had taken my number, and of course, I had to pay for the whole misunderstanding. On top of that, the cloakroom attendant was very unpleasant and completely unwilling to help me. It was as if he didn't understand that I was already feeling very tired and had no desire to argue or discuss anything before leaving. I finally managed to convince him, but I was very dissatisfied with the service. I think I'll go there and file a complaint – people like that, malicious and hateful, shouldn't be allowed to interact with customers. I leaned against the wall and immediately backed away with a groan. A sharp pain shot through my back. It was definitely a draft. It had blown through me, and that's why my back hurts. I need to stop sleeping with the window open... *** "You're giving me my coat, shhh?" he asked again. "Unfortunately, you have to wait until the end of the party; we don't give out clothes without numbers. But you'd better check your pocket again; you'll probably find your number."
After a moment to process the cloakroom attendant's words, he dug his hand into his left trouser pocket and pulled it out, fumbling with his clothes. He stared at his open palm for a long time, intently, then cursed violently. There was no number.
"Give me that coat, or I'll be in there soon!" he shouted impatiently, trying unsuccessfully to speak clearly.
The cloakroom attendant remained unmoved.
"Unfortunately, you have to wait until the end of the party," he repeated.
"Fuck!" This time he spoke fluently, as if he'd never had a drop of alcohol in his mouth since birth. He leaned forward and hung onto the counter that separated the cloakroom, trying to reach the cloakroom attendant standing behind it. The man stepped back.
Resigned, he crouched on the floor, hurling a string of crude curses at the attendant. The floor gave way as he tried to prop himself up, and he fell backward, seeing the ceiling spinning faster and faster above him. He was highly pain-tolerant – that's why he didn't feel a thing when he collided so hard with the hard parquet floor.
Trying to maintain a neutral expression, he put his hands in his pockets and, after a moment of surprise, pulled out his right hand with the number
on it. He stood up, which took a few moments, and placed the number on the counter. "So what
the awwwwwwantuuru ...
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