3AM: Mark

3AM, wandering down Main Street. Drunken people meander down the streets, gleefully shouting at the night sky. Couple shots of tequila in me: one, two, five, I lost count. I had a couple of glasses of some other mystery drink, laced, probably not, hopefully not. It snows slightly, but I’m not wearing a jacket; I don't even know where it is; car, bar, house? Hands in my pockets, short sleeves don't help that much in February weather. I’m starting to get cold, need shelter, too far from my apartment though, too drunk to get there anyways. Going home alone, again, no friends; ditched me at the bar, no date, no one would want to anyways; and the feeling of self-loathing sinks in. The internal fights, the external pacifist. I hated myself for being what I am. Then again, what else do I have? Don't know, don't care, just want to get home. Stop at the corner of main and 14th street, lean up against the frigid light post; sure wish I had my jacket right now. The man next to me, I think I know him, Short brown hair, tuft of a goatee, gaudy college class ring, Eric from accounting. I seem to always see him bent over, bent over a computer, bent over the curb vomiting his night up, some people just cant hold their liquor. We work at an advertising firm, I rather be a writer though. I should be writing now. Slowly I sober up on this cold light post, should have crossed the street 3 lights ago, but I can’t stop staring at Eric, bent over, vomiting. I wonder why he drinks. Everyone has a reason.

You’ll find the best and the worst of people on this street at 3AM, when the bars and clubs get out. “The Mile” they call it, go from one bar to another in a few steps, then to a club a street over. I finally cross 14th, Eric is still on the corner, receiving some aid from his friend, wingman, lover? Don’t know, never really asked him, he never asked me. I pass by closed restaurants, 24-hour diners, bars and clubs at last call. It seems like the whole city is out here, drunk, or at least helping someone drunk. Yet I’m walking alone.

A gaggle of girls walk past me, the lead one looks like some cheap porn star. Short skirt, shirt, hair, peroxide blonde. Tits, definitely fake. She grabs some guy walking past and shoves her tongue down his throat. He looks like a frat guy, a “Real World/Road Rules” type of guy. The guy yells something and slaps hands with his friends. To have no inhibitions, that's what alcohol does. To be free, that's what I needed.

I step into one of the 24-hour diners. Its quiet and lit well, they seem to understand that drunken people don't like bright lights here; and it’s clean, I like clean. I grab a free seat at the counter and put my head down. I should go home, sleep there, but the counter is cool, and the diner is warm, and I just don't want to think anymore.

“Hey, you ok? You know what you need?” who’s talking to me, and how do they know what I need? “Apple pie, a la mode.”

What I needed was an aspirin and a bloody Mary, or maybe a handful of Valium and a liter of Dewar’s.