An Anecdotal Life

Scotland - Drunken Confessions

         Two days before my cousin, Brent, and I were to return to the States, we were making ourselves at home in an Inverness pub, ingeniously called The Pub. The Pub bore a small, lighted sign on its streetfront gate that boasted "LIVE Local Entertainment! Traditional Scottish Music! Come Listen to Billy Graham!"

         Being American, Brent and I were quite curious as to why a televangelist would be playing any kind of music in a pub in Scotland, so we paused to consider stopping in. I'd grown rather fond of the pubs there (unlike fast, loud American bars), so I was game, and Brent was always up for a bout of drinking stout whiskey. All the benefits added up and nary a cost in sight, we bolstered ourselves for a night of liquor and godliness and stepped inside.

         It was like all the other pubs we'd been in (and we'd been in quite a few), with warm amber lighting and scarred dark-wood tables. Pleasant Scottish accents created a soft background hum as we made our way through the light crowd to the bar. The contentment that had filled me since I stepped foot off the plane surged and escaped on a happy sigh. Brent, rarely amused by my dramatic quirks, rolled his eyes and ordered the first round.

         We had just taken our seats at a large round table bordering the stage when Billy Graham made his appearance. Quite obviously not the American preacher--and even more obviously in his cups--Billy took his place on his stool, rested his guitar on his knee, and strummed the first few chords of "American Pie."

         Brent and I, glassed lifted for a cheerful "Slainte!", stopped dead and blinked at one another. I wasn't sure, but I did not think that particular melody was a traditional Scottish tune, no matter that Billy was singing it in a traditional Scottish brogue. Perhaps I was mistaken, but the look on Brent's face suggested otherwise.

         Billy turned out to be a cheerful little man, quite taken with American folk songs and James Taylor in particular. He interjected lots of winking and foot tapping into his music, and a liberal amount of whiskey drams in the pauses between. We figured they must be paying ol' Billy in liquor.

         Sometime during a melancholy rendition of "Sweet Baby James," Brent's cheerful demeanor began to fade. He swayed in his seat in time with the music, then turned to me with a perfectly miserable look on his face.

         "I hate this song."

         Since I rather liked it, I shot him a look and turned back to enjoying myself.

         "No, I meant it," he slurred loudly. I sighed and turned my full attention upon him before he started to shout. One thing I'd learned on my trip was that drunken idiocy was the same no matter the country.

         "Oh?" I inquired politely.

         "Yes, it makes me sad and I don't want to be sad," he informed me with deadly seriousness.

         "You're fairly well drunk, I don't think you've got much choice in the matter," I said cheerfully, nodding toward the litter of whiskey glasses on his side of the table. Neither being a whiskey nor an ale girl myself, I had but one wee shot glass on my side, a clear film of tequila coating the bottom. It was all I could stomach, and even that was rough. Three of those little beasts and I was down for the count.

         "Not drunk enough," he muttered, drawing me back from my thoughts.

         "Drunk enough for what?"

         He gestured fluidly toward the bar. "Go an' get yourself some more. And bring me a shot, too. I've got something to tell you."

         The enchanting spell that Billy had been weaving with his non-traditional non-Scottish music was broken. The quaintness of the pub blurred into the background, taking with it its warmth and comfort. My cousin was not generally a depressed sort of person. Even in the most dire of situations, he tended to take a pragmatic, reasonable, almost indifferent point of view. I stared at Brent hard, as though to will him to continue speaking, but his eyes were blurred by liquor and his mind by something else. I rose to fetch more drinks.

         The bartender had regarded me warily as I put in my request. He studied me from the top of my head to the tip of my toes--or at least to my beltline, since that's about as far as he could see. I'm not a tall woman, and while I'm not exactly bird-boned, I'm not build like a draft horse either. Four more tequila shots seemed a wee much, in his unspoken estimation. In the end, I left with my drinks and he counted his money and we were both better off.

         Brent, on the other hand, regarded me in an almost reverential way upon my return. I stuck two of the shots before him and kept two for myself, eyeing him over the glasses.

         "What do you have to tell me?"

         "Drink first."

         I arched a brow, but lifted one of my glasses without taking my eyes off him and threw it back. The tequila that they stock in Scotland is something of a distant relative to the tequila that they stock in Texas, where I'm from originally. It's got all the nasty taste, and four times the kick, but the effects--thankfully--don't seem to last as long. I calculated that I could probably take a couple more before I was in any danger of memory loss. I shuddered as I swallowed, then clunked the glass back onto the table.

         "All right, now what do you have to tell me?"

         "I meant, let me drink first," he explained blearily, throwing back one of his own. I watched carefully for clues as he forced the drink down, fiddled with his glass, adjusted his chair, then looked me in the eye.

         "Right, then. Another one."

         I rolled my eyes and waited for him to toss back the next one. Instead, he nudged it across the table to me.

         "This one's for you. You're not nearly drunk enough to hear this."

         By this time, the tiniest flickers of panic were creeping up my spine. Whatever it was, it must have been truly dire. The only thing I could think of that could be that bad was that he had gotten his girlfriend, a lovely Brittish girl named Rose, pregnant. On that thought, I snatched up the glass and did away with the tequila in due process.

         "Brent, what is going on?" I managed hoarsely. That last shot didn't go down quite as smooth as the others.

         "Right." He looked at Billy, at the table, at the glasses, anywhere but at me. He was gathering courage, and images of Rose's petite frame bulging with my new cousin flashed in my mind. "Um, I've done something terrible."

         Dear god! He'd made her get an abortion!

         "Wh-what would that be?" I eyed the last shot left on the table, hoping it was mine.

         "Err, well...I've failed."

         I blinked, trying to work that into my pregnancy/abortion theory. Perhaps he felt he'd failed Rose? Perhaps he failed as a human being? Now I was being melodramatic, so I shook my head clear--as clear as possible anyway--and nodded encouragingly.

         "Failed at what, exactly?"

         "School."

         I laughed. Hard. I was so bloody relieved that I couldn't help it. He stared at me, bloodshot eyes wide with disbelief. I giggled, shaking my head (which wasn't the best of ideas after three drinks) with a smile.

         "No, no, I just--I thought Rose was pregnant. This is much better." I giggled a bit more, but the humor was fading. The grim lines about Brent's mouth had thinned for a moment, but returned now as I quit laughing. "Okay, well...what happened?"

         He told me then of the situation he'd gotten himself into. He'd been in Scotland for the past year, as part of a Junior Year Abroad program for the American university he attended. He'd been a fair to good student in America, and as an only child, his parents were more than willing to pay his way to Europe to study. They didn't like to see him go, but they loved to see him happy so they gave him all the money he might ever need, shipped him treats from America on a regular basis, and counted the days until he came home.

         And riding on this tidal wave of good tidings, Brent had taken the money, gone straight to the nearest pub (which happened to be under his flat, in a poor bit of engineering), and immersed himself in the local life. He'd had a good time, too good a time, and when school interfered, he pushed it to the back of the list. He knew he had to begin studying sometime, it just always seemed like he had time. And then he had none.

         So now he was here with me, drunk as a skunk in an Inverness pub, terrified to go home and face the music. To this I could be sympathetic. I nudged the last drink toward him.

         "It won't be as bad as you think," I said softly. Then I smiled wryly. "Well...yes, it will, but only at first. But telling the truth will be such a great release that you'll be able to handle what will come after."

         Brent snorted. "How in the hell would you know?"

         "I've been through it, remember?" I settled back in my chair and rested my eyes on Billy, who was now deeply engrossed in "You've Got A Friend In Me." I wasn't looking at him, and I didn't hear the words; I just needed a place to rest my focus.

         When I first began university, I went to a college a few hours away from home--far enough to be on my own, but close enough to come crawling back in the event of an emergency. I was a decent student, I didn't know how not to be, and my roommate that first term was my best friend from high school. But she left, too homesick, and I was alone. In my infinite stupidity, I made friends with the first person who appealed to me. In the end I was huddled in my bed, staring at the phone, terrified to call my mother to tell her that her daughter had been raped because I didn't imagine that would be a phone call a mother would like to get.

         I came home, a failure because I refused to go back to any of my classes, and tripped down a steep spiral of disaster until I hit rock bottom, living alone, scared of my own shadow, and living day to day with school a long distant memory. I was given a hand up once people knew, but that wasn't for years.

         "It's different," Brent protested, scooting one of the glasses in front of him about to make wet patterns on the table.

         "It's not," I said firmly. "I failed, too, and I paid for it. I know what's coming for you."

         "You shouldn't have had to pay!" he cried suddenly, loud enough to startle Billy into missing a chord. I leaned over the table to encourage a lower tone, hissing at him.

         "Maybe not, but I did, so I know."

         "There's a difference, Casey. My parents love me, and I won't be alone."

         Well, that bloody well cut to the bone. Not that he was insulting me, far from it, but it still stung to hear the truth. I relented and nodded, taking the last shot without asking. He didn't stop me.

         "You told me because you wanted to talk about it, presumably because you knew I'd understand. I think you need to let me understand now," I said after a minute, looking up at him. He nodded, willing to accept that proposition. "Let's just figure out what you'll need to do now."

         We sat for hours, arranging and rearranging glass sculptures to busy our hands as our minds slogged through the difficult task of dealing with the truth. As an only child, he'd been spoiled greatly, but adored even more. His parents would be disappointed, but he was right when he said they wouldn't stop loving him. Their confidence would stumble, their reverence of him would dim for a bit, but it would never, ever disappear. He would simply have to work now, to take responsibility, be a man. It might possibly have been the best thing (besides Rose) that ever happened to him, though it was difficult for him to see at that particular moment.

         Neither of us was paying a lick of attention when Billy suddenly scraped a chair back from our table and plopped himself into it unceremoniously. We looked over at him, too weary after our conversation to be startled, and he grinned widely.

         "Evenin', folks. Thought ye could use a bit o' cheerin' up, eh? Lookin' awful bloody serious, canna be havin' tha', wha' wi' me singin' and dancin' and wha'no'."

         I took a moment to carefully work through the sentence in proper English, then nodded and offered a smile. Brent, on the other hand, swung his entire torso Billy's way and breathed aromatically in his face as he spoke.

         "I'm not in a very cheerful mood, mate," he said solemnly. Billy nodded, looking thoughtful, then smiled.

         "American then, are ye?"

         "From Alabama," I informed him politely. Brent, quite uncaring for niceties, slapped his hand on the table and glared at us both.

         "I have a problem, you see, and I have to talk about it," Brent told the singer, then sat back. Apparently he felt that was all the poor man needed to know. I turned back, all sweetness and dimples and feeling quite a bit more attractive than I had three or four drinks ago.

         "He'll be all right. You've done a lovely job tonight, we like all your songs."

         "No we don't."

         "That's right nice of ye, miss," Billy grinned, then smacked his hands on the table in an immitation of Brent. "What song would ye like t'hear? I'll play ye anythin' ye'd like, considering."

         He gave a knowing nod toward Brent who was, at that point, counting on his fingers. I couldn't tell if he was trying to figure out the number of drinks he'd had or if he was checking to make sure all ten digits were present and accounted for.

         "Um..." I thought for a moment, finding it peculiarly difficult for once in my life. Brent chimed in, rescuing me.

         "Sweet Home Alabama." He blinked at his own suggestion. "For now, anyway."

         I gave my cousin a sympathetic look, and Billy clapped his hands together as he rose unsteadily.

         "Right-o, lad." He got halfway back to his guitar, then turned slowly on his heel and squinted at us. "I may no' remember all the words, ye ken?"

         "We'll help if we can," I offered, reaching over to removed a precariously balanced glass from Brent's range of motion. He had begun swinging his hands about, apparently content that all his parts were in order.

         "Cheers, lass," he grinned, then continued on to his stool. He settled upon it with no great difficulty, admirable considering the enormous quantity of alcohol he'd been consuming all night, and lifted his guitar into his lap. After only a few moments of hapless strumming, the tune ventured forth and for the two drunken Americans he sang Lynyrd Skynyrd.

         The rest of the time in the pub passed uneventfully (except for the minor incident on the stairs as I made my way to the restroom, but we don't talk about that). Eventually it came time to close, so Billy played us--finally--a traditional Scottish song and taught us all to sing along. As a minor note, the end of the evening is probably not the best time to conduct a sing-along in a pub, but we managed well enough. I collected my cousin, thanked Billy and the barkeep, and off we trudged toward our hostel.

* * * * * *

         "You haven't called Mike the whole time we've been here," Brent said sometime later as we lounged in the "beer garden" of our hostel. We'd been too drunk to make it to our room silently, so in deference to the other sleeping guests, we trooped out to the back of the building to sober up.

         The beer garden was, technically I suppose, just that. It was approximately twenty feet by twenty feet of muddy lawn furnished with one tiny plastic white table and four wobbly matching chairs. And, if one brought beer outside, one would be drinking beer in the garden. It just sounded a lot more exotic than it looked.

         "Nope, haven't," I agreed, sobering considerably at that thought. Since Mike and I had become official a year and a half before, we'd never gone through a single day without some form of contact. Now, however, it had been ten and it was wearing on me.

         It wasn't that I didn't want to talk to Mike, it was just that he and I had agreed and understood that international calls were hellaciously expensive. We didn't want to create that kind of burden for one another, nor did we want to get Brent involved in the tangle. The simplest solution was to decide that it was only a couple weeks and that we'd survive. I found out after I arrived that to call him wouldn't actually be that expensive using Brent's cell phone, but since he and I had already made that agreement and braced ourselves, I let it lie. Now, however, Brent had laid his cell phone on the table and I was reconsidering.

         "Gwon," he slurred, still mildly intoxicated. I was too, which might explain why I took his advice.

         "I don't know how to do the dialing, you'll have to." I sat up, swinging my feet down from their perch on one of the other chairs, and leaned intently on the table as he punched the buttons. It rang...and rang...and rang.

         "I don't think he's there, Case," Brent told me, moving to hang up.

         "NO!" I cried. I was too close to talking to him again, I didn't want the connection to be lost. Misunderstanding, Brent shrugged and lifted the phone to his ear again.

         "Mike," Brent said after an audible beep, "this is Brent. We're in Inverness and Casey's gone and run off with a horde of drunken Scotsmen. Something about finding out what's under the kilts. I'm very sorry, I tried to reason with her, but nothing doing. Talk to you later!"

         "You idiot," I growled, lunging for the phone. He gave it up with a delighted chuckle. "Mike, it's Casey. I am not doing any such thing. We were just calling to say hi. Hope everything's okay. I love you, hon, and I'll talk to you later."

         Still hesitant to hang up, Brent took the phone and did it for me. We sat about for a while longer, wishing the liquor wouldn't wear off quite so fast and talking about anything but our problems. Finally, half an hour later, Brent pulled his phone out again.

         "Mike," he said after getting the beep again, "Me again. Look, I just wanted to protect you, you know. Men have to stick together. She's over there on some big guy's lap and god knows what he's doing under that kilt, but it's not pretty. I'm sorry, man."

         He hung up this time before I could get to him, so I called him a choice word, giggling as I collapsed back into my seat. It was late June in Scotland, and the darkness never truly set in. Even at two in the morning, everything was perfectly visible in the hazy light. Including us, apparently, because a head poked out of an upstairs window of the hostel, then disappeared back in only to reappear as an entire body emerging from the back door.

         I don't remember her name, but she was from Finland and she looked like she could beat the hell out of me with one hand tied behind her back. She was cheerful, though, and we were welcoming any distraction. Brent nudged a chair at her with his foot, which she accepted with a gracious nod.

         The next hour was spent listening to Finland singing folk songs of her homeland (we were quite pleased to finally hear folk songs of someone's homeland after Billy) and telling us stories about her erratic family. We listened sympathetically and shared our own disfunctional stories until, at around three o'clock, Brent's phone rang.

         I knew it was Mike before he even answered. I sat up, the hair on the back of my neck tingling, as I waited for Brent to hand the phone over so I could hear my lover's voice again. Brent, however, had different ideas.

         "Mike!" he cried congenially, winking at me. I groaned and shared a look with Finland. She giggled and shrugged, as if to say, "He's a boy, what do you expect?"

         "No, no she's still down there. I've come up to bed," Brent said, grinning widely. And then abruptly, he stopped. "She's okay. She's safe. Hold on."

         He handed me the phone. I lifted it warily to my ear, watching Brent's face for clues as I greeted the man I hadn't heard from in too long.

         "Hon?"

         "Are you okay?!" Mike demanded gruffly.

         I blinked. "Yes, I'm fine. What--"

         "I'm serious, are you okay? I heard--nevermind. Are you really okay?"

         My heart broke to hear him like that, and I was disappointed that I was sober enough to be absorbing it all.

         "I'm fine, sweetheart, I promise." I rose to go to the low stone wall at the edge of the yard so I wouldn't interrupt Brent and Finland's conversation. The rocks were cold, but so were my hands. It made no difference.

         "Casey...I heard terrible things. That message--the first one--it sounded like you were being beaten. I heard smacking noises and...it was awful. And then Brent called and said--what's going on? You're not with anyone? You're safe?"

         "Oh, god yes, hon," I relaxed a little, laughing breathily on a sigh. "No, he was joking. It was a joke. The first message must not have gone through right. I promise nobody hit me, nothing's wrong. We're sitting here at our hostel, baby."

         There was silence. It was not the comfortable kind.

         "I'll talk to you when you come home."

         Well, that was final. Partly panicked, but mostly disgruntled, I spoke up.

         "Don't hang up, Michael. It was a joke, we didn't mean anything, and we didn't know you didn't get the first message."

         "Goodbye, Casey."

         For the first time in his life, he hung up on me. I knew there was no blood in my cheeks, they were too numb, but I didn't realize quite how bad I looked until I returned to the table and saw the startled expressions on Brent and Finlands' faces.

         "I'm fine," I assured them, and I was. Mike and I were not going to part ways over something so trivial as all that. He was angry, but he was still riding a wave of fear, so it was understandable. I was just as angry at him for hanging up on me.

         "You sure?" Brent asked, sipping from a flask that Finland had unearthed from her huge fluffy coat. I enviously watched them share it, but did not ask for a sip. Alcohol had done quite enough damage to me for one night.

         "Yep." I smiled grimly over at him. "At least now we're both in the same boat going home."

         He blinked at me stupidly.

         "It's going to be a long bloody flight," I said by way of explanation. Nodding slowly, Brent took the flask back and lifted it toward the center of the table.

         "To Scotland. May we survive it in one piece."