Pay Your Tab and Go Home

I do this thing when I’m at the bars, and I meet some really drunk girl —
I steal her soul.

I do this thing when I’m at the bars, and I meet some really drunk girl —
I steal her soul.

I know already what you’re thinking, but it all came about in a very natural way. See, I’ll be sitting across from some girl, her eyes all misty from the vodka, and realize that suddenly she finds me interesting. Anyone can reach that point, where we’re all interesting and we’re all friends; its the reason people drink I think. At least it’s the reason I do. In that moment it doesn’t matter that we’ve only known each other twelve minutes and have barely made out a word the other’s said over the music. She just looks at me and waits for whatever I decide it’s time to say.

That’s my problem. I try to think of something interesting to say but I can’t cause — I’m sorry — I’m just not that interesting. So I invented this little game.

“Rock Paper Scissors for your soul.”

It works about thirty percent of the time. Sometimes she’ll be real religious and turned off by the whole idea. Other times she’ll be so drunk she’s not even throwing real symbols, just a crooked hand of bent fingers. I don’t count those. But when I play, I win a lot. We’ll laugh about it for a while; ‘ahhhhh you got me’ and what not. She’ll ask me what I plan on doing with it. It’s a real good game, it’ll get you talking. “I’ve dozens of them,” I’ll tell her.

That’s my second problem. I have about two dozen, actually. And it wasn’t until real recently I realized I wasn’t supposed to have them.

The first time I saw one I had just come home from the bars, woozy and carrying a fresh soul. She’d been tall, dark hair, exotic features — really beautiful. I was still thinking about her when I stumbled into my room and saw it lying there in my bed. Sort of — a fleshy disc, with a woman’s face protruding out of it — ghostly and pale white, like mannequin plastic, texture-less with gaping, dove-white eyes. From its back sprouted what had to be hundreds of tentacles, translucent like jellyfish, pushing against my sheets as it sat upright and began to move towards me. It was mouthing something, but the only noise that came out was this dull hum.

I fucking ran. Nearly killed myself down the stairs. It followed me out the front door but it was way slower than me. When I looked back it looked so sincerely confused and concerned and lost. It clicked right then — that face, it was the short blonde I’d met maybe three weeks back. She was there for her friend’s bachlorette party. It was her face exactly; though I couldn’t remember her name, I knew it was her.

I took the first corner, then left up a cross street and corner, corner, corner. I could barely hear the hum by that point. I was about nine blocks from home. I slept in the park that night, though sleep isn’t exactly the right word.

I thought the whole next day about what I drank and if maybe I should go to a doctor or something — but when I got home from work, there was another one. This time, a girl I recognized from probably the same week, maybe even the night after the last. I did the same run — right, cross street, corner — and what do I run into, but the first one again.

So I guess you see where this is going. Like I said, there’s about two dozen. Doesn’t matter the time of day anymore, or the place — there’s one around every corner it seems, sometimes three at a time. So easy to confuse but so persistent; sleep was becoming an ordeal, just a few hours at a time.

I had to leave. It got to the point, I could hear the hum all over the city. I got a duffel bag out of my apartment at least, and then made a run for it. I wish now I’d owned a car or borrowed one or something because after about a mile in one direction I had every one of those things trailing behind me, the hum so loud now that it shook the manhole covers and rattled the bulbs of street lights. We ran together for miles in the warm autumn night. Finally the noise subsided a little, and when I looked back, they had stopped. They formed a neat row down the the center of the street, some seemingly agreed-upon stopping point, like the state line in an old cop movie.

I panted and panted. “Fine!” I shouted. “If this is how you want it.”

They just stared on out at me; still this sad, confused look in their eyes.

“What?” I yelled. “Did you want me to come back?” Suddenly I was confused. I had no idea what to do with the souls, or how to give them back if I wanted to. I just looked into the carved faces, blank white eyes, searching for some expression I could cling to and interpret. To this day, no fucking clue. I tried, I guess. No clue.

I can’t go back, clearly. Every time I’ve gotten close I’ve seen them lined up there in the distance. I just want to grab some stuff from my apartment, see a friend maybe, but I won’t get close enough for them to see me. Its like they’re frozen there, like they haven’t moved since the night I left.

So can I give you some advice? If you meet a girl for twelve minutes, and her misty eyes are telling you that, just for tonight, you could be interesting — pay your fucking tab and go home.