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A Clink in Time


 

The clinking of the bottles sent Marnie to a different place and time. Unexpected. Like a malfunction with the transporter on the Starship Enterprise.  

One minute she was enjoying a few laughs and drinks with her colleagues. The next she was eleven years old, standing at the trunk of her dad’s green Buick. It must have been a Saturday because she was helping him carefully pack and arrange all the empties for the weekly trip to the depot. The bottles gave off a sour yeasty stench that assaulted her nostrils and stayed to frolic for the rest of the week. 

Oddly, this was a happy memory. Those Saturday mornings were among the few times Marnie could be sure that both parents were sober. By early afternoon, when all her friends were watching cartoons and being fed homemade cookies, Marnie was refilling glasses, emptying ashtrays, and keeping her parents amused – both unseen and entertaining.

She read somewhere that children of alcoholics often grew up to be performers – not necessarily actors or comediennes, but jokers and pranksters who rarely let their true selves show. Marnie was well versed in the art of amusement and obfuscation. It made her popular at the office, even more popular here at the bar, and yet lonely every minute.

One of the clinking bottles fell on to the table with a crash, bringing Marnie back to the present.  She wondered if those Saturday morning trips to the depot with her dad led her to pursue a career in statistical analysis. Looking at data. Putting it in order. Making sense of it. Was she still sorting boxes of bottles in the trunk of the Buick?

“Earth to Marnie!” Frank shouted sloppily. Frank – her boss – always the ringleader on these trips to the bar, mostly midweek and not always after five. His side kick Stew, who was useless in the office was making himself useful now, wiping up the spill with a stack of cocktail napkins he’d swiped from the bar.

“Oh, my precious,’ Marnie crooned, caressing the overturned bottle. “You gave your life for us.”

The table erupted in laughter – a percussive barking from Frank and Stew, a chortle cum hiccup from Darlene, her cubicle mate. 

“Hey, do you think we’re as funny as we think we are?” Marnie asked. “Or is it the booze?”

“You think we wouldn’t be funny without the booze?” Stew asked.

“I wonder if we’re funny at all! Or are we a bunch of obnoxious drunks?”

The waiter, responding to Frank’s wild gesticulations, appeared with a fresh bottle and pointed at Marnie’s empty glass.

“May I pour for you?”

“Pour favor!” She said, chuckling at her own pun.  

“Well, never obnoxious….” Stew said snidely as the waiter rolled his eyes and walked away without tending to anyone else at the table.

“Prick!” Darlene muttered.

Marnie looked around the table. Darlene was mean, Stew snide, and Frank sloppy. She was ashamed of her parents, yet she chose to hang out with people who were just like them. And she was becoming just like them: an obnoxious drunk.

“No!” Frank declared slamming his empty glass on the table and reaching, for the fresh bottle. “The data clearly show you are hilarious.”

“Ah, ah, ah!” Marnie cautioned, putting her hand on the arm that held the wine. “Be careful. We don’t want another enspewing mess.”  

“Enspewing?”

“If it falls over, a spew will ensue. What’s yer point?”

More barking laughter and a few glares from nearby tables. The bartender frowned. He was probably wondering if he’d have to cut them off. Again. Kick them out. Again.

Marnie decided she didn’t care. She was back to doing what she did best, entertaining. She pushed her worries about her own alcohol intake to the back of her mind, while a sour and yeasty stench frolicked.

 

 

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