Pub Nights

“A duck walks into the drugstore and asks for a condom. The clerk gives him a condom and says ‘That’ll be one dollar.’” he paused to make the punchline, well, punchy, “The duck replies… ‘Put it on my bill.’” 

As the final line left his lips a ridiculous grin spread across his face and his wide eyes scanned everyone’s faces for amusement. A few guys chuckled and most of the girls offered a barely-there smile and softly shook their heads. She rolled her eyes so hard she thought she saw brain matter for a second. “Well, I think it’s duckin’ hilarious,” Owen declared. “Time for another round?” he asked everyone.

The last thing in the world she wanted to do was drink another beer. Her stomach was full and her head threatened her with a headache. The choruses of “Noooo” and “It’s not that late” did wonders to validate her decision. And with a half-hearted flex of her cheek muscles and flick of her wrist, she departed into the night. 

The air chilled her skin, sucking out the heat that had risen from the drinking. Gooseflesh took over her arms and she clenched her teeth to stop the chatter she could feel coming on. The chatter, she thought. How annoying all the chatter was. Not a single joke was funny. Owen’s joke about ducks, Danny’s joke about mailmen, Malcolm’s joke about school bells, Adam’s joke about comedians. She was sure the involuntary eye rolls these jokes forced out of her were the reason a headache was creeping up.

The other women talked about their jobs and children and moms and friends and vacations and shoes. She didn’t mind this dribble; it was calm and innocuous. But the men. Their raucous ways were another story. They blabbered about meetings and kids and parents and pals and trips and football cleats. It was infuriating. It was idiotic. They were imbeciles. 

The sly night breeze whispered past her ears and she realized she’d forgotten her hat. She rummaged through her oversized, heavy tote to no avail. Must’ve left it at the pub. This was irritating; it was her favorite hat, with just the right amount of sagginess at the top and the faded shade of maroon she liked. Doesn’t matter, she wouldn’t have turned around and gone back for a diamond ring. She’d get it tomorrow. She had to get home before the night got the better of her. 

It was always at night that she felt the most vulnerable, the most helpless. She had zero control. Supposedly, all women feel this way, but she didn’t believe it. She knew plenty of women who went out at night all the time with no hesitation or worries. They could enjoy pub nights, laugh at the awful jokes, and then walk home without incident, encounter, or issue. It wasn’t so easy for her. It was like moths to the flame, flies to the web, seagulls to the half-eaten hot dog, she couldn’t explain it, but it always happened. 

Maybe it was good that she left her hat behind. The cold air moving through her hair made her feel more alert, more aware, more in control. Even though it was a beanie, she still felt like the hat blocked some part of her vision. Maybe not her peripherals, but it blinded the eyes in the back of her head. She needed those for post-pub nighttime walks like this one. 

Her head stayed on a swivel, watching for any surprise strangers that might appear without warning. She had to be ready for anything, anyone. If she could get home without encountering anyone, it would all be fine. She could sleep in her safe bed (Tempur-Pedic), watch her safe TV show (Law & Order: SVU), eat her safe crackers (Saltines), and scroll on her safe phone (iPhone). She’d be safe from it all. Unfortunately, safety was still eleven blocks away. She quickened her pace. 

The eyes in the back of her head saw something. Didn’t they? She was sure they saw something. She saw something. She swung her head around every which way, but nothing. She quickened her pace again. Her heavy laced boots pounded on the cobblestones and squeaked with each step. 

Then, a cacophony of click-clacking sounds erupted behind her. Her fists clenched, her shoulders lifted toward her ears, and her jaw shifted forward. Bracing herself, she turned, but it was only a gaggle of drunken women stumbling out of a townhouse. They cackled and crooned at one another while doing a horrific job of balancing on their high heels between the cobblestones. She shook her head subtly, wondering how they were so steadfast, how they weren’t consumed by the feelings that she couldn’t shake when walking at night. The fear, the lack of control, the darkness. It all overwhelmed her. 

Her pace had slowed after seeing the inebriated ladies. Her thoughts swirled with scenarios: men running up to her, fists raised; cyclists slamming into her as she crossed the street; dog walkers walking their dogs past her. There were far too many risky situations out here; she should’ve stayed home. Seven blocks to go, and no sign of trouble, but she could feel it bubbling inside of her anyway. That raw, gruesome feeling that routinely consumed her. 

As she reached the end of the block, the eyes in the back of her head caught something else. Then her peripherals saw it too. She fully turned to look, but nothing. Again. She walked as fast as she could now, but she could feel it behind her. She could feel him behind her. Without breaking pace, she looked back again, and there he was, clear as night. He strolled, hands in his bomber jacket, a scally cap tilted down to cover his eyes. But there was no doubt, he was looking at her. No, his eyes were following her. No. He was following her. She was sure of it. She considered ripping into a full-on sprint, but she knew from experience running was not her strong suit in these situations. Instead, she changed her route, taking a right instead of going straight. It added two more blocks to the walk, but it was worth it if she could avoid an incident. 

To her turmoil, he turned right along with her. She took a sharp left into a black alley, hoping to disappear. But, he turned, too. Now, she knew. She knew for sure it was going to happen again. He was still a solid ten or twelve paces behind her, but she was positive his turns were no coincidence. She prepared herself for the encounter, and she knew the worst was going to come. It was unavoidable now. 

The night’s silence was assaulted as she heard a loud and sharp “HEY!” from the figure ten or twelve paces behind her. She kept walking but felt like she was frozen. Like her legs were automated robots carrying a frozen woman to her safe home. “HEY!” It shot through the air at her again, and this time, she couldn’t help but twist her torso to look at him. Just as her eyes focused on the space behind her, he was upon her. His fat palm slammed against her throat and his sweaty fingers wrapped around her neck. Her shoulder blades were rammed into the jagged brick wall of the alley. She scraped and clawed at the hand around her neck, but his grip was firm and unforgiving. 

Her feet were still facing toward her home since she’d only turned her shoulders to glance behind her. He jammed his brown suede construction boot on the inside of her left ankle as he pushed her against the wall. He kicked her left leg to the left, and then her right leg to the right. Numb fury filled her body as he reached for his belt. She dropped her right hand away from his, straining to reach into her purse. This is it. It’s going to happen again.

Before he could undo his pants, and before she could reach her purse, he released her neck and was off of her. He hit the ground with a harsh thud as another figure flung him down. One, two, three, four, five punches landed on his face, which still had a bewildered expression on it. After two more punches, his blood-covered mug had sunken into a sour and painful look. The new figure stood up, spat on her attacker, and turned to ask if she was alright. It was Owen. He held his bloody hands out to her as if she were going to collapse, but she leaned steadily against the brick wall, which now felt like a part of her backside. 

The seven-punch recipient clamored to his feet and jogged off, spitting blood on the street, but the fury and darkness inside her hadn’t faded in the least. It still overwhelmed her. She reached into her tote and pulled out her favorite cleaver, the one with an ash wood handle. It glinted in the light of the street lamps at the end of the alley as she raised it up beside her head and then let it fall onto Owen’s chest, perfectly in the center of his sternum, right through the bone. His wide eyes looked at her with shock and pain and anger, and then blood dribbled from his mouth. 

His hands tenderly reached for the ash wood handle that jutted out of him, the attacker’s blood and his own blood mixing together. Before he could touch it, she casually reached forward, like someone who was so busy admiring their soup that they forgot they had to stir it,  and with one motion wrenched it upward and out of him. He let out a sharp, small gasp, and stumbled backward two steps. Then he looked at her face, into her eyes, and she looked into his eyes. Just before he collapsed into perpetual darkness, he saw her eyes roll up toward her eyebrows, back around, and down. She was thinking about earlier at the pub. His duck joke really was cretinous. Why did it have to be a condom the duck was buying? 

She took a moment to assess him, the way his head lay to the left but his legs lay to the right. She saw, in the pocket of his wool coat, her hat. He must’ve been returning it to her. How nice. 

Even more annoyed now than when she left the pub, she tore the hat from the pocket, but then thought better of it and put it back. That’s why he left the pub — the police would probably wonder where the hat was. If he’d just left the hat at the pub, she could’ve fetched it tomorrow morning and he would have made it home without a cleaver in his chest. But he just had to get it for her and now here we are, she thought. Her favorite hat will be police evidence by tomorrow. And she can’t even remember where she bought it.

She practically stomped the remaining blocks to her house, careful to keep her head down and not walk past any open, lit-up windows where someone might catch a glimpse of her face. A glimpse that could help the police identify her. The thought of them knocking on her door sometime tomorrow annoyed her to no end. She hated answering their questions. She hated making them tea. She hated offering them biscuits. What a massive inconvenience. And this is why we don’t go out at night, she lectured herself silently, this is why we don’t go to pub nights.

Frustrated that she let the darkness take over again, she scolded herself all the way home. But when she got inside and went to clean her cleaver, she could feel the phantom of resistance that his sternum bone had made, she’d felt it on the handle. She could still feel it on the handle. She was helpless against the draw the dark had on her. After a few months, after this all died down, she could go out for another pub night. She could walk through the night again. She could do it again. She just had to wait.