Randal is stuck looking up at his ceiling in misery, as his average Friday nights go. A small thing that's not mentioned often is how boring misery really is. He's so sad, but he's also so... restless? Like an opossum clawing to escape a seemingly endless dumpster, unable to break free so it gives up and starves.

There's just so much he's missing out on, a life someone that's 23 should experience! But look at him, rotting alongside rot. He's a college drop-out with barely any life experience, and even less self-esteem. Maybe he should just.. give up? Clearly this whole ‘life’ thing isn't working out for him.

No! He can't give up now! He's so young! It's not like he'll live like this for longer than a few months, right? He just... needs to get on the right footing. Yeah.. Y-Yeah! He can do this!

He peers out the dumpster, looking onto Downtown Dialtown. The smog filled air still feels less stagnant and wet than his home. He gets a good whiff of himself and gags. He really should clean-up…

Clumsily climbing out of the dumpster and almost falling flat on his screen, Randy makes his way to the park to wash off his... “aroma”. After feeling an odd stinging in his cuts from the wretched creatures he's forced to be mauled by, he realizes something. It's raining! Rejoice! Now he can get clean without being near those feathered dinosaurs (As if dinosaurs weren't already feathered.). Being pelted by rain on the road curb, he's realized something.

Where the hell is he supposed to go? He doesn't have much money, aside from about 20 and some change he saved up from his last “job”. It wasn't like he was going to run out of money by just spending 20, that would be pathetic!

Roaming downtown, he finds the Lock and Whiskey bar. It reeks of vomit, sweat, desperation, and cheap beer (not unlike him), but plenty of young people go get drunk. It might be a good place to start.

Randy timidly opens the door, peeking his screen over. The bartender is chatting with some patrons of varying degrees of intoxication, while the music makes his loose phone innards rattle. Dim blue light washes over the crowds of people at tables or dancing.

‘They’re all so social…’ Randy thinks, heart starting to hammer in his chest. This was not a good idea. If no one sees him, he could run home and rot in the trash until morning-

“Hey hon, welcome to the Lock and Whiskey! Ya’ lookin’ for a seat?” An extremely pretty barmaid approached him, a sweet smile (well, as much as a jug of beer can smile.) A plate containing beer and loaded fries balancing tentatively on her hands.

How could he say no to that?

“A-ah, uhm, sure ma’am..” Randy swivels his head until his optical sensors spot a booth in the corner, isolated and alone much like him. “Is there good?” He says, pointing with a trembling hand.

“Sure!” She leads him to his table, handing him a menu. “Would you like anythin’ to drink sir?”

Sir.. wow…. That’s so much more respectful than he probably deserves.

“U-uhm.. just a wine please..” She nods and leaves. That was the most pleasant interaction he’s had with a person for a while! Things might just be looking up!

She returns swiftly with the cheapest wine they have, and after Randy denies anything else she leaves. He looks at the cup, the way it’s still in a beer mug (the rest must’ve been dirty), and realizes that drinking alone is.. kind of pathetic? He could be like.. at the park or something.

He tentatively picks up his cup and takes a sip. His phone shrivels up (somehow). Sour. He keeps drinking anyways, he can’t just waste this. He’s spending the money a good Samaritan decided to give him, hoping he’d spend it on a new start. He stares at the wine swirling in the mug.

Pathetic.

He looks up and notices the people around him as he sips. Making moves resulting in disgusted glances or leaning into their touch. Dancing, content with themselves or grinding onto others. Maybe it’s because they have a life that can cultivate that kind of confidence?  The kind that makes you accept yourself. Or maybe it’s because they’re sloshed.

When he looks down his head feels a lot heavier than it did a few seconds prior. Or was it minutes? Probably the latter based on the empty mug below him and the amount of melancholy musing he’s done. He’s always been a lightweight, but now that he’s so underweight it’s even harder to hold his liquor. Once upon a time, he used to be a bit of a borderline alcoholic. His childhood wasn’t that bad per say, just unsatisfying. Despite being an only child, he didn’t get much attention. The divorce was pretty rough too.

“Sir, would you like a refill?”

High School was okay, at least he had Oliver.

“Sir? A refill?”

Well, before they lost touch.

“Sir?”

No wonder he stopped talking to h-

“Sir!”

The waitress gently tapped him on the shoulder, voice firmer.

“A-ah! Sorry! J-just lost in thought.” Randy flinched; voice not quite slurred but close. “What were you asking?”

“If you’d like a refill sir.” The lady replied, unwavering in kindness but with a touch of confusion. God, making a poor woman’s day harder when she has to deal with drunkards every day. What kind of man was he?

“Y-Yes! Yes please...” She places a new cup and asks,

“Would you like some food?”

Food! Yeah, he needs that! However, he hadn’t checked the menu and didn’t know what was even on the damn thing.

“Uhm-“ Think Randal! He can’t waste any more time! His mind flashes to the food she was holding when she greeted him.

“Loaded fries!” He belts, a little too loud. The barmaid looks at him bewildered, and others pause their conversations for half a bear before continuing on.

Humiliating.

She nods and leaves to grab the fries, while Randy chugs half of the renewed wine in 2.6 seconds. He gags, regretting it slightly, but at least it’ll make the embarrassment ebb. He’s already down, what, 14$? He really shouldn’t get anything more, but..

Another sip.

A glance towards the barmaid handing him his fries.

Glance down again.

Deep breaths.

Questions he can’t quite hear.

“Yes, t-thank you..”

And another cup of wine is placed next to the old one. At least this time it’s in a wine glass. Grabbing the fries, he realizes how fuzzy he feels. He almost misses the food, and when he takes a bite it’s the most flavorful thing he’s ever had. Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s that he hasn’t had anything more than scraps in so, so long. He devours it, feeling the cheese melt in his port. His hand gropes to the napkins, hand trying and failing to wipe his head at least 3 times. When he finally gets most(?) of it off, he leans back into his chair. It’s so soft, so inviting. God, when was the last time he sat in comfort? Not amongst the trash and rats and raccoons.

He sees a group of girls giggling towards him. He waves, before realizing they were probably laughing at him. He did just ravage a plate of mediocre flies with the most dignity a man like him could muster. His case somehow gets hotter as he swiftly lowers his hand and knocks over a fork. Typical.

With considerable effort, he moves the focus of his sensors to the room around him. He’s so, so heavy. He hasn’t even finished his third cup. He focuses his vision on a happy couple, drinking and talking to others. The one with a carabiner for a head has her hand wrapped firmly around her beloved rose headed girl. Hands intertwined; hands clasped. A temporary tie, marriage, blood bond. He turns his head to the dance floor. A flamboyant young man, couldn’t be older than 22, was baltering about. Hips swaying, arms in the air. He was laughing so, so much, his plant pot head spilling small amounts of dirt and succulent shedding to the sticky, glimmering ground. The man spots an older gentleman and pulls him to the dance floor. Couldn’t even notice quiet old ‘Jade, hiding in the corner with yearning eyes (eyes?). He swears he can feel people stare at him, pitying him, but the alcohol numbs the embarrassment.

Sip, stare, repeat.

More cups were placed to the old until he only had 20$ left and he could barely focus on the bill.

What was the point of this if he wasn’t even going to talk to anyone? Overpriced booze and delicious food? He thought.. he thought he was going to socialize. Make friends n all that junk. But no matter how much he longs too; his body won’t let him. Maybe it had realized nobody would want to speak to a pathetic drunk.

It’d realized something inside him was rotten long before Randy realized it.

“Hey.. Are you ready to go? We’re closing in a bit.”

Ah. He forgot about closing time. How long has he been drinking?

“Yeahh, c-can I have... uhm… 4? Wines? For the.. road.” He slurs to the barmaid, barely aware of how he’s acting. Barely even aware of how she’s staring with pity. Barely.

“O-oh, sure!”

She brings the 4 in a plastic bag and holds out her hand. Randy gracelessly plops the money in her hand, keeping his hand longer than he should’ve in hers. She retracts her hand, looking at him funny before walking away. The heat from her hand still radiates minutes after. He tries to stand, and nearly drops to the ground. His blood feels like oil and everything is water and the door keeps fucking.. slipping. He can’t leave if the door won’t let him. Stumbling into the wall at least thrice, he finally leaves the building. He can hear snickering from onlookers.

The rain went from a drizzle to a pour. He staggers through the street, water washing away the smell of sweat, desperation, and cheap wine (isn’t that familiar?). A block or two from his ‘home’, and he gracefully pukes half a gallon of wine and half-digested fries onto a dingy alley. Phone-God, his head… It feels like it’s about to split in two (again). Raising his head, he looks off into the street. Just a bit more until he’s home. Just a bit more until he can lay down. He finally continues his tragic journey, Phone-God really does give his hardest challenges to his weakest soldiers. Trudging on, he hears the muttering of Bunny, holding an umbrella close to his body and swinging his keys on his gloved fingers.

“.. how lowcan you go?”

That’s rich coming from a man charging rent for a dumpster. Randy grumbled something indecipherable, and then realized that the same man owns a thriving business. He probably has a husband and children, friends and other idiosyncrasies he could never understand. Maybe he was out late spending time with them too. Someone full of love. No wonder Randy couldn’t help but hear him above the roar of rain.

After what felt like hours of walking (it was fifteen minutes at most), he finally found his home. Opening the lid, the familiar smell of wet garbage assaulted his nostrils, and the scurrying of roaches and other assorted vermin could be heard. Home sweet home, one could say.

Trash has never looked so comfortable.

He tossed his bag over the lid and followed, landing face first into the soft trash. Turning over to his back, he fumbles the bag open and opens a small bottle of wine using the edge of an old blender in the trash. More liqueur pours down his gullet, and he feels farther away from his body. There are black spots in his vision, but he doesn’t really mind. It’s not that important. How long has he been burdened with his thoughts? The constant worry on his mind feels a world away. He’s crying but doesn’t feel a thing. Life is a thing to be observed more than to live in, is it not? At least a life you seemingly can’t control. What’s the point of being so invested if you keep sabotaging yourself the world keeps sabotaging you.

He takes another gulp. The tears mix with the wine. It’s saltier than expected.

Yeah, the world really does keep, sc- no, FUCKing him over! Ever since that fuck-fucking fortune teller (Thinking of her makes shiver run through his spine..) his life has been ruined! His, no, my life. There’s no way I can fix it. It’s out of my hands at this point! It isn’t my fault, drinking isn’t my fault. There is virtually nothing I can do! God damn is there even a point to this! There’s no point in even trying if everything I do leads to a missing organ and a death wish! I might as well give up!!

Another drink pours down my throat. It burns so much, and I-I swear I can feel snot mix with it too.

..Wouldn’t that be dreary? Little ol’ Randy, his entire mediocre future shattered and fragmented to a homeless man forced to pay rent for a dumpster. T-there has to be some kind of hope, right? I-I can’t just live like this. But I’ve tried as much as I can. I just couldn’t keep up with college, and working a shitty fast food job can’t really get me anywhere. Is there any other outcome I could’ve ended up with? Maybe I was destined for this. Destined to meet that fortune teller. This.. was all predetermined. That has to be it. It- it isn’t my fault. It can’t be..

Another gulp. I can’t see anything in front of me anymore. Maybe I’m somewhere else and I don’t even know it.

..That lady was nice. I wish I could’ve been more friendly to her. I wish I could’ve talked to her. I wish I could’ve talked to anyone there. I wish the people would talk to me, and I wish I wouldn’t screw up the interaction by being Randal V. Jade. I wish I had the confidence, the looks, something, anything to make people want to talk to me! I-I wish I could control something, I wish I would control something.

I wish the bottom of the bottle was more comforting than it was.

I wish, I wish, I wish.

When he blacks out, a sliver of the moons rests on his face. His body sprawled out while he hugs the bag of wine bottles. The stars twinkle bright. The world goes on. And Randal V. Jade sleeps dreamlessly throughout the night.

If only his morning hangover could’ve been as peaceful.