Chug.

We used to play that drinking game to get a bit on our way before a night in Lyres. The ‘name game’. We all knew the double-S’s to send it back. It would go “Susan Sarandon” “Sly Stallone” “Sharon Stone” and on until “Sssss….” and chants of chug! chug! chug! But of course, it was harder to concentrate on a famous name while glugging on alcohol. So “Sssss…” drink, air, drink “Sssss….” pause to eye the ceiling and walls as though a famous name might be scrawled there somewhere, drink, air, pause to eye top-left corner of the room, “Sam Boyd!”
“Who the fuck is Sam Boyd?” Jewel might shriek. I’d retort I hoped someone else knew – seemed like a famous name to me. Chug! chug! chug!
“Sherlock Fucking Holmes”
“Holmes is fictional” KJames could declare.
“He’s still fucking famous” I’d hiss back through red-wine stained teeth. “….ah! Fuck ya. Sly Stone bitches!”
Ha! A double S we hadn’t yet thought of.
“He’s been said!” Dea or Jeebs would attest.
“‘Sylvester Stallone’ and ‘Sharon Stone’ have been said,” Sí would gently offer “Sly Stone is someone else”.
“Don’t call me Whitey…!” ‘dolph would croon in.
“That’s Fishbone or someone” – from Tborg.
“It’s Jane’s Addiciton and Ice-T” – KJames, in his encyclopaedic knowledge, would chime.
“Anyway! It’s a cover. It’s originally Sly and the Family fucking Stone… Sly Fucking Stone!” I’d insist, already having had far too much of this game and the alcohol, but sipping in between goes and even now even still glugging away without prompt.

Belly full of red wine and on the chug-chug-chug train to town. Chug-chug-chug in the stuffy carriage. Slosh-slosh in the belly. Chug-chug-chug, and under three stops down the line I battle my way against the nausea and against my own wayard feet traversing the chug-chug movement of the floor, to the door.

I press the button when the train stops.

The doors open.
I happily drink lungfuls of air, constantly telling myself I’ll be alright. I’ll make it.

The doors close. I gulp and sit back against the partition, arse firmly planted on the floor.

The doors open.
The driver is standiing there demanding to know why the doors were opened. I tell him I just needed some air.
“Don’t you get sick on my train” he demands.
I vow a sacred promise to him and myself.
I will not get sick on this train.

The doors close.
Chug-chug-chug. And I think about my promise. Chug-chug-chug. And the carriage stuffs up again. Chug-chug-chug. And I think about my promise. Chug-and think about vomit. Chug-and-slosh-and throat constricting. Chug-chug-chug.
The train, barely perceptibly, begins to slow – an indication we’re coming to the next stop.
I raise myself and shuffle on my haunches to the door.
The train slows more and the nausea rises as the train slows more as the nausea rises and the train comes to a stop as the force of it is on the brink of overwhelming.

The doors open.
Ruby red liquid gushes from my throat with a trajectory of a good couple of feet. A trajectory which passengers on the platform narrowly, but skillfully avoid with excellent reaction time. A few utter a variety of concurrent tones of disgust.

I disembark and Sí accompanies me. I sit, with full intention of making it to town on the next train (which I do, and to Lyres too) I just need a few minutes in case I’m going to blow again.

We sit on the bench together as I breathe the night air deep and full, cool and refreshing, and we watch the doors close, and the train pull away.

Chug-chug-chug.