The Birthday Party
In celebration of Marvin’s thirty-fifth birthday, I had arranged a small gathering of some of his closest friends at our favourite tavern, The Hoof House. By all accounts, Marvin was having the time of his life. The drink was flowing, the music was swinging, and more than one lady had asked Marvin to dance. Through his bleary eyes he could make out the smiling faces of all his friends. Marvin, as vain as a peacock, smiled and took it all in. It was his birthday, but he felt like his friends were celebrating more than that. They were celebrating his magnificence.
Marvin raised his glass into the air and a rousing cheer sounded out across the bar. However, despite the frivolity, something felt amiss. The look in Marvin’s eye, his conceited behaviour, the over-indulgence in drink. I had seen it all before. Aside from his vanity, if Marvin had a flaw, it was that after a few drinks he stopped being a charming gentleman and became a sniveling, miserable wretch with an acid tongue. Tonight, he was in as bad a state as he had ever been. I could sense it and my senses were sharp.
I reached out and grabbed Marvin’s arm, spilling half his drink.
“Marvin, you’ve had enough,” I said.
An angry Marvin spun around and glowered at me.
“Rack off, goody two-shoes!” he shouted. “You can’t stop me from having a great time!” Marvin threw his drink at me. It splashed onto my chest, staining my silk tie and my once pristine white shirt.
“Oh that’s nice!” I hollered sarcastically. “All over my Tom Ford tie. Thank you very much, Marvin!” Marvin climbed atop the bar, steadied himself, and called out, “Barkeep! Another round if you please!” Wiping my tie, I decided that I would put an end to end this. I would slip him a moosie. A moosie was a tranquilised concoction that Marvin developed years ago whilst herding moose in the Yukon. But that’s another story. I always carried a moosie or two with me on nights out with Marvin, just in case he got too rowdy.
“I’ll get the drinks, Marvin. You just keep having fun.”
“Good idea,” Marvin replied. He bent his legs, leaned back and took a flying leap towards the Chesterfield sofa. He missed the sofa and with a dull thunk, his head collided with the wall. He turned around, grinning like a dunce, and pointed his index finger at me.
“Give me that glass!” he ordered.
“Here you go, Marv. Get your laughing gear around this,” I answered. Marvin snatched the glass out of my hand.
“Watch this, pansy boy!” and with one swift movement of his arm Marvin took a deep draught. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Marvin glared at me in contempt and hissed through his teeth.
I pondered on my actions as I left the tavern. Perhaps it was a low act, but Marvin was my friend after all, and it was my responsibility to protect him from himself. Marvin wouldn’t like it, but he would thank me later. I stopped under a streetlight and looked back at The Hoof House. “Happy birthday, old friend,” I whispered. I looked up at the night sky, then turned to walk home.
