So he sits there and proceeds to tell me about his darkest secrets. And I'm bored. Bored, bored, bored.
There are dark corners in his mind, he explains to me. Things he can't tell anybody. Dangerous, subversive thoughts. Perversions. Thoughts which scare him. But the alcohol is stronger than his will to hold back, and soon his tongue betrays him. He talks and he is like a river.
He tells me about his obsession with women and dogs. Sometimes, when he saw a woman walking a canine, his mind started to race and his blood to boil. Oh boy, I think. Illegal in most countries and states, very questionable from a hygiene standpoint. And probably darned uncomfortable for all active parties.
After the next glass, he tells me about how he once came in his pyjamas when he was asleep. He had dreamt of his mother. He'd been sixteen. The stain never came out, his mother threw the pyjamas away. Geez, I think. Illegal in most countries and states, fairly questionable from a taste standpoint. I met his mother once. I imagine her naked and I have to shudder.
Sometimes, at the office, he gets into an inner rage where he'd just like to "uzi" everybody there. His verb, not mine. He also has knife fantasies. Another glass of whiskey and he confesses to rape fantasies -- both raping and being raped. No control at all. He starts to describe unsavory details which I conveniently forget at once. He once masturbated while fantasizing about sodomizing one of his co-workers. I can't contain a smirk as I remember that just one whiskey earlier, he'd still wanted to slit the same co-worker's throat. Right after uziing her, probably. Having seen raging necrophilia on TV in "Buffy, The Vampire Slayer," I'm not very shocked. He pours himself another glass and I get some ice cubes from the kitchen.
Inevitably, he reaches the point where he breaks down. He's a bad man. He has often contemplated killing himself. He even has some plans, none of which seems viable. He's shocked at his own thoughts, afraid of them. Afraid that they will one day betray him. That he will get a hard-on in front of his co-worker. That he will get drunk at a party and suddenly just let it rip.
With tears in his eyes, he asks me if I think he's a bad man. I tell him I don't associate with bad people. I especially don't drink with them. His mind no longer is able to follow the trajectory of my curved statements and he begins to cry. Soon he is lost in a pit of darkness of his own making. Between great sobs, he asks me for forgiveness. Me, of all people. I smirk again. Before I can open my big mouth to respond, he passes out.
With great care, I pull him up on the couch. From a closet, I produce a pillow and a blanket. I lift his head to put the pillow under him. His head is very heavy. I loosen his tie and tuck him in. Carefully I navigate towards the bathroom and throw up. We shouldn't have started the second bottle, I realize as I wipe the toilet clean. I stagger to bed, instantly fall asleep and dream up a nightmare in which his mother is having intercourse with a small dog. I get up, stumble into the bathroom and throw up again. Then I pull out a bucket from under the kitchen sink and quietly place it next to the couch, near his head. Just in case, because of the carpet.
As far as I'm concerned, he's undergoing puberty.