Chapter
8 – Where am I? – Caleb Carter
Monday morning found me in Ye Coffee
Shoppe nursing a cup of tea and a hangover. The preceding night’s entertainment
was thankfully hazy in parts, unfortunately clear in others. One of my high
school chums, and golfing buddy, was getting married and had his bachelor party
last night in the upstairs of a two story building in Dunfermline. The party
that ensued was probably like most bachelor parties. Bored looking strippers
trying not too convincingly to look like they were actually enjoying
themselves. Old school chums trying to reconnect with their former friends. Everybody
'doing justice' to the full bar stocked with every alcoholic drink you could
imagine, and a few you couldn't.
All twelve participants that turned
up had arrived in either a taxi or by bus or had been dropped off by a friend,
and would leave the same way.
The
memory of a conversation about horses being unable to walk down stairs seemed
relevant somehow, but such relevance escaped me for the moment. I'm not a
drinker by nature, which is probably why I am suffering so badly with my own
hangover this morning. A glass of white wine and a few beers a week is my
normal limit. I'm pretty sure I passed that benchmark within the first half
hour.
The lights in Mrs. Robson's coffee
shop were trying their best to fry my dilated pupils. I should have brought my
sunglasses.
"Some vegetable soup perhaps,
Caleb?" Mrs. Robson asked, as she approached my table. "Great for
soaking up alcohol," she whispered.
"You're an angel Mrs. Robson.
I'll take the soup and more tea please."
"Hang in there, Mr. Carter,
I'll be back in two minutes."
A
lovely woman, Mrs. Robson and perfect as an owner/operator of the coffee shop,
I thought. Concerned about everybody, but never nosy, she had the knack of
being there when you needed her and absent when you didn't. A trait that I wish
she shared with Grace Wilson's mother.
"Here's your soup and tea
Caleb," said Mrs. Robson setting them both down on the table before easing
the thick vegetable soup in front of me and disappearing with the empty teacup.
Steam rose from the soup plate, bringing with it the heavenly aroma of carrots,
potatoes turnips and several other wholesome ingredients. I inhaled deeply and
felt better almost immediately.
Simple
sentences didn't seem to aggravate my hangover, but using words of more than
five letters threatened to make my head explode. Bearing this in mind, I even
tried to think in small words. It was useless. Trying to piece together what
had happened in the last hour that I was at the party seemed futile. I vaguely
remember getting into a taxi. Somebody in the back seat just wouldn't shut up,
but I don't remember sharing the cab. It pulled up outside a house that I was
quietly confident I had seen somewhere before.
I
remember a woman's voice saying, "Caleb, are you okay, are you hurt or just
drunk?"
The
taxi door had magically opened, and now that fresh air had entered my system,
my sole desire was to throw up. Disgusting I know, but there it is.
"Come inside, Caleb," said
the woman's voice as I was pulled out of the taxi.
"Who's taking care of my cab
fare?" I heard a voice ask, followed by the same voice thanking somebody
called ma'am.
This
ma’am then led me somewhere that ended up with me in a bathroom that I did not
recognize. Then she asked me if I would be kind enough to not puke on the
floor. At the time it seemed a bit unreasonable, but I pushed my own
inclinations aside and obliged the kind lady. My clothes were taken from me. No
easy task in my state, and the last thing I remembered after that was thinking
that somebody had repainted my bedroom ceiling.
When I awoke there was a woman's arm
across my chest and the sound of heavy breathing. Beside me on the bed under
the single sheet was a woman with blonde hair. Her face was hidden from me and
her breathing was shallow but regular. The sound of a yawn caught my attention.
Was she no longer asleep?
It must still be early morning, I
thought, since the room was still half dark despite a small side window that
was not covered by a curtain. A groan and the arm that was across my chest was
now sliding down, under the sheet, searching for and finding my penis. The
woman's head followed her hand, disappearing under the sheet. I still didn't
know who this young woman was. My stomach muscles jumped, sending my throbbing
head straight to Defcon 3. My cock was now in her mouth and was rising fast. I
threw the sheet off the bed, leaving us both naked.
"Good morning, Caleb,"
said the woman.
"Good morning, Mrs.
Mathews," I replied, staring at the young widow who was moving my cock
back and forward over her mouth.
"After last night, I think you
can call me Shona."
"Good morning Shona," I
said simply. "About last night. Did we?"
"I tried to fight you off
Caleb, at first, that is, but when you told me how you felt about me…
well."
So there you have it. I left Shona’s
house shortly thereafter, went home, bathed and changed. Despite my delicate
condition, I still made a cup of tea and took it into my father’s bedroom, who
in turn asked about the bachelor party.
“Was it any different from the
others you have attended?”
“Yes and no,” I offered.
“The usual shenanigans?”
My
father preferred shenanigans over strippers as a word choice.
“No, nothing like that,” I said. “Well,
yes, sort of.” I hated lying to my father and tried my best to avoid the practice.
“When did you get back?” he asked,
looking directly at me.
“About two,” I said.
“In the morning?” he asked.
“Minutes ago,” I responded.
“I don’t want to know Caleb. Please
don’t tell me.” A chuckle escaped his.
“As you wish father,” I said, and
disappeared out of the room before he could change his mind.
So here I am, in Mrs. Robson’s
coffee shop, nursing a hangover and eating my soup. Two ex-girlfriends of mine
were in the next booth. Etta and Irene. Shona Mathews slipped in through the coffee
shop door, walked over to my table, nodded to the two girls in the next booth
and sat down opposite me.
“So where is my soup and tea, Mr.
Carter?”
I
could hear all conversation at the next table stop dead. The sound of silence
was deafening. Three women, all waiting for my answer.
“You look almost as good fully
clothed,” I said, taking another sip of Mrs. Robson’s excellent tea.
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