The party was in full swing by the time Dylan got to the bar. Sandy had had a few, and was loud and uninhibited. He spotted Dylan from across the room and bellowed, “Hey, look what the cat dragged in. I told you he couldn’t stay away.”
Dylan waved and made his way over.
Stacy greeted him warmly. “Glad you could make it.”
Sandy’s good nature vanished for a second. “Thought you were going home,” he said to Dylan.
“I felt like a poor sport, not celebrating with you guys. Let me buy you a drink. What’ll you have?”
“Draft beer.”
“You got it.”
“Get a pitcher.”
A pitcher did not suit Dylan’s needs, but there was no help for it. He went to the bar and ordered a pitcher, paid, and brought it back to the table.
“Here you go, guys.” Dylan filled Sandy’s glass first and said, “Who needs a refill?”
Several did. Dylan filled glasses around the table and found the pitcher nearly gone.
Sandy had already chugged half his beer. That was a break. Dylan sat down, dropping the pitcher beneath the top of the table. With his left hand he pulled out the vial and poured it in.
“And here’s the man I bought it for,” he said, slapping Sandy on the back. He poured the rest of the beer into Sandy’s half-filled glass.
“And what are you drinking?” Stacy said.
Dylan looked surprised. “Me? I forgot about me.”
Everybody laughed.
Dylan took the pitcher back to the bar. He was afraid if he left it someone might try to drink the dregs.
“You want another?” the bartender said.
“Yeah, but not in this. It’s got flat beer in it. Give me a new pitcher and let me have my own glass.”
“You got it.”
Dylan went back to the table, filled his own glass, and set the pitcher down. “Fight over it,” he said. “This time I’m taking care of me.” He took a slug of beer and stole a glance at Sandy.
Sandy’s beer was half full. This time Dylan didn’t top it off. If he kept diluting it, Sandy would never finish the dose.
Not to worry. Sandy drained his glass and reached for the pitcher.
Fifteen minutes later Sandy could barely keep his head off the table. His speech was slurred, and his eyelids drooped.
“My drinking buddy’s had enough,” Dylan said. “I guess that’s my fault. I shouldn’t have bought those pitchers. Well, I wasn’t staying anyway. I’ll see he gets home.”
Dylan put his arms under Sandy’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet.
“I’ll help you,” Stacy said, getting up from the table.
“Absolutely not,” Dylan said. “If he wakes up and finds out the two of us took him home, that is going to have all kinds of bad implications as far as he is concerned.”
It wasn’t easy, but Dylan managed to get Stacy to sit back down. Then he maneuvered Sandy in an unsteady stumble toward the door.
It was dark out. The sidewalk was empty. A cab came down the street, but Dylan didn’t hail it. Instead, he guided Sandy along the sidewalk into the shadows away from the streetlamp.
A couple of doors down Dylan found what he was looking for: A long stone stairway down the side of the building to a path below.
“Careful,” Dylan said, walking Sandy to the top of the steps. “Stand up straight, get your balance. Take care.”
Dylan stuck out a foot and gave Sandy’s shoulder a little push.
Sandy hurtled through the air and tumbled down the stairs, landing at the bottom in a misshapen heap.