JULY 16, 2012 / THE PIPES NIGHTCLUB

Three hours after Kerrish Soto (the most alcoholically experienced of them — if tequila sneakily handed to him by irresponsible uncles on New Year's counted for anything) lost the last shred of his sobriety, a bartender found three boys slumped in a booth and giggling over how funny a word quesadilla was — though it probably only sounded funny through the deluding lenses of drunkenness.

A slim boy with Asian features was tapping discordantly on the table with his glass, claiming, "Look, Kerry! I'm a drummer now."

The bartender swept the glass away, and returned to find the boy with darker skin and darker hair and darker eyes than his companions, who responded to Kerry sitting upright. Identifying him as the most sober, the bartender approached Kerrish Soto, and asked, "Are you and your friends okay?"

The reply came seconds later, like the bartender's words had caught on something before Kerrish registered them.

"Yeah, man! We're fanastic," Kerrish slurred, dropping a 't' as he spoke.

"You sure? I could call a taxi for you," the generous bartender offered. 

He wiped his hands on the black apron fastened around his hips, and surveyed the obviously under-age boys. He was sure he hadn't served them anything that night, but had an idea of many other bartenders who would have; they turned a blind eye for any paying customer.

Kerrish's smile was goofy and lopsided, like his posture, and his voice, "Sure. I mean, Asher over 'ere got his driver's license today — which is why we're celebra'ing."

"You're not British and you never will be!" the pale-skinned boy piped up, in a Russian accent.

"What do you know, Russo?" Kerrish shot back.

The bartender surveyed Kerrish, and his reasonably conscious state, Ryanel, and his giddy, delusional night-dream, and Asher, who was swaying in his seat with the familiar motions of a seasick person. It was a motion the bartender had accustomed to in his time working here, not to mention from his own party-boy days. He dashed to the bar, and grabbed one of the takeaway boxes stacked under the counter.

Through a quivering line of vision, Asher observed the box placed under his nose, the cute bartender who gave it to him, and decided that he should vomit. And he did, rather clumsily.

Ryanel made exaggerated noises of disgust as he squirmed away from Asher, "Ew . . ." was his one coherent word, before the Filipino dissolved into another mad round of laughter.

Kerrish yawned, giving the bartender a straight shot to his uvula, "Thanks. Y'know, I think we'll take you up on the offer."

With steady hands, the bartender cleared away the up-chuck, and came back with a notepad and a shiny pen that Ryanel ooh-ed at. He asked the three drunken teenagers, "What are your addresses?"

Ryanel jerked into perfect posture, before sinking back down into his seat. 

"You can't fool me," his finger waved deliriously, "Never give out your personal details to strangers."

By each second, Kerrish was regaining more and more of his sobriety. Numbly, he took the pen and scribbled down all their addresses on their behalf, ignoring Ryanel's protests of, "No! He's gonna sneak in ta our rooms an' murder us."

Asher exclaimed, "You're not British, either!"

Half an hour, and a meal of steak and fries, later, Kerrish had processed enough of the alcohol running rampant throughout his body to collect his scattered bearings and senses. Asher was slowly coming down from the intense high that whatever he had downed by the dozens had given him, the occasional sway in his step and his half-closed eyes were the only signs of his night of wild, drunken partying. Ryanel, however, was still bumbling like an idiot, and had to be kept upright by his friends.

The grumpy taxi driver was mollified by the money Asher, Kerrish and Ryanel pitched in, as well as the twenty dollars the bartender had lent them. Asher didn't know why he had taken pity on them, but nevertheless, took the help with a grateful smile. The ride home started out with burps from a bubbly Ryanel, before the energy left him and left him sleeping in the backseat, with his head lolling on and off Asher's shoulder. 

On his phone, there were sixteen text messages and five missed calls. Asher sent a brief, apologetic message to Vasily, explaining that he was on his way home, and put away the device.

Kerrish and Asher's minds were tingling from the sensory overload they had experienced. If Asher closed his eyes, he could still see the flashing strobe lights; if he shut his ears, audible remnants of the music still knocked his brain about, and the syrupy aftertaste of everything still danced on his tongue. 

More than ever, he understood the term 'buzzing'.

Kerrish and Asher were forced to sling each of Ryanel's arms over their shoulders, and haul the muttering, sleepy fool onto the porch of his home. It was so late that it was early, so Kerrish rang the doorbell, before the pair booted it back into the taxi and drove away before Mrs. Gonzales came to the door and bit their heads off.

As the taxi rumbled through the quiet, lit streets of Astoria, Asher started contemplating his own punishment. By the (relative) paleness of Kerrish's face, one could assume that he, too, was anxiously dreading the severe trouble that awaited him at home. Every bend that the taxi zoomed past was a step closer to his house, his father, and some major ass-whooping. When, after a suspenseful, panicked wait, the vehicle stopped outside Asher's house, he was already freaking out.

"See you later, dude," Kerrish called from the window.

The taxi sped off, and the silence of 4 a.m. fell on Asher's shoulders like a cape made of silhouettes and flickering street lights. The front door was unlocked, the first time at four in the morning Asher remembered it being since ever.

The lamp resting on the bookshelf ledge was shining warmly, and Vasily Delrov had himself covered with blankets in the armchair, waiting for when his son came home; as time trickled past him, he began to worry that Asher might come home in a body bag. He looked up, saw the state his son was in, and heaved massive gulps of hair into his lungs.

"Where the hell have you been?" 

This was also the first time Asher had heard his father swear in front of him.

Maybe that said something about how he was raised, or maybe it said something about how bad this situation really was. The blood-chilling dread that had infested Vasily Delrov's mind had almost driven him mad with self-wrought grief was burnt away, replaced with fresh and utter fury. He had trusted Asher his whole life, believed him each time he said, "Don't worry," and thought that because he was different, he would be different than other teenagers.

In the crinkles of his shirt collar, where Asher had been held by many times, and the smears of sauce and lipstick on his face, and the lingering drowsiness in his blue-tinted eyes, it was clear where and what Asher had been doing.

Vasily bit the inside of his cheeks, not trusting himself to control his speech. At 4 a.m., with shadows under his eyes and golden light on his face, Vasily took a good look at the person Asher presented himself to be. "Go to bed, now. We will discuss this in the morning."

It was all he could say, without screaming at his son, or breaking down into tears.