Marc was drunk. It was three in the afternoon on a Wednesday and Marc was drunk.

It wasn’t really his fault. It’s not like he was an alcoholic or anything. He was just drunk at a weird hour.

Just before noon, his colleague, Will, sent around an email about a beer lunch. He had been included accidentally and everyone was just too embarrassed to admit it, so he tagged along like the smelly kid in school that everyone has to hang out with, or else.

Marc wasn’t a drinker. He was the opposite of a drinker. He was so the opposite of a drinker that it could’ve been he who passed prohibition into law, had he been like, super old and all. He wasn’t a drinker, but he desperately wanted to fit in with these men he worked with—men his own age who looked at him like he was an alien from some pitiable planet. Like he couldn’t even get interstellar travel right.

So they went out to lunch and the work bros bullshitted about girls they’d recently fucked, the game winning touchdown from Sunday’s big game, and drinking. Always drinking. They drank and they talked about drinking and Marc wanted to belong. He wanted to drink, watch football, and fuck hot chicks. He just didn’t.

He sat quietly, listening and occasionally sipping his beer. He tried his best to fade into the background, to go unseen.

“Lookit Marc,” Taylor suddenly said, “Why’s he just sitting there?”

“Hey, you got something to say or what?” said Dave.

They were being cruel like they were a group of popular middle school girls instead of men who work in a professional office supplies environment. Sometimes there’s not much of a difference, to be honest.

Will came to the rescue, though, “Aw, guys, leave him alone. He can hang.”

He could hang, all right. And he wanted to prove it. He picked up his beer and sloshed half of it back in one gulp. He grinned. He felt alive. He said, “Let’s get another round.”

They got another round and Marc came out of his shell a little, expressing his interest in the pretty waitress.

They got another round and Marc came further out of his shell, confiding that he still held onto his virginity.

They got another round and Marc no longer had a shell. He was saying things he thought they wanted to hear, sexualizing the waitress’s body.

They got another round and Marc was hopelessly drunk.

They paid their bill and realized how drunk Marc actually was when it took him three tries to stand up, and wobbly so. They laughed at him. Will waved the others on, “Go ahead. I got this.”

They left and Marc felt like he failed the test. He’ll never be in the cool kids club. Will led him outside and they sat on a bench in front of the pub.

“First time, pal?” Will asked as he puffed his e-cig.

Marc somehow burped and hiccupped at the same time, “What makest thou sayest that?”

“Christ. Okay, bud. I’m gonna go back to work and tell the boss you got sick. Think you can get home on your own?”

“Um. I want to work,” Marc whined. His drunkenness didn’t affect his sense of obligation.

“Listen,” Will said, pulling some cash out of his wallet and handing it to Marc, “We’ve all been there. Take this cash. Go home. Sober up. Get some rest. Come in tomorrow. Easy peasy.”

“Um…okay, sure, bud,” Marc said, swaying.

Will clapped him on the back as he got up to leave. He said “See ya tomorrow, champ.”

Champ. Bud. Pal. Guys like Will always treated Marc like a kid. Even when they were the same age and worked together in a motherfucking office. Marc had to do something to show them he could hang.

He walked. He didn’t go home. He walked and walked until he came to the top of the overpass. By then, he was half drunk and half hung over. His head was pounding in the sunlight of the afternoon but he felt light as a feather. He pushed his body against the barrier, resting his head in his head, trying to figure out his next move.

Then he saw it, the cop car.

The cops were having a picnic or some shit. He could drive away, easy.

He meandered over, thinking like he looked like he was just out for a stroll when really he was wobbling and swaying like he was a Zeke in the Walking Dead or something. Of course the cops saw him, but they held back, watching for a moment.

Then he got in the car and they cautiously stepped forward. He didn’t notice; he was too busy fumbling with the seatbelt and mumbling, “safetyfirstsafetyfirstsafetyfirst,” under his breath.

“Son? What is it you think you’re doing?” asked Officer Felder.

“Huh? Me?” asked Marc.

“Who the hell else would we be talking to, boy?” demanded Officer Lackey.

Marc put his hands on the wheel and plastered an I-promise-I’m-not-drunk smile on his face and said, “Well, OFFICERS, I’m going to go find crime. So, if you would excuse me, I’ve really got to be going now.”