The Lake and the PartyThey’d never seen him so drunk, him being used to his glass of red wine per meal, nothing less, nothing more, never been a man of excess in his life. All his life he’d kept himself straight for the sake of his work, his family, and his education, his greatest passion now that he’d traded in his sports career for the aforementioned work and family.
Tonight, though, was a night for celebration. They’d delayed their the departure for their lake vacation just to attend the yearly political festival, which this time around took place in their city. The debates of the morning and afternoon had led into a party fizzing with excitement: attendance at an all-time high, acclaimed masters and thrilled up-and-comers alternated in the musical lineup. “This round’s on me,” one colleague had said, slamming a handful of lire on the bar counter; then another, then another, as his wife danced and his daughter sat at a picnic table, half asleep. The musicians followed each other onstage, the August heat persisted as the moon crossed the sky, released by hundreds of moving bodies. By the time the last grappa was offered, the instruments were being packed, and the bodies were trudging through the dark to the makeshift parking lot.
He followed them, wife and daughter at his side. When he got to the cars, though, he realised that with no lights and his state of mind he could not tell which car belonged to him. They crossed the park a few times before they gave up and sat on the grass, reasoning that it would be easier to find his car when not surrounded by similar-looking ones. They waited for the vehicles to pour out; the parking lot thinned out, but in the dark they all looked too much alike, and even with less of them around he was in no shape to try and open all of them one by one. Over an hour passed. When the second-to-last car departed, only his was left, off in the corner, excavated like bones from a dig site.
He sat at the wheel: his daughter was too young to drive, and his wife’s license was long-expired. “With so little traffic, it’ll take us an hour to get to the lake.”
“We should go home,” his daughter said. “It’s much closer. We can go in the morning, the lake can wait.”
“Nonsense. Our bags are packed. We’ll waste one day of vacation if we wait.”
So they left for the lake. His hands and mind were surprisingly steady, never swerving or missing a signal. He seemed more secure in his driving than he’d been on his feet, probably something to do with his past as a rally racer, or maybe with the knowledge that if he tripped and fell he'd be the only one to get hurt, but if he crashed it would be a bad time for all three of them if not more people. The headlights cut into the darkness, road empty. His wife slept; his daughter's tension kept her awake.
They got to the lake with no accidents, unloaded their luggage and set up their tent as soon as the sun came up. The only moment worthy of note, throughout the whole journey, was when he stopped the car on the side of the road, rested his forearm on the car, and vomited what seemed like every drop of liquid in his body. Then, phlegmatic, he wiped his mouth with a checkered handkerchief and climbed back into the car.