Random ficlet - What Might Have Been
It was the oldest joke in the book. Any book, Sam reflected. It was the oldest joke, and he should have seen the punchline coming from a mile away, but he didn't because he was tired, and there had been alcohol, and well, it's all besides the point now.
Sam, Josh, and Ainsley walked into a bar.
Sam should have known the night wouldn't get better. In fact, it had only progressed into a much lower, much worse place as the night went on. Among other things (Republicans and Democrats at the end of their straws do not mix), Sam forgot two things.
Josh and Ainsley were very cheap drunks.
And Josh got touchy-feely.
Sam and Josh had slid into the booth, the vinyl smooth and cool against the backs of their necks, and Ainsley was occupying two chairs (one with her back, the other housing her feet). Between the three of them, four beers had been consumed and conversation was still lively and friendly.
"Saying small businesses will all up and fold if we raise the minimum wage over two years is like saying the percentage of teenagers who smoke will plummet if alcohol prices go down..." Josh was ranting, his nose out of place and his jaw set for a battle.
"Josh, that isn't the..." Ainsley tried to interrupt, her accent twanging in all the right places.
Josh held up his hand and closed his eyes. "Look. 33.3 bar percent of small businesses are gonna fail no matter what the minimum wage is, so why don't we at least raise it and put a dent in the poverty rate while they fail?"
Silence.
Twenty minutes and six drinks later, and Sam was really wondering why the hell Ainsley had tagged along. Discussion over the minimum wage, the very small, very sober part of his brain trumpeted. She was humming and singing something now, conducting invisible instruments in the air.
And Josh was crawling into his lap.
"Josh, I don't care what you say about the success of hands-on strategy..."
"Sam, come on. Come on, Sammy, listen to me. It's been proven..."
"Proven!" Ainsley interjected musically.
"Proven!" Josh seized on the point, his eyes wild and bright. "That a hands-on manager will increase the productivity of his team by at least, at least...at least..."
"Twenty-five percent," Ainsley chimed in.
Sam glared. "You are not helping."
"Am I supposed to help?" she asked with worried eyes. "I thought I was the opposition."
"And a very good one at that," Josh replied swiftly, tugging Sam into his lap. "Come on, Sam. I have to be a hands-on manager. It'll help to motivate your speeches, and it can help with your morale and I can boost your uh...morale."
"You said that already," Ainsley piped up.
"What'd I say?"
"Morale!" she replied perkily.
Sam rubbed at his forehead. This was not happening. He paid the bill (the waiter had finally paid attention to their table. It was like he was avoiding the three of them for god knows what reason. Sanity, perhaps?) He edged out of Josh's touch, raised a cool eyebrow and pointed to the door. His drunk companions pouted.
"Saaaaaam," they whined in tandem.
"Out," he ordered. "Ainsley, we are calling you a cab."
"I want a magic cab," she requested in a secretive whisper. "With whistles and bells and painted in all the colors of the rainbow!"
"Fine," Sam sighed in exasperation.
Ten minutes later, Ainsley had been properly bundled up, put in a cab (a regular one to her great dissatisfaction) and the cool air had slightly sobered her up. The same cool air was not having the same effect on Josh. Sam was trying valiantly to flag down a cab, but Josh's hands sneaking down the back of his pants and his mouth on Sam's neck were not helping.
"Sam," Josh whispered, his voice husky and low.
"I'm trying to get home, Josh," Sam snapped.
"Sam, come on. We can walk to my place," he suggested in that same hazy voice. "I can show you how hands-on I can be."
So Sam and Josh walked into Josh's apartment.
Sam really liked the punchline to that particular joke.