The Old Sailor

The following short story depicts an old man, having had one drink too many, and the adventures that follow once he steps outside the village pub.

Old man Tally had must have had six pints that night. As he stood up from the bar he teetered and tottered this way and that. He opened the door with a large paw and fumbled out into the street. It was a quarter past one in the morning, and barely a soul to be had. Tally was pleased in his drunken solace and continued to navigate his way down the cobble road. When he reached the fork that split between his little cottage by the sea, and Mrs. Tillie’s property, he paused. “What a decision I must make”, he pondered. “If I go home now I will surely fall asleep without hesitation. But I know old girl Tillie will be hankering for a night with Thomas B. Tally”. And with that, he walked onward to the old country house with the thatched roof. With every step he could feel the ground writhing beneath his feet. The trees outlining the path seemed more menacing now than they did before. Their long talons appeared to be reaching out to him, and the bark was screwed up in hideous faces that seemed to be mocking his jovial state. The wind began to howl and screech and Tally picked up the pace. It was still a fair walk to Tillie’s place and he was no more sober than when he had left the bar.

When he reached the old girl’s dwelling he rapped on the wooden door and was greeted by Tillie in her housecoat and curlers holding a frying pan; no doubt to smite the intruder she assumed would be waiting. “What do you want you old coot?” lowering her weapon at the sight of Tally’s drunken grin. “You know exactly what I want m’dear”, he said with a wry smile. “Well come on then,” she said with a sigh of exasperation, “the sooner you’re through, the sooner I sleep.”

What a night they had! The drink had made the wrinkles and rolls of seventy years turn into that of a plump, soft young woman. The curlers that framed her aged face fell into long blonde tendrils that fell below her blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Whiskey and rye had always looked out for old man Tally, and he owed them many a tussle in the sheets. In the morning he would surely repel the haggered face that lay asleep beside him, but for now, liquor had him convinced she was the woman of his dreams.

When morning came, Tally woke to an empty bed. The old gal had already set out to milk the cows he reckoned. “All the better”, he thought to himself. He would rather keep the drunken memory of a beautiful young woman in the grip of ecstasy than old Tillie’s mug. He gathered his clothes and set out down the path towards home. With writhing headache and a bare bottom, he began whistling the sailor songs from his days on the high seas. “What a night”, he thought to himself. The old hag was miserable at best, but she always delivered, and surely tonight he would be found at Tucker’s bar once more with whiskey in hand.