retrouvez le nuit

by Patrick Johnston

It started in Soi Cowboy, and it ended in Soi Cowboy. I know that much. The girls didn’t wanna come with, but Mai was in my migraine bed the next morning, so I know we must have gotten back there. 

What I do know is that we were very, very drunk. 

And we had a rare thirst on, and we were drunk like bums as we stumbled and pissed and puked down alleys. 

And we were drunk as all saints, and down we went past the church of Peter and Paul and Mary and the Donkey. 
And we were drunk like grocers arguing the last ounce and the last penny,  and we blistered into bars buying rounds for all and sundry, 
throwing down wads of notes like money was just a story. 

And we picked up waifs and strays along the way  and gathered them up in our gravity well, 
and took them with us from bar to bar,  and some were lost and some fell by the wayside to be replaced by others,  but Irish Mike stayed the course,  even though none of us could understand a word from his lips. 

And we were drunk like stars and cathedrals and lost prophets, 
and we were drunk like sovereign entities steamrolling history in our wake,  and everywhere we went the girls showered us with rose petals and treated us like liberators, like heroes returned from the war, and draped themselves around our necks, and we were drunk like sailors on shore leave, and spending like them too… 

And we were drunk like gangsters, 
and we sailed from bar to bar in Packard Twelve Sedans  with molls draped off of us,  the engines purring like tigers that knew the score. 

And we sat in the gutters between bars and smoked cigarettes like Curb Elders,  and waxed philosophical about what’s the fucking deal with Curb Elders anyway. 

And we laughed about how the job was weird as all fuck but quite a lark notwithstanding,  and we denounced the job and we renounced the job  but didn’t know what the fuck else we could do anyway. 

And we were drunk like monkeys on over-ripe fruit, and we monkey fell and monkey stumbled and monkey howled and monkey laughed  and monkey cried and hugged each other like drunken monkeys. 

One bar sold wine that claimed to be French, so we had to have a bottle.  Le Guiche kept trying to pretend it was ok. 
“It is quite good.” 
“Ok, it’s not so bad.” 
“Fine, it is fucking dégolas. I am ashamed to be French.” 

One bar sold Guinness.  Irish Mike approved.  It was the only coherent sentiment I got from him the whole night.  And in a surprising moment of clarity, he told me how he once met a Piskie, and everything had kind of gone off the rails since then. 

All the bars sold beer. 
And in all the bars we drank beer. 
And in each bar someone got to choose what we would have as a chaser.  Pete Mariachi, true to form, went with tequila.  Noncy Pete insisted on some weird Italian aperitif with a maraschino cherry in it.  Rambunctious chose rum chasers to honour Jamaica, and she flirted shamelessly with Irish Mike, and everyone except Irish Mike and Mariachi knew that she was just doing it to piss Mariachi off… which isn’t to say that fucking Irish Mike was totally off the table… 
Everyone held their shit together. 
I followed Mariachi’s lead and chose tequila. Doubles. 

And we sat in the gutter, me and Guy “Le Guiche” Guicharde, 
sharing the last cigarette 
(don’t worry — we’ll get some more — but my throat is already wretched),  and Guy “Le Guiche” Guicharde put his arm around my shoulder and said,  “I love you, John Bishop… but before the cock crows, you will deny me three times.” 

And I gave him a what-the-fuck look. 

And he just laughed and said, 
“Mon ami… I am fucking wasted.” 

And we were drunk like cowboys on Soi Cowboy, our home turf, and we tethered our horses outside the saloon and had gunfights in the street. 

And we were drunk like dead men and fell dead like dead men in the dead street.

Photo of Patrick Johnston

BIO: Patrick Johnston is an Anglo-Australian writer and former professor of psychology and neuroscience. A 2025 Pushcart Prize nominee, he is the author of completed novel The Gaps Between the Stories, with Retrouvez Le Guiche, and In Abeyance of a Small God in progress. His work appears in Louisville Review, Roe River Review, Blood+Honey, and The Argyle Literary Magazine.Patrick can also be found on his website dr-patrick-johnston.com