Another Drink

~1200 words :: Seinfeld :: George/Elaine :: 12/25/05
It’s entirely possible this is the worst party Elaine has ever been to. Any party where the bulk of the evening is spent talking to George is by definition a bad party. You never know who you might pick up at a party, but it’s hard to imagine anyone being worse than George. (Note: Commentary for this fic can be found here.)

It’s entirely possible this is the worst party Elaine has ever been to. Any party where the bulk of the evening is spent talking to George is by definition a bad party. You never know who you might pick up at a party, but it’s hard to imagine anyone being worse than George. Well, maybe Kramer. Kramer might be worse than George. Elaine sips her wine and tries to tune him out. Definitely a toss-up.

The problem with George is that he’s a…the opposite of a magnet. An anti-magnet, if you will.

He drives people away, and not just the normal way, by interacting with them. It’s like he emits some sort of force field that keeps them away. Every once in a while Elaine will see a guy across the room, catch his eye and smile, and then he’ll get halfway over here, see George, and just sort of wander away.

George is not having any better luck with women, but that’s to be expected. By now surely even George expects it, which would explain why he’s clinging so tightly to Elaine. Metaphorically, thank God, but clinging nonetheless. George is like a black hole, she realizes. A black hole and an anti-magnet. Elaine can’t escape, and no one else can get close. It’s her and George for the long haul.

Waiters are exempt, apparently, as there’s one heading their way and he doesn’t turn aside when Elaine hails him over. This definitely calls for another drink.

It calls for another soon after, and another after that. Eventually Elaine loses track. If only she could lose George this easily, but no, he’s still right there, munching on hors d’oeuvres and grinning like a fool as he natters on about something, a plan he and Kramer have come up with to win the lottery. Maybe. Elaine nods and “uh-huh”s when it seems appropriate, but she’s not really paying attention. Apparently it involves Newman, a pet store, and thirty-six cocktail wieners. Or wait, no. Cocktail wieners are what George is eating. What are those called, then?

Oh, there’s the nice waiter again, and he’s brought her another drink without even being asked. Or maybe she’s asked and forgotten. Elaine takes the glass, smiles at the waiter and downs half of it in one gulp as George says, “So that’s when we make a grab for the parrot.”

“Uh-huh,” Elaine says automatically.

This wouldn’t happen if Jerry were here. He wouldn’t abandon her to the anti-magnetic black hole that is George Costanza. Why doesn’t she have a policy of no Jerry-less parties? Or at least no Jerry-less parties with George. Jerry-less and George-less parties would be fine. Preferable, even, really, but at least Jerry is capable of mingling. No George without Jerry from here on out, she decides, “uh-huh”ing at George’s “because, you see, the parrot has already picked three winning numbers, that can’t be a coincidence.”

Make that no George, period.

When she drifts awake the next morning, the sun is shining brightly through the window. Too brightly, even with her eyes mostly closed. Tugging the sheet up over her head, she rolls in towards the middle of the bed (and how’d she get off on the side, anyway? She always sleeps in the middle) only to find there’s someone in the way.

Her first thought is that at some point either the black hole or the anti-magnet stopped working, and she managed to escape George. Somehow she escaped from George and met someone – tall, handsome, doctor, a little voice in the back of her mind says, if you’re dreaming, you might as well go all out – and brought him back to her place.

An arm flops out then, hitting her square in the nose, and – tall, handsome, doctor, Elaine chants silently – she shoves it aside and peeks out from under the sheet. It’s the sunlight blinding her, it must be, because the man in her bed is neither tall, handsome, nor a doctor.

In fact, he looks suspiciously like George.

He snorts and mutters something in his sleep and he sounds like George, too, all nasal and whiny. Elaine inches away, trying not to wake him, and stumbles out of bed. This definitely calls for another drink or three. Possibly ten.

Easier said than done. She manages to sit up and swing her legs off the side of the bed, but every time she starts to stand the room starts tilting and she narrowly escapes throwing up on the crumpled lump of blue fabric between her feet that she assumes is her dress.

Okay, so standing is out of the question, which means unless she suddenly develops psychokinesis, so is a drink. Time to take stock of the situation. She’s wearing her slip still. Good. Bra…hanging from one arm inside her slip. Neutral. No underwear. Bad. George in bed with her. Worse, worse, worst.

This is not just one of those things you can laugh off in the morning. This is the sort of thing that makes you swear off drinking forever.

In the hazy recesses of her mind lurk jumbled snippets of what she’d like to think is a bad dream, but are almost certainly memories of last night. Flopping down on the bed giggling. George’s fumbling hands tugging off her dress, her panties. Had sex with George actually seemed like a good idea at the time? Could sex with George ever seem like a good idea to anyone?


George sounds half asleep still and just as confused as she was. Without turning around, she hears him feeling for his glasses on the nightstand. He doesn’t say anything else and eventually Elaine can’t stand it anymore. If she throws up, she throws up. It can’t be worse than sitting here. She pushes herself up, wobbling a little on unsteady legs. Pulling her bra off the rest of the way, she drops it on the floor and stumbles out of the bedroom. “I’m going to make coffee.”

When George joins her, he’s dressed. Thank God. If there’s one thing she’s grateful for, it’s that she was too drunk to remember what George looks like naked. And really, right now, she’s taking all she can get. She shoves a cup of coffee into his hands. The problem now is to keep him from bragging to Jerry. Or anyone else, for that matter.

“I, uh…you’re not mad I fell asleep, are you?” George says hurriedly. “I must’ve had a few too many drinks. I don’t usually… Not before, I mean.”

“Before,” Elaine echoes, hiding the beginnings of a smile behind her mug. Suddenly things are looking up.

“Just don’t tell Jerry,” George pleads. “He’d never let me live it down.”

“Don’t worry,” Elaine says, “I won’t tell a soul.”