He woke with whiskey eyes and nicotine lips. He remembered their conversation as he sat down, as he told him that he did not want to talk about it, he counted in his variable reminisces four Maker’s, two Heineken backs, his first walk outside packing his first Camels in years, he remembered holding out his hand from the short awning to feel the rain. After that, the night dims.
The apartment was quiet, and he figured his friend at work. He was wearing the same clothes yet oddly enough his socks were off and nowhere to be found. When he sat up, he gagged twice, massaging his temples until they felt better momentarily, then began to pound again. His hands were shaking; he stared blankly at a Lichtenstein print noticing nothing about it but the color of bright yellow.
Barely standing up he found his bag by the door and headed for the shower. Undressing he needed the wall to stable himself and was glad he did not have any socks to take off, not having to sit down spending at least two minutes a foot and another minute to rise and steady himself again so as not to fall in the shower.
The water felt replenishing, taking it on as hot as he could, holding his neck down letting the drops beat down, wishing they fell out harder. He thought about shampoo and soap, deciding to just settle on the shower. His nausea was gone; his head was subsiding from the constant throbs. If he could stay there all day he could however after twenty minutes he felt the water start to run cold, and the truth in the back of his mind let him know that as soon as he dried off, all of his sickness would return. He knew he had sweats and a t-shirt in the bag but he could not find them and the more he bent over to search, the more he started to sweat, his nausea returned and he discarded his clothes into a pile next to the toilet until he found the t shirt and sweats. He sighed, gagged, and put them on.
Sitting back on the couch, he turned on daytime television hoping to run into episodes of “Chips” or “Starksy & Hutch” remembering that he did the last time he stayed there a year ago. When he could not, he pointed the remote to turn the television off. It took several times as it shook in his hand. He was thankful he was to hung-over to think about her, the situation, or what he was going to do next and as much as he was physically ill, he was thankful for the pain. His mind completely blank save for a thought of food that he knew he would never be able to keep down. He stood up pacing.
He started to tear out both corners of his eyes. He was not sure whether his eyes were dry or he just could not help internal pain, either way he let them fall looking
down to a lunch rush setting from his friend’s 11th floor window. He started to sweat again. Wiping his brow he looked left, then right, and just beyond the kitchen table, on a small cart he was pretty sure he had from his parents in the 70’s he saw a ¾ bottle full of Old Crow. Without thinking twice he went straight to the small kitchenette, the cupboard where he knew he could find an appropriate heavy bottomed glass, then grabbed the bottle.
Sitting back down on the couch he sat looking at the glass, then the bottle, then the two side by side on the coffee table in front of him as if the three were negotiating on the last time they met, how much, and when they should start. He leaned in shakily twisting off the cap. The smell made him wince, he knew it would, he took the bottle by the neck and poured three fingers. He then took the glass trying to hold his breath sipping a healthy first belt. He fought to keep it down, he did not want to clean up any puke and disrespect his friend’s place. He fought it, his mouth and eyes watering, finally going down he was able to breath again. He took several deep breaths sitting back with the glass resting on the arm of the couch.
He could feel the warmth run through his veins. He took another sip, easier; he even smelled it so as to better acquaint himself. His mind started to loosen, the warmth of the bourbon not only began to run the course of his veins, but heat his stomach into contentment. He took another sip.
“At least you never fail me.” He said aloud.
He laid his head back sipping and smiling. He thought about the television again but shook his head at the idea. It was a gray music afternoon, alone with his friend The Crow. He got up swaying to his right laughing, his glass in hand. He smiled at the boom box that had the CD player on top, as long as it worked, he could care less. Underneath in stacks were his friend’s collections. He looked up and down, smiled, sometimes laughing until he found the one that fit. He took it out if its case, checked for scratches, and put it on the player. He could hear it spinning and waited for sound.
“Let’s put a knew coat of paint on this lonesome ole town set ‘em we’ll be knockin’ ‘em down you wear a dress, baby I’ll wear a tie, we’ll laugh at that old bloodshot moon, in that burgundy sky.”
Smiling he poured another three fingers on top of what he still had left, then sat down in the corner of the couch… sipping.
