Monday, December 1, 2008

working on it

walking home
looking for a dose
so unhappy with you
guided away
embracing hate
it's all the same to you

uninvited guest
sporting sunday best
it's a laugh to all of you
somewhere he fits
cut glass, broken heart
somewhere he is loved too

Saturday, September 20, 2008

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 5

(Vicious… By Lou Reed)
The bar was always more alive with her there. It could be a Tuesday night with no one there but if Kellie was there…that was all that was needed. She was so thin, tall elegant and so very beautiful. She had the face of an angel and the heart of a saint. I never really figured out why she hung out with me. I guess it’s because I was more in love with the booze than pussy. I guess she was tired of every guy that she met wanting to get into her pants just because she liked to drink. She was no slut…but she was out of place here in this bar and especially with me. She was the love that I needed. She was the only person other than my mother that felt sorry for me. She was the only love I had these days. That and my draft beer and shot of Jack Daniels was good enough for me.
I love to look at her from a distance. She is like one of those paintings that you just can’t take your eyes off of. I couldn’t stop looking at her when she was at the juke box looking for something bluesy, something that was rotting the pit of my soul and needed to come out of the bar’s speakers. I see her dial the number for the song she thinks is perfect. She knows how much I like David Bowie but she dials something else, more movable…more danceable. The song starts loud and strong with a steady beat. She straightens up and turns my way. I’m polite and wait for her before slamming my Jack Daniels. She starts making her way towards the table where her drink and I await. She moves her skinny model like hips to the beat. She is just so beautiful. Her jeans, her shirt and her hair all made for this perfect scene.
I didn’t know much about her. She didn’t talk too much about her family or her past. She just existed. That was all I needed. A fellow drunk to be with me at the bar. She never asked me about my past or my family…all she wanted was company and not some asshole trying to fuck her. Or maybe she just wanted someone to sit with at the bar so no other guys would be hitting on her. I guess I did the job although im not a tough guy. I’m a drunk with a beautiful girl sitting with him. Beauty and Drink. At the time she sat down she has a smile on her face which is met by my greatest effort not to bum her out. I smirk so she knows I’m good enough for a few drinks.
The day has been long for me even though I woke up around one in the afternoon. It seemed like 8pm would never roll around to get my fix. At around 6 thirty she had called me right when I was going through the last shakes of my hangover. It was a good thing it is winter time. I couldn’t handle this type of hangover during the summer. My back was on fire and my head was throbbing. The cold helps out a lot. About an hour after she called I’m outside the pad waiting for her with a cigarette in my hand. Its cold but man its good for me. I open the door to her Amigo and hop in. She looks at me with a smile that tells me we are going to get wasted. I return the smile.
So here I am at the bar as per usual and she says to me that it was kind of dead. I agree. She tells me that it was a clear night and that maybe in an effort to save some money we should go by the liquor store and buy some forties and head up to the air port and stare at the landing lights as the planes land. I agree with her. So we pay the drinks and take off.
Once in her car she searches her collection of discs and once we are set with some Lou Reed we are on our way. We hit the Centennial and walk out with 4 forties of malt liquor. It was cheap and it did the trick. It was all we needed. All we needed other than our mutual company. I cant stop thinking about the looks I get when I’m in the liquor store. The typical look that says “what tha fuck is she doing with this looser”. If I was super preoccupied with picking up chicks I would take it as a compliment, but im too hung over to care about it. The teller looks at us when we get to the counter with the same look and Kellie makes it worse by putting her arm around me and pulling me close to her. She smells great. If my mind wasn’t so fucked up desperate for the booze I might of got a hard on by her smell.
Once at the air port or really across the street from the runway we park. It is a clear night and the lights shine bright on the runway. The air is cold and very crisp. We open the windows of the car and start with the first forty. We light cigarettes because nothing is better with cheap booze than a nice Marlboro red. In my drunken haze, the toxins from the night before left behind from a bottle of Smirnoff mixing with the new poison from the St. Ides is making for a great potion in my blood stream. At this moment I am totally content. I have my fix. My company, my music and most importantly my booze.
I don’t know why Kellie and I get along so well. Other than music and booze we have nothing in common. I don’t know how she feels about me but I love her. Not in a “I want to get married” sort of way. I love her because she is my friend and she makes me feel like I’m not a total waste. I feel bad for her though. It almost seems like she is being punished by having to hang out with me. I wish I had something more to offer her, but all I can offer her is my friendship. I’m not as good looking as her, and certainly not as tall as her, and I don’t know if I can protect her if we ever got into any trouble. I don’t question the situation, I’m just happy to be around someone so beautiful on the inside as well as the outside.

Aramis talks to his beautiful friend in the car and watch the night and planes go by. They laugh while Lou Reed plays. Aramis doesn’t know it but this will be the last time he is out with Kellie. They laugh at the stupid jokes made by one or the other. They enjoy each others company. A couple of spaces away another car parks. Neither Kellie nor Aramis notice the car or the three men inside.

The night was crisp as well was the aluminum bat that hit me across my back. All I could hear was a bunch of yelling. I could make out the words “Quit IT!” being screamed. It was Kellie’s voice. She was being held back. All I could see was a blur. These bastards really ruined my night. I had just opened my second forty. I try to cover my head from the kicks that are breaking air all around my ears. They somehow seem to hit me everywhere at once. I try to roll around and catch a punch near my right eye, which pushes me into some broken glass from the forty I dropped when they pulled me out of the car. The side of my face is pierced by the glass. Then I catch a boot near my chin and lower lip. I thought I was out at this point but then the last thing I felt was a kick right in the mouth of my stomach. I groan, I cough and spit out some blood. I hear some last words being screamed at me by one of the bastards. Then I’m out.
One of the men from the car was trying to keep Kellies attention on his words. She kept trying to break free from his grip. Her tears ruined her makeup. She was scared that she couldn’t look but at the same time wanted to get the other two men off of Aramis. She screamed many times for them to leave him alone. He wasn’t a big guy and was no match for the two men. Aramis was rolling around trying to cover his head and not take too many hits.
They slammed Aramis’ head on the pavement which by now was stained with his blood. The man holding her and trying to get her to listen to his screaming threats pushed her against the car. Kellie brings one sleeve up to her lips that covered in saliva and tears and wipes. Her eyes set dead on her friend on the ground bleeding. Just then one of the thugs decided he hasn’t had enough and walks over with the bat and rolls Aramis on his back and raises the bat in the air. Kellie reacts and tries to thrust herself to stop him but the other two men hold her. A siren sounds off two chirps and the blue and red lights light up the parking lot. The men make a break towards their car. Kellie makes her way to her knees and puts Aramis head on her lap. She tries to wipe the blood off of his mouth. She caresses his head. He is the closest thing she has come to love in quite some time. Not the kind of love that makes a boyfriend but the kind that cant be explained but you know will last. The police walk up to her and make her put her hands in the air. They frisk her and then check the vitals on Aramis. The three men are burning up the road as they speed away.

A Prayer

A soldier kneels only before God, his maker, his guide the only one who can forgive him for his sins. The only one who can see and hear him cry. God is his only comfort.

"My father, I come to you alone,
As you brought me into this world,
My soul and heart belong only to you
As you are my father, my maker
I surrender my sword and loyalty only to you

" On this battle's eve
I seek your guidence and love
Your protection,
Your hand to sheild me

"Walk with me into battle
Be by my side,
Let my eyes see no fear
Let my heart feel only victory

"Guide my steps foward
Never into retreat
Show me my destiny
Let me not fear it

"Let me not lament the blood spilled
Be it my enemy's
Be it mine
Let my sword strike true
Until my enemy's heart beats no more

"Be I alive at the end of battle
Let me not fight another
Be I dead,
Give me peace and forgivness
Wash the blood stained on my soul

"Remember your son
Save your servant
Bless him now and in Darkness
Embrace him at your gates
Dry his tears and heal his sorrow

"In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Bad things happen in April

April, its no surprise…
Abandonment, no surprise
Tears for you, while Im alone
Not the person you said to be
Not the person I thought

Wake now, and see reality
Today, your free, you’re free
Make up, and dress up
Before your tears betray you
Before you see hell unleash

Sing, for all of us
A song on your birthday to smile
Sadness is around in the cold
You can tell yourself
“I can live through this”
I hope your wisdom helps you believe

Who is that talking
Who is that crying…
Keep your back turned
It’s not worth your wild…It’s not worth your fire
Take your pieces, laugh and run
You havnt seen it all, little girls first

I say come back, keep your life on track
I’m not scared to melt and burn this way
Been here before, going there again,
This is really gonna happen, it’s happening now
Take your love and run
Your tears are falling for wasted time
Take your life and run…

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Mad Laughs and Clown Hats
The room is cold but I’m not aware
I’m falling down a mole hole and having tea on the way
I don’t bother to look around
Everywhere clowns in top hats laughing
All the way down it’s so bright it might as well be dark
At the end salted seas of rabid teeth wait
The room is cold, but I’m not here
I’ve been talked to but I can’t find to understand
If I’m sick I don’t know it
If I’m in love I don’t feel it
If I crossed the line and I’m here
Which is there, I bid you farewell
It makes no difference to me
Come out and play
Regain your faith
Come a little farther to see some pain
Don’t be scared of top hats and mad laughs
Feeling what you imagine tastes like grapes
Through the looking glass and maybe back
With help or not
The room is cold but I don’t care
I’m lost in darkness so bright I’ve lost my eyes
I’ve burned to stone and melted into fire
No one finds a use for me
I close my eyes as the clowns sing lullabies of the grave
When I wake they will laugh again
I will still be falling
I will still not be here
And I will have some tea

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 4

(Long Long Long…By George Harrison)

In the haze of the vodka, and the perfectly still apartment Aramis sat alone on his couch. His apartment looking pathetic, a perfect reflection on his life. This is all that ever became of the money he spent on the booze. A drunken haze, not knowing what is real and what is not.
The White Album by the Beatles, it was a way to travel to a time he didn’t live in but believed he knew what it was all about. Stale music to sooth his soul. It was hell to be in this place, just when alcohol gets you numb you understand that you don’t want to be numb. The room seems far away and through his mind he can make out the words sung by George Harrison. It’s such a soft song but yet it hurts so much. A lost love found again, but the fact that it was lost for so long makes the mood become overwhelm by sadness. He looks at his at his apartment as a reflection of his life.

A rummy? Every kid dreams of living like this.

In his mind he can see pictures of the old country, family that he has, looking at him with sincerity. Looking at him with compassion. He opens his eyes and it seems that from the curtins he can see someone staring at him with somewhat disgust. His head wobbles and it dosent look like he is going to make it off this couch not right now anyway and certainly not on his own. It seems like it has been 12:44 in the am for a long time. Things are going so slow. Aramis doesnt remember this song being so long, despite the name it has. It was alright though he liked it.
His eyes close once again. The life in the old country comes to him in flashes of a childhood. Two parents that had all the right intentions of making a family in the traditional sense. Something went wrong with the plan, and now he was cursed. He tries to open his eyes and sees a little boy in front of him there in the apartment, looking at him with icy eyes of wonder. He looks so familiar. His breathing has slowed down considerably. He opens his eyes and there is no boy. He must be dozing off. The boy was never there, he thinks, as he looks on, the face is back at the curtains.
Someone is fighting outside. The yelling is getting awful loud but he is unmoved. Aramis can’t move his body, its way too heavy. To anyone else this would be alarming, but he had been here before. Many times he had been here. He wanted so bad not to be drunk, but to be a child again and be in the arms of his mother, warm and safe. He missed the loving touch of a mothers hand. He missed all the things he was denied. A family, the ability to love, a life. The boy is back and between the curtiains he sees a face turning into blood but he can’t be afraid. It’s too tiring. The face is melting into blood slush and he can hear the pounding on the window. Some one is really fighting outside.

He wasn't joking when he said that he wasnt going to get up by himself from this couch. Things have gone too far. He wasnt expecting this when he signed on, but it was in the contract.

Now Aramis had his eyes closed and they werent opening yet he could see himself laying on the couch. He was in front of himself looking, and next to him the little boy who now was crying. He didnt wimper but the tears would not stop flowing. A splash of blood on the window between the curtians and the pounding was now on the door. Then there he was looking from the couch again at the little boy looking at him. His eyes shifted and he saw his older brother sitting indian style next to the coffee table looking down at some CDs. On the coffee table the gun sat. Aramis wanted to move, but couldnt. The boy staring at him. His eyes filled with sadness. The boy looked down at the Aramis’ side. The vomit was yellow and all over the couch. There was a bottle of pills open and bunch of blue pills spilled on the couch with the vomit, some on the floor. His brother now was still, sitting there Indian style looking at the floor with his head bowed. Then the blood started to flow out of his mouth. It wouldn’t stop. He could hear the sirens now, and the pounding at the door finally broke. He slumped over with the dead weight and closed his eyes laying on the vomit. In his right hand the phone with no dial tone.
The guitars crescendo and the sirens end the song.

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 3

(Babylon…Don Mclean version)

(The banjo starts to play in his head, the song is Babylon the Don Mclean version off the American Pie album.)

Aramis stood there in his drunken haze. The night was not helping his mood. He took out his Zippo and as he swayed in his drunken state he lit his cigarette. He put away the Zippo into his shirt pocket. He let out a big sigh which could not be distinguished between being drunk or a memory that haunted him, giving him no rest. He bent down and picked up the bottle of bourbon that he had picked out only an hour ago. He stood there in the dark and he looked down towards the grave marker. On the marker the name of his older brother the memory that never lets him get on with his life. The eternal sorrow, the everlasting reason to cry. He swigged back a drink of the bourbon. His face fixed on the stone with the expression of ‘what are we going to do now?’
-Why do we always come here? Do you know this person or what? The shadow behind Aramis asked and lit a cigarette. His voice was frustrated. It was obviously not his idea of a night out and having a few drinks. Who does that at a graveyard?
-You wanted to drink didn’t you? Well here have a drink and shut the fuck up. He passed his bottle to the figure behind him. We come here cause I’m fucking tired of them trendy New York wannabe bars. I’m tired of all them ass holes that go there. You know me I can’t stand fucking yuppies. The figure has taken a swig and passes back the bottle. Aramis takes the bottle and swigs it. He takes a long drag of his smoke. All of them fuckers going to the fucking bar to talk up their lives to bimbos. All of them wearing the same fucking Texas A and M cap. I’m tired of that shit. He pauses. Yeah, I know this person. He points at the marker and takes another swig.

-What this fucker doesn’t know is that this is where my brother is buried. I’m really not liking the current bar scene. The girls are good to look at and maybe take back to the apartment but its hell talking to those no brain bitches. I hate this place as well. I don’t know why I come here. I just end up here. I’m always called back here by something. I just can’t seem to forget that whole ordeal. I was young. I miss him terribly. I miss my mom as well but I can’t go to her in this state. Just like him before he ended up here. None of this was suppose to happen, but it did, and I can’t find the way out.

Life was a tedious torture for Aramis. When your fourteen you’re not wanting to go to church and be under the watch of your mother, no matter how nice of a lady she is. That’s what makes things harder, and you think your mom is nice to you so you will feel like a total ass when you do some bad shit. It’s all part of her plan to fill you with remorse for the evil stuff you do.
His brother was another story. He was 21 and he knew it. Aramis wanted desperately to live that life. Girls, nightlife, a few drinks all that stuff. Jr. High was another pain in the ass. Everyone telling you what you can’t do. Aramis really was getting scared that life was going to turn out to be a bunch of rules of things you couldn’t do.
It was one night that Aramis got to go out with one of his friends when it all went to hell. Being fourteen was hell, but it was about to get worse. When he got home he got into the shower. When he came out his mother and his then step father where putting on their shirts and making their way out the door. The words were:
-Your brother has been hurt in an accident take care of your sister.
He didn’t think much of this. A broken leg maybe. Within the next 24 hours he found himself looking at his mother in front of his brother’s casket with her face in her hands. It hurt him to see his mother like that. It hurt and scared him to look at his dead brother in the casket. He slowly began to break within. Everything that meant being fourteen didn’t matter now. This was going to be for the rest of his life and he knew that.
The older brother had been drinking for two days straight. He had made his way to his aunt’s house to where he had a key. Aramis mother would get angry when her older son would come home drunk. Her sister Oti had given Aramis’ older brother a key to the house. The house was alone when he arrived that afternoon. They say that he was way over the legal drunk limit. He placed a neatly written letter on the kitchen table and sat down on the couch which was near the stereo. He put on his favorite songs. He drank his last drinks. Some hours later he stood in the middle of the room and blew his brains out. It was almost 3 hours later when Oti came home and heard from outside the sounds of her nephew’s music. A smile came to her face that was quickly erased.
She came to the front door and saw the blood seeping out from the bottom. The bags she had in her hands fell to the ground. She opened the door and screamed when she saw her nephew on the floor with blood pouring out of his mouth. He looked as if he had tried to look for a comfortable position to sleep but didn’t quite find it. The CDs on the floor covered in blood. The booze on the coffee table neatly capped off. The gun just out of his reach on the floor also drenched in blood, his shirt covered as well.
Oti fell to the floor and stared ghastly at the scene. She crawled towards him to see if he was still with life. As soon as she touched him she saw he was cold. She picked up his head and more blood spurted out. The screams finally got the attention of the neighbors. Then the sirens came. When the paramedics pulled her away from her nephew which she loved like her own son, Aramis’ mother was on her way. Oti was drenched in blood and in shock.

-My mom had left the Catholic Church when she left the old country. She became a southern protestant Christian. I remember when they brought that box into the church that my brother had never set foot in when he was alive. All I could remember was the song that they sang. “By the waters of Babylon we lay down and wept for the, Zion.” I don’t know if they meant Zion as a land, a nation, an ideal, or what.
For me the waters have become tears mixed with booze. Tears of me, mom, Oti, my brother. All that blood and there was no life. All that and there was no answer to why he did it. There were blames between my uncles. They all blamed my mom. I didn’t. I blamed myself. I was caught up in my shitty little world, only thinking of myself and not thinking of anything else. I was complaining over bullshit, my hair, my social life, not having the clothes that I wanted. I don’t know what his problem was, but it must have been bad. Zion, or what I wept for was the idea of my older brother and having a family.
This is where I come to lay down and weep for my Zion. I have my booze, and here I weep when no one can see me. At this grave at night I weep for my Zion.

Aramis looks out towards the night and darkness, nothing there, nothing in him but a lot of booze, a void inside a void. The song ends and he throws the cigarette and makes his way towards his car. The friend in the shadows follows puffing on his smoke. Time to erase this; for the millionth time.

Saturday, February 9, 2008

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 2

(REM What's the Frequency Kenneth?)

If the walk to the car was bad, then the car itself was the last level of hell. All he could see in his mind was a glass of water and some nice pieces of ice. He could see his hand going to one of them fancy refrigerators with the stainless steel doors and that hole where ice and cold water are dispensed. His Honda accord would take a while before it would produce the nice cold air conditioning that his chest, back and head longed for. In fact it would punish him first with a blast of stale hot air accumulated all morning. It wasn't till this point that he noticed that he had walked out of the house in his sandals. As he looked down the sweat was beading up on his forehead. A whole bottle of vodka and all that beer before hand, now how had that happened? Just then the air conditioner started to give hints of crisp cold air. The radio starts up with the electric guitar and the voice of Michael Stipes asking Kenneth about the frequency.
The drive was that of a typical shitty day. Every red light between the apartment and the beer store was caught by our hurting subject. The only solace was that the AC was good, he could wait. Once at the store he remembered it was Saturday so obviously every fucker turning 21 on this day or having a get together at his house was buying his imports. Corona, Heineken, Dos Equis, Guinness. This just made the super-lifers existence, like Aramis, a real plump painful pimple on the ass. He was there to get what he needed, not what he needed to impress some guest. Of course he wasn't at the liquor store yet he was at his first red light out of 6, but already he was getting agitated. He wasn't really like this; all he needed was a nice cold vodka on the rocks to cool him down. Just thinking of the nice drink calmed down the agitation in his mind and butterflies started in his stomach. It was almost like falling in love for the first time. The fix would save him from the collections agency from last night that pretty soon would be knocking on his forehead in the form of a vengeful hangover.
His worst fears are true when he pulls into the parking lot. There seems to be a lot of cars, more than during the week. He hated going into the beer store like this. He knew how he looked. He looked like a boozer who needed a drink. He only imagined how he smelled to the people present. When liquor is consumed in vast quantities it sort of starts to become a part of your scent. Your pours start to recycle liquor.
-Fucking yuppies.
Aramis couldn't stand them. All of them look exactly the same or they try to look exactly the same. They try to look as if they are a typical beer commercial. All of them walking around with their fake bakes, with their Gucci sun glasses and gap shirts made for the weekend wear. It made him sick to his stomach and in the current condition he could not afford additional pain to his body that longed for the true, sweet, loving and sincere lies of alcohol. It would cure it all away and these yuppies would not be pissing him off so much, in fact they would not matter.
His moves and turns were automatic. Fourth isle on the right side second shelf was where they kept the vodka. Nice, clear and inviting. Then it was a short trip a couple of isles down to where the ice was. He usually didn't buy ice but he imagined that last night he used it all up. Of course with his luck he found himself waiting for a pair of yuppie chicks to make up their mind on how many bags of ice they would take. Geeze, they are fine as hell but this pisses him off. Aramis turns around and goes to where the tall boys are kept and picks up a six pack. He comes back and as if by art of magic the beautiful and stupid girls are gone. He grabs his ice and makes a dash for the counter.
Outside it's the same summer day with the sun beating down but now it's not so bad. Things are looking up. It was back to the apartment to think about what to do with this beautiful Saturday afternoon, alone or who to invite. Maybe he would invite some friends to entertain, just like the yuppies. Aramis was the son of a well off woman. So he couldn't hate the yuppies as much as he made out. His mom was a successful immigrant that wanted a better life for her son. She was as Christian as you can get; not the burn in hell godless heathen type, but the actual type, the ones that forgave to be forgiven. Aramis loved his mom, but loved his lifestyle more…
-Again! Why do you have to bring up old shit?
He knows what he was doing to his mom, and he couldn't stand to see her heart break, but he wanted to live on his own terms. His mom kept on giving him money after he had left home. After he quit calling she kept depositing money in his bank account. He drank more liquor to drown out that feeling of being an ungrateful bastard. At the last red light and he was already feeling sorry for himself and was thinking twice about drinking up a storm this afternoon and into the night. Thoughts of his mother always hurt him. There is a lot of love mixed in with resentments and hate. It's a subject that he has put off for so long that he is not about to sit down right now with pen and paper and try to sort it out. There was no question about it, of course some day he would have to face these problems, but for now he was going to have some drinks and forget everything. It would be a night alone. The thoughts of his mother have shot down his social ability for the night. He needed a shower and a nice tall boy to ease him in for the remainder of the afternoon. Last night would not be paid for in puke and head aches today, maybe the next morning. Maybe. That depended on if he would go and do the same ordeal as today.
-Mr. sandman …bring me a dream…make her the cutest I have ever seen …I don't know about that lots of wavy hair like Liberace line. Kinda gay, won't sing that part.
The song had returned in a different tone to his mind. Indeed the sandman had returned and there was a dream to pass out tonight. There would be a dream, alcohol induced.

The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs

(Mr. Sandman The Cordettes)

-The guy who is all serious and with his eyes closed, that's me. I always remembered that song from the fifties. The Cordettes. I must have heard it while flipping through the radio. I was into the Beatles, but only the Beatles. The song was catchy but it was not anything I would admit to listening to while my friends were around. Regardless of what I thought it was not a simple pine box that they would put me in. It was more than I expected. I finally got that dream that I asked the sandman for. This dream won't ever end. Just how I wanted it. No one crying, no one making a big drama of it. I look more pale than usual but that's ok. My cheeks are rosy and the nose looks like I could be the head reindeer on Santa's sled. Of course my nose is red. I was the conductor on the RED NOSE EXPRESS. You got to be a drunk to laugh at that one. One final dream with a catchy tune and few folks to say good bye. Im so at piece, I'm serene. This is all I really wanted. Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream.
The Paul bearers carry the casket to the display area. In the casket is the drunk who bought the farm. They gently stop and open the casket and people start to walk by and take a look. People are not so much there to pay respect; they are there to make sure this pest is really dead; to look at a dead body, to be a tourist. It is not so much a funeral as much as a meeting place. They meet to discuss the pain, not of the departed but of the ass hole that made their lives a little more miserable than it should have been. Somehow there is pain that there won't be anymore pain. In the back room of this funeral home the secretary of the business has her clock radio playing softly the jumpy and bubbly tune of the Cordettes. No one seems to hear it. No one alive, that is. People look at the cadaver sit and chit chat about the everyday business. The dead has already been talked about during his life. During his ever present dieing life. Never living, just little by little dying.
-Don't bring that shit up…
The Cordettes finish the song and the attention is placed by all in the room towards a clock radio that does not play anything else. The music has stopped and now it is time to wake up. The sandman dream is over, and the hang over starts here.
Aramis looks up. There are a lot of shadows in his room. It's probably around mid day. Yep it is one in the PM. Good thing his AC hasn't died on him. The summer can be horrible at this time of the day. Especially if the night before assorted amounts of rot gut were part of the intake. The other thing that summer was brutal with was the light that shined through his bedroom window. In the summer the sunlight came right through the window and hit him dead in the face. During the winter there wasn't so much light since it was mostly overcast. To counter the dreaded sunlight some heavy winter blankets that are not used during summer are carefully placed over the window. No light just a bunch of shadows.
-Dreaming. Stupid song.
Aramis doesn't try to remember the night before. Its better not to. People get their feelings hurt when they find out they acted like total dumb ass. Pride can be a difficult father. A difficult dictator. Its better not to ask, not your self not anyone else. If he had made a complete ass of himself he would get the memo soon enough. Friends are nice to have until they start making fun of you or trying to control your life. They are friends, so you gotta deal with them.
There was no moral hangover up to this point maybe it was a night at home. This was getting frequent now. More and more just staying home, cheaper boos, no getting your ass kicked by fuckers you didn't know. Aramis was comfortable with this. The less he spent on other people the cheaper drinking got with him. It was a bitch ending up the night half buzzed and not having enough to close in the proper way. Proper closing consisted of having cab fare, having at least half a bottle but preferably a full one of vodka. A pack of smokes is essential and a well maintained Zippo lighter.
Cab fare is needed so you won't have to drive. The worst thing you want to do is drive when you're drunk. Not cause some dip shit might get hurt but because you don't want to get pulled over and wake up the next day in the drunk tank with some ass holes puke all over you. Worst of all with out a bottle of vodka to calm the shakes down. That is pain.
A full bottle of vodka is necessary preferably with that pouring spout. Usually when you want to close properly you want to have enough of the stuff and that's because when you get hammered your coordination gets thrown off. It's a professional hazard you know. So you are prone to spill a lot. You have some to spill and you have the spout that will prevent too much spillage. It is obvious that you're not going to chug the whole bottle so you don't want to spill the rest once you pass out. The rest will come in handy the next morning. Cigarettes are a must. Even if you don't smoke when you're sober. Keeps you moving and helps you hang in a little longer. The Zippo is not a fancy detail. You loose coordination so you want to have something that will light on the first strike IE the "well maintained Zippo" line.
-If only all the aspects of drinking were this easy to plan. There are other things such as the next morning. The next morning and having to face your pathetic life that you thought you had shed after a few shots at the same fucking bar you always go to. You would think that you would know that your setting yourself up for another illusion. But that's not my problem now. My problem right now is that I don't feel a moral hangover and I don't feel the physical one either. Which means more than likely that I am still more drunk than hung over. Hangovers don't just stop coming. They always come. They always collect. I don't feel the lousy heavy stomach, I don't feel the hot burning sensation in my bones, I haven't started to shake, but make no mistake…last night wont be forgiven. My problem right now is to find that bottle and hope to God that I didn't leave it on the floor pouring itself out. If I did then that means I gotta get out in that sun and go buy my fix. That is an ordeal in itself. My problem at the moment is getting a drink in my belly and taking a shower.
-The worst is when you get delirious and start to hear things and get all fucking jumpy and paranoid. People confuse you with a crack head, but my crack is legal, it's commonly called rot gut. All I can hear is that bullshit song MR. Sandman. It's in my head. Stupid fucking dream. Stupid song. What the fuck?
Someday I'm going to quit. Not today though. Not today. I'll be fine. All I need is a drink and a shower.
Aramis must be becoming a pro because the bottle is neatly on the table with the cap on top. Closed tight. There is a spur of hope for the situation at hand in the mind of Aramis. Then his eyes move slightly down. Yes the bottle is standing neatly on the table, the cap on it tightly closed but the bottle is empty. Maybe a full bottle is not enough, you might need two to close the night properly.
-Damn. Just my fucking luck. Now I gotta get down to the store and buy another bottle to cure myself. I hate the fucking store. FUCK.
Aramis puts on a light shirt and his jeans. He checks for his wallet and the sweat is already building up at his neck soon it will spread. He checks his pockets for some loose cash. It must have been a night in; he had quite a few dollars. More than enough for his fix. He finds his sunglasses and his keys and out he goes. The sun beats down like only in the south. It's not helping his state.