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.