Oct 13th, 2003, 02:16 AM
Something I wrote a while back
Hope you like it. Actually, I don't really give a shit. Just read the damn thing, OK?
Happy Hour
A morning like many, many others: Awakening to a long, low moan, like a broken foghorn, that he slowly comes to realize is emanating from his own throat.
How many times had this happened? Far too many to count. It's easy for them to run together, since they're so blurry to begin with.
He struggles to right himself in his bed, taking slow, deep breaths to try and soften the relentless pounding of the pile-driver inside his skull. His stomach makes a heavy lurch as he sits up, and his body takes over, setting itself in motion, pushing toward the bathroom. Hands shoot forward, legs pump and then fold beneath him, and he falls into a knees-first slide so smooth it is almost athletic. Hands grip cold porcelain, mouth opens wide to deploy payload. The caustic express train of reverse peristalsis barrels toward its destination. "Oh God," he thinks to himself, "How many more times?" He makes a desperate attempt to keep it down.
But, as with every other time, there is no stopping the train, and he is once again purging the poison from his war-torn stomach. This bed-to-bowl commute is now executed so well that it is run by muscle memory. Just as a hitter reacts to the hanging curve that is begging to be knocked out of the park, his beleagured body knows what to do when the train comes rolling up the track.
Now that the first order of business is behind him, next on the agenda is roughly ten minutes of dry-heaves. Images come to him as his stomach clenches in search of something else to purge. Still-shots, poorly-taken, flash in his head. Finger-pointing. A girl storming away from the bar; could've been pretty, who knows. All he can picture is the back of her head. Seems he's been seeing a lot of that lately. Another dim shot, this of him in the bathroom of whatever hole-in-the-wall he had stumbled into, crouched over the filthy bowl, doing a late-night warmup in preparation for this morning's exercises.
He hoists himself over the sink, and his reflection rises to meet him. Ten o'clock shadow. Some unidentified, but suspiciously vomit-like substance flaking in his matted hair. Eyes that look like New York City roadmaps.
As he reaches around to investigate the bruise over his kidney, it is only then that he realizes he is still in his clothes. No surprise, but he still snorts in self-disgust. More of that suspicious substance is dribbled here-and-there on his shirt. The stench of stale smoke makes his stomach flip-flop again, and it is only an amazing act of will that keeps him from heaving into the sink.
Another still-shot: Someone drilling him in the back. Kidney-bruise mystery solved. Somewhat. Could've been a bouncer, could've been someone he just pissed off by running his mouth about whatever his area of expertise was last night. Same with the dim, but unmistakable bruise above his left temple. A bouncer, maybe, but just as likely he ran into a fucking lamp post as he meandered across the parking lot to his car. It didn't matter much, he supposed. When it started getting bad, he amused himself by playing detective, trying to piece together the details of his misadventures from bruises, cuts, workplace gossip, and mysteriously low bank balances. It lost its charm in a short time. In fact, it seems to coincide with when his co-workers stopped inviting him to happy hours, and their subsequently avoiding him altogether. Or maybe it was when he found himself demoted for saying something to his boss that he didn't remember saying. Indeed, all the fun had been sucked out of playing jigsaw-puzzle with his night life.
Now he spends his nights alone in whatever dive has not yet banned him, and those are dwindling in number. He has even suffered the embarrassment of being stopped at the door of places he didn't remember frequenting. No explanation, just, "You're not allowed in here, sir." More than once.
So, he goes next door, or across the street, or across fucking town if he has to; wherever his reputation does not yet precede him. And the whole mess starts over again. Of course, there are the nights when he is too broke to go out, and he wakes up in the morning on the couch with SportsCenter still playing on the TV, a couple packs of smokes, and an empty fifth of whatever he could afford on the end table next to him. Empty nights, no matter where he finds himself.
He mulls over the fuzzy nights of the painful TV show his life has become, wishing he could skip the REWIND button and just tape over the whole thing with Brady Bunch reruns. Then the alarm goes off. Huzzah. Just what his headache needed. At least he's not late for work. Not today, anyway. He grabs the toothpaste, and begins scrubbing the foulness from his mouth. Four aspirin, dry-swallowed, a quick shower, and he begins to feel something resembling human. Almost.
As he knots his tie, it occurs to him that he still doesn't feel right. Still a little stiff. A tad off. That stomach is rough, and nothing will put it right like a nice breakfast.
He goes to his freezer, and there is an old friend, the emergency pint of Popov. Polishes it off in one long, sensuous gulp, looking like a Sprite commercial. Feels the warmth flood his stomach, his nerve settle, the headache eases almost immediately.
Altoids? Check. Four in the mouth, pop-pop-pop-pop.
Looks at his watch. Time to get to work.
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