Fuck it. It’s five o’clock somewhere. Famous last words. The Jack burns going down on its own. Whiskey. Neat. I think it makes me look hot, holding the glass like that in the mirror. Just so. While I stare back at myself. I pour the liquor into a grape soda from the fast-food joint down the road. Mix it with the straw. Taste it. Blech! Whatever. I gulp through the straw and grimace as it goes down. I don’t even like liquor. I remembered my ex-fiancé taking a bottle of Jack Daniels to the head. Downing it. Reveling. Like water. I’m not that cool. Not, yet.
Donald Trump is the president. Or he will be. Maybe, if the witches don’t get him first. I hate to call witchcraft down on someone. Anyone. However, I’ll be an accomplice to this. Is that how witchcraft works? Do you get tied to people by agreeing with their negative omens? I crossed myself for thinking it. Then I took it back because it felt religious. I’m not religious. Not like Donald.
Someone on the clock app said for the next few weeks it’s airport rules. You know? When you see someone downing an old fashioned at the bar in their airport OOTD. It’s ten a.m but fuck it. It’s five o’clock somewhere. That was the only way any of us were going to survive. This part was easy. The upcoming four years felt like stones in the pocket of a drowning man. A drowning country.
The truth was I was afraid. The other truth was that there was nothing I could do with the fear. I’d already talked to God. My creator. Source. The comfort didn’t last long. The fear crouched at the doorstep anyway. The faith keeps trying to get in through the back door. The back door is locked. Locked. Locked. I don’t have a key. It’s fine. I’m not an alcoholic.
Four days. Five days. Six days a week. The bottle of Jack is little more than a dribble of amber liquid. I curse when I see how much I drank. I remembered my ex-fiancé drinking the big bottle. Three liters? Four? Something like that. I remember when we used to share it between three of us. There’s just me now. Just one. The bottle I’d gotten was only 750ml. Small. Tiny. Petite. I’m not an alcoholic. I’m coping.
The second bottle doesn’t last as long. I get a liter, so I don’t have to go back to the store. The third bottle is a little bigger. I’m still taking it a shot or two at a time. Dumping the gold stuff into something ladened down with sugar. I can’t drink it straight. Putting it in a soda makes me look better. Feel better. I can’t wait to get off work. I can’t wait to pour my shot. My shots. My glass. My full cup. I’m not an alcoholic. I’m coping. I’m afraid.
I’m drunk. Stumbling drunk. Can’t sit down because I still feel like I’m standing up drunk. The world tilts itself dangerously to one side. Like God’s tilting his head asking, what’s eating you?
“What isn’t?” I say.
He laughs. Or at least I think he does. He doesn’t make me talk about it. I can’t. Not yet. The liquor store is out of Jack Daniels. Not the regular stuff. Just the kind I like. Honey. The good stuff. I scowl as I scour the shelves, hoping that someone missed just one bottle. Hoping I could get lucky one last time. Crying when I realize it’s gone. There isn’t any. I drive to another store. There isn’t any. I drive across town. There isn’t any. I drive across the state. There isn’t any. I drive.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask to no one in particular. I’m headed home. There isn’t any Jack Daniels. There is no fiancé. There is no best friend. It’s just me, my thoughts, and a stretch of highway. The grim reaper is haunting me. Jeering. Swinging his scythe. I want to send the car careening into the trees. I want to bury myself before anyone else can. Somehow, that feels like control. Sweet. Sweet. Control.
###
At home, I lie. In bed. On the floor. To myself. I’ve got the shakes. I’m just cold. I’ve got a headache. It’s stress. I’m crying. It’s time. I’m bawling like a baby. I’m asking too many questions. Good ones. Honest ones. Every item in the house is on. The light. The tv. Music blares from my phone. The iPad plays Netflix. The laptop plays Disney. I’m scrolling on socials. I’m trying. I’m trying to make it stop. I’m not. A fucking. Alcoholic. I’m just — I.
The power goes out. The WIFI stops working. Everything shuts off. The cell towers blow up, or get disrupted, or something. Something. I’m being pushed. It’s quiet. Silent. I’m crying again, but it feels better. I cry for a long time. I cry and my tears smell like Jack. I lap at the sides of my mouth with my tongue. I look ridiculous. I shake my head at myself. I laugh a little. I cry more. I am an alcoholic. I am afraid. I hate this place. I want to go home.
Every day is only noon. Even when it’s not. Even when the sun is down, and the liquor is there. I like the house quiet for now. I like the way the journal feels. I swirl the whiskey in its glass. I cry a little. Take a sip. It’s just ginger ale. Baby steps. You know?
