A Lonely Drunk

His hand encases the stained glass in a seemingly firm yet loose grip. The crystal edges

are gradually blurred by heavy breathes and, with knuckles white from effort, he lifts the empty

container to his lips. He feels the glass slowly begin to sink below the fold of his hands. The

once roseate, proud glass drowning under the thick tides of alcohol was conquered by the thirst

of one man, as it now remains lonely in its lack of contents. He wants more and can get more.

Now though, he forms patience as he watches the glass slip further and further from his grip

until it shatters against the dark ground. Glass scatters and flies across the floor; the surface

now wet from the condensation that had fallen from past regrets and previous pains. A new

addiction arises from this, no more chaotic thirst and fulfillment in liquid, but a simple need for a

hypnotizing distraction. The vacant space once occupied by his substance addiction is now left

scarred by a watery ring. He runs his finger along the line of liquid. The many ringlet scars on

the wood surface remind him of his wife, child, and divorce. Each ringlet stands for something;

some a celebration of life, but alas, such joyous occasions for alcohol are surpassed by the

needs and scars of dirty alcoholism. Alcoholism driven by grieving needs for a pain reliever. He

imitates the newest, still moist ringlet in a circular motion with his finger, yet he never does

manage to trace a perfect copy. Never does his hand flawlessly follow his mind’s instructions,

but a cheap attempt is his privilege.

Slowly, he cocks his head to stare down at the clock that scorns the wall of the bar.

Time, another weight for those who choose to carry it. Is time an illusion? Should he let it gain

entrance to his thoughts and fill the corpse of a mind he let die? To him, time is only justification,

excuses for the heaviness he feels at certain moments, or in certain places. Time is a priority

only for those who actually want remember. Remember how incredible it was to watch a woman

create another heart beat within her, to remember when it was you who wiped away your
daughter’s first tear. Now the only timeline, the only dues he felt obligated to fulfill is death. His

wife used to designate value to all things. Make moments memorable by numbers followed by

slashes followed by more numbers and more slashes. Half of which she disowned for involving

him. He, once a key part to her memories, became an ugly blotch to which she sought to erase.

Discredited like a dead language. He lifts the weight of his body from the stool and onto the

wood floor, upon which he dragged his feet along the layer of water the surface had acquired.

Passing through the iron door that lies beneath the red, illuminated blur, he steps over the

threshold and into the concrete ribbon that wraps the street’s brim. His hand fumbles the

change in his pocket as his eyes search the black asphalt for a car of yellow. He didn’t dwell on

his lack of direction nor destination, but he wanted to feel like he belonged to something, even if

that be to the sticky seat of a musty cab.

The taxi follows its orders, as one raise of the hand and yell brings the car to a rushing

holt. He never could do that. For a living, come to another’s beckon and call. Like soldiers to a

sergeant, but the sergeant is a stranger who you have never met nor have any connection to.

How do they do it? How can they obey so blindly and in a way, show so much respect and faith

to all men and women, deserving of such or not? Humans can leave you, abandon you, but a

taxi will come when you need it without hesitation. One of his few last comforts before death and

after closing time. He slides into the distressed leather of the urban soldier and takes command.

He slowly speaks, spitting as each word leaves him, “Take me to West Street on

seventh.”

“Sure thing, bridge or tunnel?”

Said in a sharp exhale of air, “Tunnel.”

“Sir, have you been drinking tonight?”

 “That’s a question? Show some respect and make the assumption, dumbass. How you

doing today?”

“Well, I’m good.”

“Why? What makes a day ‘good’?”

“I don’t know. Family?”

“Why is your family ‘good’ today, hm?”

“Let’s just get you back home to your place.”

Averting his eyes away from the skirmish driver, the delirious drunk looks to the window.

He stares at the messy lights and passing lines leaving a trail of colors in their wake. Like water

behind a brush, staining the canvas.

“No, I want to hear it, bring me some ‘good’ hm.”

“Well my son, Josh, just stopped school for break”

“Your wife must be excited, yup?”

“Sure, we always are.”

“Nice.”

“Here we are then.” The cabi gestures to the road lined with an array of flats, all of which

gather and curve into one another as the distance grows and they become lost in perspective.

“Here you are.” He drops a few rumpled twenties onto the floor of the cab and balances

his weight to the ends of his feet so he can move toward the door. Back onto the concrete, he

forces his legs down, grounded.

“You should write this shit down. Some real crap was opened up in this conversation.”

His lips let a small huff of laughter escape, but he then quickly returns to a scowl. His eyes water

and cheeks drop as if to create a frown. However, he quickly corrects himself and angles his lips

into another grin to compliment his dry humor, then lets it fall back into a stoic expression.
 The cab leaves, severing its ties and obligation to the undeserving civilian it held.

Speeding past the street of lights and along the perpetual blanket of black that complements

and merges with the dark atmosphere above.

The drunk begins his trek through the obscure land as he breathes the unusually loud,

dark air. “Welcome home, Josh,” he slurs.

“Thanks dad, but where’s mom? Is she in the kitchen? Should we surprise her?” Josh

grows a stupid grin across his face that wrinkles his young skin. He could just feel the arrogance

and naivety radiating off him, palpable in the air.

“Yeah, let’s give her a bit more stress. No, just go and say hi, boy!”

The drunk stumbles over a trash can in front of the flat he passes and falls back first into

the black, flexible fabric of the garbage bags lying before the brick steps.

“Mom! I’m back from school!” Josh screams as he runs into the small six by eight foot

space in which his mother cooks.

He sees a woman, small in the waist but sturdy in her features. She cooks over the rusty

oven her husband promised her he would update, but she loves him nonetheless. She has faith

in the old cab driver she loves.

The intoxicated man lies face up in the soft, comforting filth he fell into and stares up at

his imagination. He lives in the footsteps, in the small details of other’s fast flowing lives. Small

memories that he adopts and raises as his own. These things are far more pleasurable than real

memories. Borrowed memories lack dates, number, and slashes, consisting of only blurred

creations of thought you can dwell in as you shroud yourself from the grounded present.

Surrounded by the dark shadows of the tall brick building behind him, he lays on the bed he

chose in the street and looks to the dark sky, watching. He laughs occasionally into the void

space and maintains a small grin. Every few seconds he swats at his illusion with his skinny
hand and eminently, his fingers are deprived of the satisfaction of touch. No connection is

stronger than that of a creator and his creation, even if that be a connection be of love or hate.

When Frankenstein rejected his creation, his monster was cursed to wander the forest in

growing discontent for his neglectful and uncaring father. The drunk is (very much so) wooed by

his mind’s creation, yet he is forced to lie dormant to it, entirely disconnected. The creator of the

very game played is now limited to the role of a distant spectator. He turned the black canvas of

air into a new, unfolding world. He looks blind as his eyes dart back and forth between nothing,

but still, he laughs at his own hysteria.