One for the road

HANK HARRELSON SAT HUNCHED ON the bench with his hat in his hands.


He has been squeezing the fedora hat for the past four hours. His hair, tousled by the wind stayed spiky and disorderly on his huge scalp.

He sat perfectly still; the only thing moving was his eyes. He was staring with total concentration at the woman inside the bookstore across the road, following her every movement with rapt concentration.

I sat beside him and waited patiently; I was getting used to sitting quietly beside Hank and not complain, though I felt like a drink and maybe a smoke. Instead, I busied myself imagining the warm drink course down my throat stinging and at the same time numbing my gullet as it went down to erupt in my stomach.

And swoosh! Tingles…woozy feeling…objects in view beginning to twirl…then bliss…

Nothing beats the thrill of a drink! I thought to myself, suddenly very thirsty. Scotch, vodka, brandy, whisky…dry martini…tequila…ah! I’d give anything to be able to take a sip, a gulp of any of these and let the burning smarting sensation spread through my palate and tongue down, all the way down to my stomach…aaaaaaah!...he sweet warmth enveloping me like a soft feathered comforter by the fire on a cold winter night…suffusing my body like mamas’ hug back then while I was in my third grade on a summer afternoon after a successful game. I could get all that comfort and warmness from a single gulp.

The weather forecast said the temperature would be 31 degrees Fahrenheit; it was getting chilly and the wind blew dried autumn leaves all over the park.

I started fidgeting as I tried to pull myself together and not go look for a bar frantically; it was quite an effort.

The combined effect of the cold wind and urge to drink gave me the shakes.

Suddenly, my mouth was dry and parched. I licked my lips and tried to swallow repeatedly; it didn’t help.

I had promised myself I won’t drink again…not a sip, ever…though it was as if it was already late for the resolution but I intend to keep it anyway. What else can I do?

Well, I didn’t swear never to smoke again so maybe I can steer my thoughts towards the balmy, cool calming feel of smoke passing through my nostrils as I exhale…yes…the thought alone was soothing and at the same time exhilarating.

We were wrapped in our thoughts and longings as we sat mutely on the bench, wind rustling dead leaves around us. It was gradually getting dark and deserted; my wristwatch, a gift from my father, given to me as I was about to go to the gulf war, operation desert storm, it was called.

It was around after five in the evening; most stores were preparing to close.

Somehow, my father was right; the war was senseless!

Nothing was the same when we got back; the few of us who made it back were disillusioned by the reality of being a war veteran and hunted daily by noises of mortar shells and bombs. They called it posttraumatic stress disorder; a post war syndrome where we never stop fighting the war even after it was long over.

Some of us were depressed, restless and found it difficult to adjust to the constant peace and tranquility of everyday life back home. Found out my dad had died of prostrate cancer while I was in the Middle East.

Hurts like hell; couldn’t even attend his funeral. Started having sleeping problems; I would pace around the big house restlessly like an aggrieved ghost.

The only time I was able to sleep was after several glasses of brandy, martini, tequila, vodka…rum.

Don’t get me wrong the war didn’t create my drinking problems; I had had a few drinks secretly in my fathers’ garage with Hank and other high school friends when no one was watching long before we enlisted.

The war and its effect on us aggravated our vices.

Those who had anger management issues became highly unmanageable and erupted at the slightest provocation.

My appetite for spirit increased and I consoled myself that it was helping me deal with reality.

That was about twenty years ago.

Those of us who were able to get a life had moved on eventually, got married, had children, pets, good homes and jobs but kept our habits and vices.

I had lived for a hundred years at forty; aged twice and seen about everything.

Now in my late fifties nothing thrills me beside my thoughts...

To be continued