He laid his head down, curling next to the toilet, pressing his cheek firmly into the linoleum floor. His muscles relaxed and his body stopped shaking, and, all at once, a wave of calm seemed to swallow him whole. He stayed there for a while, breathing in and out deeply, listening to the fan whisper its long, droning hum.
Then there was that sound again, the sound of cracking, like teeth getting crunched between a pair of pliers. He opened his eyes and looked all around him. The floor was giving way like ice cracking beneath his legs. He shut his eyes and tried to block out the images, but the harder he tried, the clearer they became—shards of glass raining down from the ceiling, buckets of blood-tinged water pouring in through the dash. Vicky just sitting there as lifeless as a puppet, her eyes unblinking, her hands limp in her lap. No, he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t just lay here. He had to do something. He had to get up. A couple drinks, that’s all he needed, a couple more drinks and he could crawl back into bed. He didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to dream, he just wanted to be sedated, no memories, no thoughts, nothing in his head.
He reached up and grabbed the towel rack, and using it for balance, he straightened his legs. He opened the door and spilled out into the hallway, staggering through the dining room across the carpeted floor. When he got to the kitchen, he stopped at the threshold, his body frozen by what he saw. The place was a disaster, a spectacle of ruin, like something out of a Hitchcockian film. There were shards of glass strewn across the counters and blots of dried blood spattered along the walls. The faucet was still running and the freezer door was wide open, a gash in the plaster from where the handle must’ve smashed into the wall. He sighed and looked down at his knuckles, noticing that the flesh was torn to the bone. Jesus—what the hell happened? Did he do all this? Was that his blood?
He cursed to himself and stepped into the kitchen then carefully tiptoed his way through the maze of glass shards. When he got to the sink, he shut off the faucet and crouched down until his knees were touching the floor. He opened the cabinets and peered into the darkness, searching for that one thing that would make him whole. But there was nothing there except for a bottle of blue dish detergent and a couple of ratty, mildew-ridden dish cloths. Where was it? Where did he put it? He hoped to God it wasn’t already gone.
He jerked his body back, scooted across the linoleum, and started opening and closing every single cabinet door. But still, he found nothing—nothing but a couple of red Dixie cups and some empty pickle jars. Christ. Where the fuck was it? Where in God’s name did he put that thing?
He pulled himself up then reeled towards the refrigerator, grabbed hold of the handle and wrenched open the door. There was nothing inside but some bottles of Gatorade, a carton of milk, and half-eaten wrappers of American cheese. He slammed it closed and looked up into the freezer, but there was nothing in there either, except an empty ice tray and a bag of frozen peas. “Fuck!”
He slammed the freezer shut then stumbled into the living room, empty bottles of liquor ricocheting off his toes. He knelt to the floor and picked up every single bottle, turning them over one by one. Fifths of scotch, pints of whiskey, quarts of vodka, handles of gin—every single one was completely empty, not even one measly drop left on the rim. No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening, not now, not again.
He stood up and put his hands to his forehead, grabbed his hair and pulled it out from his skull. He felt like screaming, he felt like crying, he felt like punching a hole in the fucking wall. Just one drink…that was all he needed…just one fucking drink to make him feel calm. He grabbed the couch and flipped it over then tore away the cushions and flung them against the wall. But there was nothing underneath them either, except a box of pizza and roaches the size of pigeons crawling around on the cardboard. “God damnit! Please don’t do this to me! Please God, don’t fucking do this to me!”
He staggered back into the kitchen and stopped at the oven and read the numbers off the green digital clock: 5:05. But was it day or night? He still had no fucking clue. He spun around and stormed back through the living room, nearly tripping over the television’s power cord. When he got to the front door, he flung it open, the doorknob smashing into the wall. The sun was coming up and some birds were chirping, the click-clack of sprinklers reverberating through the morning fog. Fuck. Just what he was afraid of—it was still morning, which meant the liquor store wouldn’t be open until nine.
He slammed the door shut and staggered back into the living room, collapsed on the sofa, and dropped his head into his hands. He could feel the sickness slithering around inside him, clawing at his stomach, bubbling inside his veins. His legs were shaking, his hands were trembling, and it felt like his skin was engulfed in flames. He threw his head back and looked up at the ceiling, as cold beads of sweat poured down his face. How could he do this? How could he be so stupid? How could he forget to fucking stock up?
Suddenly, he had a moment of clarity—everything became so perfectly clear. His head stopped pounding, his legs stopped twitching, and it was as if God himself had reached out from heaven and kissed his forehead. Of course, he thought, as he turned his eyes towards the bathroom. How could he be so stupid? How could he forget he had that shit?
He shot up from the sofa and marched towards the bathroom, flipped on the light and knelt to the floor. He took a moment to regain his composure, said a quick prayer then opened the cabinet doors. And there it was, sitting straight up like a big, beautiful angel, wedged between the drain pipe and the cabinet’s side wall—a brand new, unopened bottle of that minty fresh wintergreen Listerine.
He didn’t waste any time and snatched up the mouthwash, bit into the wrapping, and ripped it away with his two front teeth. He unscrewed the cap, lifted the bottle, and pressed the plastic mouthpiece against his lips. The mouthwash was warm, but sweet and syrupy, like getting kissed on the mouth by a chemically infused peppermint. He lowered the bottle and let the first sip settle, smooth and warm as it fanned out through his chest. Then he went again and lifted the bottle, and again and again, in between short breaths. When he was finished, he set down the bottle, then shut his eyes and leaned back his head.
Just a few more weeks, he thought, and he’d finally be finished. He’d finally accomplish the impossible task—a mission so pure, so beautiful, so simple that no one would ever be able to comprehend it but him. He’d drink himself to death alone in this apartment, until his organs were bloody, until he breathed his last breath. He just hoped to God he had enough courage to go through with it. He hoped to God he didn’t end up in some hospital bed. If worse came to worst, he always had his sleeping pills that he’d been hoarding away for the last couple months. Ninety pills of Trazodone…that ought to do it…that should be more than enough to shut down his brain. He smiled to himself as he glanced up at the medicine cabinet, at the red bottles of pills he knew were behind the glass. Good thing he never terminated the prescription. Deep down, he always knew that this day might come. There was always a chance that he might have to start drinking again. He just never thought it would happen so soon.
He closed his eyes and curled up against the toilet, letting his head sink against the bathroom rug. As his breathing slowed, his heart rate became steady, and Vicky’s screams from that night became a distant blur, and all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing whispering softly with the humming of the overhead fan.
Chapter 10
The Store
ARGONAUT Wine & Liquor. It was two stories high with a dull, red brick exterior and immense plate glass windows that gave it the look of an international bank. It was on the corner of Colfax and Washington, a few blocks from Monty’s apartment, across the street from the Fillmore Auditorium. It had been Monty’s stomping ground for the past two weeks since the accident. In fact, he’d been there so many times, he now knew the store’s layout by heart. He knew that the gin was in the back by the vodka—Seagram’s, specifically, about a quarter of the way down the aisle. Then, there was the scot
ch on the opposite side of the store by the whiskey, his preferred blend, Cutty Sark, sitting on the middle shelf, about half the way down. Ah Cutty. He could almost feel it metabolizing inside his stomach, the calm, warming sensation pumping through his blood.
He took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead then glanced at the clock mounted on the dash. It was nine o’clock, but the Sorry…We’re Closed sign hanging in the store’s window had not yet been turned over, and all the lights were out except for a faint flicker from the office in the back.
“Come on,” he muttered, peering through the windshield, chomping on his thumbnail with his two front teeth. “Hurry the fuck up people.”
He peered down at his hands. Jesus, they wouldn’t stop shaking. They looked like catfish flopping around on the sand. The alcohol from the mouthwash was losing its effectiveness. A couple more sips and he’d be ready to go.
He reached into the passenger seat and grabbed hold of the Listerine bottle then lifted it to his lips and took a long, deliberate sip. As he swallowed it down, he began to gag involuntarily as goose bumps the size of beetles crawled up and down his arms. Damn, he was freezing. His hair was still damp from this morning’s shower and his skin was cold and clammy against his long sleeve shirt.
After he cranked up the thermostat, he pulled down the sun visor so he could get a better look at himself in the vanity mirror. He looked awful. His eyes were all bloodshot, his lips a shade of purple, and he had dribbles of snot crystallized just beneath his nose. His once sun-bleached, blond hair was now a disheveled mess of urine-encrusted yellow that looked like a mop head that had been left out in the summer sun. And the splotchy patches of growth on his neck and cheeks looked more like furry, brown lesions than a healthy, trim, beard. And what the hell was that? He tilted his head as far as he could backward to get a better look at the serration underneath his chin. Jesus—was that from this morning? It must’ve been from when he fell and hit it on the nightstand. It was pretty bad—black and blue around the outer edges and bright pink in the middle from where it was still bleeding. One look at this and the clerk inside was likely to call an ambulance, or at least turn him away for looking like a bum. He couldn’t risk that. He needed his liquor. He was likely to have a seizure if he didn’t get it soon. Maybe he could get something to cover it up with. But what? What could he use?
He looked around the rental car for something adhesive, anything that could potentially stick to his chin. He looked towards the floorboards, then in between the seat cushions, into the glove box, and back behind the seats. But there was nothing—the car was spotless, nothing but some loose change and a crumpled up car rental receipt. “Shit.”
He twisted in his seat and peered out the back window. There was a gas station next door—but what good would that do? Even if they did have Band-Aids he’d still have to deal with the clerk at the counter. Fuck it. He’d better just stick to the plan, grab what he needed, and get out of there as quickly as he could. If anyone asked, he could just tell them he did it shaving or ran into a tree branch while out on a jog. They’d believe him, right? Why wouldn’t they? What fucking business was it of theirs anyhow?
He took a deep breath and turned his attention back towards the liquor store, but it still didn’t look like there was any movement inside. God damnit—what the hell were they doing? Why weren’t they open? It was almost five after nine.
He bent his head forward and started rubbing his eyelids, digging away the mucus that was crusted in the corners of his eyes. As he brought his hands down, he caught a whiff of something strong and chemical, fanning from his fingertips and out beneath his nose. He knew what it was. It was the acetaldehyde, a byproduct of the dehydrogenation of alcohol in the blood. For a normal drinker, it hung out for only a matter of minutes before being broken down by a substance in the liver called glutathione. But for alcoholics, the chemical hung around almost indefinitely, because there wasn’t enough glutathione to combat the massive amounts of alcohol entering the blood. The result was a stench not unlike that of vinegar or nail polish remover, emanating from the sweat pores like a bad case of B.O. It was so strong that people would often comment on it, but Monty usually just told them that he was trying out a new cologne. Funny. It had been such a long time since he’d smelled it that only now did he realize how much he missed it. Now, that it was back, it was almost reassuring, like the sweet, apple scent of his childhood home. He laid his right hand out flat in front of him then took a deep breath in, his knuckle pressed against his nose. Ahh. It was sharp, strong, pungent, and bitter…the smell of death like a spirit unfurling from his skin. He smiled as he sank back against the headrest, his eyes focused on the front entrance of the liquor store. Just then, he saw a hand move through the front store window and flip the Sorry, We’re Closed sign to Yes, We’re Open. Thank God. It was about fucking time.
He opened the door and cut the ignition then stepped out into the cold, merciless Colorado wind. The sun was out, but the air was blistering…so cold, in fact, that it felt like razors were cutting into his dry, alcohol-softened skin. He pulled up his hood, zipped up his jacket, and narrowed his eyes towards front of the store. He moved forward slowly, one foot after the other, his knees quivering with each unbearable step. It felt like he was moving in slow motion, as if he was wading out into the unforgiving sea.
When he reached the front entrance, he pushed the door inward. A set of bells tied to the handle clanged sharply against the glass. He looked around. The place was deserted. Soft murmurs of what sounded like Spanish radio oozed out over a set of speakers that hung somewhere towards the back. The music immediately reminded him of Victoria. She used to love singing along to songs Monty could never begin to understand. He could see her there, dancing in the gazebo, as little glimmers of light reflected off the pool. Her eyes were closed, her body swaying, her dark, curly hair floating in the gentle breeze. No, no, wait, he couldn’t think about her. He had to stay focused. He had to do what he came here to do.
He shook off the images and stepped in a little farther when his eyes spotted a rogue shopping cart parked at an angle near the wall of red table wine. He moved towards it quickly, but carefully, making sure to plant each trembling foot firmly into the floor. When he got to the cart, he put all his weight against the handle, and used it as a kind of crutch to move across the glossy tile. The wheels squeaked, the metal basket rattled, as the sounds of a Mexican mariachi band echoed throughout the store. When he got to the end of the aisle, he swung a hard right at the Tequila then went a few more rows down toward the four-level-tiered shelf of gin. There they were, sitting on the top level; crystal clear bottles of Seagram’s Extra Dry Gin. Its sweet, botanical taste always reminded him of April—the buzzing of bees, the sprouting of flowers, the mad frenzy of life coming anew. He reached up and grabbed two handles then pulled them down gently into the cart. Wait—was that enough? No, he needed reinforcements. He grabbed two more for good measure then pushed onward down the aisle.
Okay…next up was the Vodka. It wasn’t his favorite, but he liked the smooth, easy taste. It was perfect for those shaky, dry-mouthed mornings, and mixed well with orange juice or lemon-lime Gatorade. He squatted down, scanned through the labels, and spotted something called Popov in clear, one and a half liter, plastic bottles. He picked one up and read off the price tag. It was his lucky day. They were on sale…two for twenty dollars. He grabbed four and stacked them neatly into the shopping cart then hung a left at the whiskey and went right for the Cutty. He didn’t waste any time looking at the price tags—there was really only one brand of scotch that could satisfy his appetite—good ole Cutty Sark. His dad used to drink it when he was in the Navy and introduced it to Monty when he became a teenager. It was so rich and smooth it could be taken without club soda. Cracked ice and a little water—that was really all he needed.
He reached up and grabbed two handles then sat them in the cart next to the Vodka. Looking down into the cart, he took stock of his selection. Okay, let’s
see, was there anything else he needed? No, this was probably good enough. Anymore and he might look suspicious. Of course, he’d hate to leave here without getting everything. He didn’t want to have to go through another ordeal like he had this morning. But what should he get? Bourbon? Whiskey? Nah, that stuff was too sweet. Then what?
He looked around the store, straining his eyeballs. God damnit—why couldn’t he see? Didn’t he have his contacts in? He wiped his eyes on his shirt and pushed the cart down a little farther, then saw what he was looking for, sitting right there next to the whiskey. He picked up a bottle and read off the label…ah yes…Seagram’s Seven…the perfect drink for a bright, shiny Colorado morning. He picked up four and tossed them into the shopping cart. Alright, now all he needed was some Seven-Up, and if he remembered right, they were in the front by the cash registers. He walked towards them, picked up two twelve packs of diet seven-up, and stacked them side by side in the wire holder on the bottom of the cart. As he stood back up, he heard someone sneeze directly in front of him. It was the cashier—a Hispanic guy, short and chubby, with a set of light brown eyes and a couple thin strands of hair.
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