The kid sitting next to me in the neurology lab looks like he is waiting for a bus that is driven by the Grim Reaper. His eyes are sunken behind locks of stringy blonde hair. The only real signs of vitality come when my brother, who is sitting in a blue wheelchair, reaches at me to claw my face. I push him out of the office, the entire time he is screaming, and he is out for blood. I can’t blame him for this, and not just for his autism. The night before was spent thwarting his plans to break dishes, piss on the carpet, or ring the life out of the various cats that showed the bad judgment to stalk around the house.
Time to drive home. 22 hours is a long time to linger in pure consciousness by anyone’s eternal clock. Goddamn circadian rhythm. I decide to skip the usual egg and cheese bagel from McDonalds. It’s too late for false comfort. I stop at the liquor store. The girl with the skull and cross bone hoody eyes me suspiciously. Who can blame her? What kind of deviant buys a short bottle of Smirnoff No. 57 and a tall bottle of Mr. Pure orange juice at 8a.m. while sporting fresh wounds on both hands? I imagine the mixture of pity and justification in the eyes of previous lovers if they were to walk in at the moment I show my identification to the disgruntled liquor store employee.
I’m home. I re adhere the duct tape back over the vent that has already cost me one neighbor. I proceed to pour myself a stiff Screwdriver. I don’t forget the pinch of salt. I knock two frozen waffles together; this is food? I check my messages. Nothing. I sit down. I answer the phone. I took out school loans for this? I suppose having a college degree adds some credence to a morning like this.
The new upstairs neighbor is getting up. I hear his footsteps above the cigarette smoke. Must have been a late night at the A.A. meeting. Time to turn off MSNBC. Time to spin a record. Something nice. With enough luck and pluck, I will be asleep soon. Thursdays have always been my lucky day.
Drunk Like Leaves 