Neat Pour on the Rocks
The liquid captured in the glass was the only thing in the bar that had color. A deep amber hue that practically glowed in a dimly lit room where everything seemed to be in black and white. Not in the sense that color was absent, but that his eyes were tired, the type of tired where everything appeared gray and lifeless. The people passing by his seat could have been wearing neon-bright colors and it still looked like pale gunmetal, the patterns and textures out of focus so that aside from the glass a few inches from his hand, the only thing he could make out were objects that moved and objects that stayed in place.
He took another sip and allowed it to burn the back of his throat before he swallowed. The only thing that would make the sensation even better would be if the liquid had swished past his tongue on a wave of cigarette smoke. It was a disgusting combination that could fill the soul with peace. As the bourbon made its way through his body soaking his blood in a warm embrace of temporary hope, everything was in color. Not because he could see, but because his eyes were closed when he took the sip.
That moment, when the vices hit your nervous system, one can peacefully die and it would be okay. Sitting at that bar with the world passing by behind him and only the waitstaff refilling glasses in front of him, the only thing he had to concentrate on was getting the liquid from the glass to his mouth. Sitting in that chair, the social contract of life was reduced to simply consuming what was in the glass. Nothing else had to be accomplished.
As the first sip warmed him into slowly opening his eyes again, he peaked out at the grayness and wondered if the atmosphere was calm enough for him to light up a cigarette. It was illegal. It was in bad form. It was also desperately needed. He thumbed the lighter in his jacket pocket and absently brushed the pack of cigarettes in his opposite pocket. If everything was gray and indistinguishable, then the people and things around him wouldn’t mind. He weighed his options and realized the worst thing that could happen would be that he was asked to leave. He risked it.
The cigarette was in his mouth and lit before he could second-guess himself. He took a drag and immediately took another sip of his drink. The combination created the exact effect he knew it would. He closed his eyes again to enjoy the sensation of slowly sinking deeper into a zone of calm. He feared he would get kicked out when he locked eyes with the bartender. Things were getting blurry again. She walked over and he held his breath preparing for a reprimand.
She slid a glass filled halfway with water and gestured at his cigarette. Miraculously, she was on his side for now. He tipped his drink to her, took another drag, and did as she asked, ashing into the glass she provided. The green light had been given, and the pack of cigarettes was now on the bar top next to his drink.
She walked over to him. “Another round?”
“Just one more. Thanks.”
She refilled his glass and waited for any hint of an explanation. He just lit a cigarette in a busy establishment without a worry about consequences, and she had allowed it.
“It’s been a day.” It was all he could muster.
“I get it.”
Could she see it? The car trouble. The stress from work. The unbelievable piles of shit that are continually stacked on top of your chest until that organ shredded open and going out would be a mercy and make for a better day than any other outcome. “Yeah?”
“I see it.”
He was game. Anyone with vices would agree that a good story with your vices made it taste better. “Tell me”
“You barely made it in here alive. Whatever it was by your car almost killed you. By the time you had it in a headlock, it had dug its claws into your arm and ripped a chunk out. You subdued it and it ran off. How you got back behind the wheel is anyone’s guess. You managed to wash the blood off of your hands in the bathroom, but I’ll make sure to give you a damp cloth to take with you when you leave because the blood you left on your steering wheel is probably caked on by now.” She never stopped filling drinks or wiping the bar top while she explained his life to him.
“That’s exactly what happened. How did you know?” The tip would be for the story on top of the service.
“Lucky guess.”
He lit another cigarette and bowed his head. The vices were doing their job. The gray tones continued around him. There might have been a thousand people in the room, or he could have been there alone. The important thing was that the amber liquid continued to splash back and forth in his drink and it was never far away from a cloud of smoke that had been thankfully allowed.
