Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Knock, knock.
My breath--wet and cold--trails away from my face. My bare left hand is about damn frozen holding my brown bag of bourbon. The second liquor store didn't have any of my shitty brands, so I'm stuck with some new shitty booze.
Knock, knock, knock.
I pound harder this time and then try the doorbell, even though I know it is broken. The sun hangs low behind me in a half-drunk, late afternoon haze. I turn to look at it and twist off bottle's top. One long swig later, the door opens behind me.
"What the fuck, Tom," I say.
"I couldn't find my warm socks, man."
Tom stands about one whole head taller than me. His cheekbones--two red ridges in the January air--are almost as sunken as his eyes. His body's scrawny framework drowns underneath three layers of shirts and an oversize parka.
"What's it this time?" Tom grabs the bottle from my hand, pulling back the back slowly. "What the hell? I've never even heard of this..." He tilts his head back for a swig.
"Yeah, its shitty."
Tom grits and shakes his head. "Gross, dude."
And we start off on our walk. Tom and I do this about once a week. Buy a bottle, go for a walk, freeze our asses off. Why? I'm still not sure.
Somewhere after a bunch of steps and a few swigs, my cell buzzes in my pocket.
It's her. Not the ex-girl but the girl with the answering machine now the girl with herpes. I roll the phone around in my hand deciding whether or not to answer. After a moment, I press down a side button to ignore the call and tuck the phone back into my pocket.
"Who was that?"
"Oh, some number I don't know."
The phone buzzes one short buzz in my pocket.
I have a voicemail. ΒΆ 12:05 PM
My breath--wet and cold--trails away from my face. My bare left hand is about damn frozen holding my brown bag of bourbon. The second liquor store didn't have any of my shitty brands, so I'm stuck with some new shitty booze.
Knock, knock, knock.
I pound harder this time and then try the doorbell, even though I know it is broken. The sun hangs low behind me in a half-drunk, late afternoon haze. I turn to look at it and twist off bottle's top. One long swig later, the door opens behind me.
"What the fuck, Tom," I say.
"I couldn't find my warm socks, man."
Tom stands about one whole head taller than me. His cheekbones--two red ridges in the January air--are almost as sunken as his eyes. His body's scrawny framework drowns underneath three layers of shirts and an oversize parka.
"What's it this time?" Tom grabs the bottle from my hand, pulling back the back slowly. "What the hell? I've never even heard of this..." He tilts his head back for a swig.
"Yeah, its shitty."
Tom grits and shakes his head. "Gross, dude."
And we start off on our walk. Tom and I do this about once a week. Buy a bottle, go for a walk, freeze our asses off. Why? I'm still not sure.
Somewhere after a bunch of steps and a few swigs, my cell buzzes in my pocket.
It's her. Not the ex-girl but the girl with the answering machine now the girl with herpes. I roll the phone around in my hand deciding whether or not to answer. After a moment, I press down a side button to ignore the call and tuck the phone back into my pocket.
"Who was that?"
"Oh, some number I don't know."
The phone buzzes one short buzz in my pocket.
I have a voicemail. ΒΆ 12:05 PM
