It was in the morning, when my head was pounding and my mouth was so dry and I was thirsty but everything I drank tasted like metal, this was when I thought about quitting drinking.
Maybe I would. It would make Cherry happy. Maybe I would.
Downstairs, standing at the sink, I popped a few aspirins and poured myself a coffee. Had to get the damn flies going in the right direction.
I usually filled my whiskey flask before I headed to school but not today. My head pulsed and throbbed with the hangover and my tongue felt furry, my stomach queasy. Poison. It was poison.
In school the hangover went away by inches and by noon I felt on an even keel again. During lunch I went outside to smoke and started thinking a drink might taste pretty good.
I eyed the greasers around school, itching to fight with them. They hunched and slunk around like criminals, underfed, dirty. There weren't that many around, school wasn't that important to them. It wasn't like they would go to college. Still, I eyed those I did see with a playful violence, ready at a moment's notice to remind them of their place.
I thought of my whiskey flask, empty and left at home. Its silver gleam, the reassuring weight of it in my hand. The warmth of the whiskey as it slides down my throat and hits my stomach, the pleasant buzz that fills my mind…Shit, man. I compulsively lit another cigarette, sucking on it desperately, wishing it was Jack Daniels or Jim Beam, Southern Comfort or Black Velvet. The names that comfort me.
Cherry walked over, her sexy little cheerleader sway, red hair swinging from a loose ponytail.
"Hi," She said in her husky, kind of breathless way. I remembered my resolve to quit the booze. I smiled a wide smile at her.
"Hi," She leaned against me just briefly and I liked the friction of her sweater against my suede jacket.
"Would you like to have dinner with me tonight at Tucci's?" I said, slinging my arm casually around her shoulders. Her face darkened a bit before she smiled and nodded.
"Sure, Bob. You can pick me up at seven," She turned and flounced away. I stared after her, the desire for a drink hitting me hard again.
One little sip couldn't possibly hurt. I could see the gleam on the flask as it layed on my desk, could imagine it filled with the deep amber liquid of a fine whiskey or scotch, and how nice and smooth it would be sliding down my throat.
At home, my parents out, the liquor cabinet mocked me, all those full bottles, fancy labels. Just one sip wouldn't hurt.
It was six. An hour until I had to pick up Cherry. I selected a finely aged scotch and poured it into an oversized shot glass. Neat. Brought it to my lips, just one little sip wouldn't hurt a soul.