Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Lullabies and Bloodshot Eyes

Don walks into China P, heads over towards me. I'm so drunk I can't see straight.

I look at him through bloodshot eyes, try to focus for a second. I already gave up trying to go outside for a cigarette because I know that if I get off the barstool I will fall over, and then get thrown out. I clench my jaw, as I've been doing all day to keep myself from losing it.

"I'm in a bad way."

"You here alone?"


"How long?"

"Since 8:30."

"Christ, you been sittin here for two hours alone?"

"Well, there's those guys," I say, pointing to the two drunks that are always here. "We been watchin MASH. Alan Alda's my fuckin hero."

He's ignoring me. "Where'd Kathy go?"

"Don't know."

Don just nodded, took a seat, and ordered a drink. He knows that it's a woman that is killing me, and he also knows when it's time to circle the wagons; that if he doesn't help me I very well may not make it through the night. We talked about high school memories, as we always do when something horrific happens in either of our lives. We've both done this before, and he has pulled me out of the gutter and off of the side of the road more times than I can count.

I don't remember anything else.

He gives me a ride home at some point, and I try to drink a beer in my living room but pass out and knock it over. The next day my mother will talk to me about how I'm self-destructing, and how I need to fight this darkness in me. I will nod in agreement, and do a terrible job masking the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing.

Tonight when I take a piss, I watch the blood trail around bowl, rolling over itself like a cloud pouring through the water.

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