Busted Head : ch 2

What I saw in the mirror when I got myself up shocked me but didn’t surprise me. The ghastly figure was recognizable but still tough to get used to. Sallow skin hanging loosely, the deep cross hatching of the cartoon geezer. Ribs and bones and wax pale folds of skin. No gut. There’s no such thing as a beer gut, not really. Guys who drink beer and try and blame their guts on that are fools. It’s not the beer that gives you the gut. It’s the ten pounds of chicken wings and cheeseburgers those fools eat while they’re drinking. If all you’re doing is drinking you’re not going to have any gut, trust me. Food deprivation and regular vomiting is a sure way to shed those unwanted pounds. The lean lanky look of alcoholic chic.

I stayed pretty lean, but my face was starting to look like one of those shrunken apple heads you carve and cook in the oven. And then roll in sand. The drinking and smoking was making me look about fifty, which was about right seeing how I felt. Actually, if being fifty feels that bad, hopefully I don’t get there. I was thirty. I was looking pretty haggard in those few sober moments. But only in those sober, hungover episodes. When I was drinking I looked great.

I shuddered a bit as I stared at that face, but I was glad to be standing. I knew that I was that much closer to getting the one thing that was gonna make me feel better, fix me. I always figured if I could stand up and walk to the liquor, I was just fine, thank you very much. I was calling the shots. Or at least ordering them.

I tested out my weight on both legs one at a time, while slowly letting go of the sink. I wasn’t going to let go too fast. I knew the electrifying kiss of my head thudding off a cheap porcelain sink and preferred to avoid it this time. It’s only taken thirty years and a dozen times to figure that one out. I seemed to be standing okay on the one leg, but knew the other one could give out at any time, in this shape. I busted the ankle on that one, the left one, when I was a kid, three or four, and now it seems to snap like a twig anytime someone looks at it funny. Actually it wasn’t so much that I broke it, as had it broken for me. Thanks, Pops.

I gave a wink to the handsome goblin staring at me and launched myself towards the door. I was moving a little and left some of the death guilt in the bathroom as I moved into the places where normal people lounged about and did stuff when the time was right. I shook my head gently, which brought on a wracking tremor throughout my body, trying to remember where I would have left the stash. The tremors brought a little welcome body heat as I slid unclothed through the house, a stinky rug wrapped around my waist.

I always had a stash. I always made sure that there would be a little something available in the morning to quell the loathing and provide a soft protective cushion from others. I thought that the fact that I could always leave a little something, even if everyone ran out and was literally dying for some more, meant that I had some self control, didn’t have a problem. Actually I never thought I didn’t have a problem. I’m not stupid. I was standing naked and shivering ready to ransack the house of the woman who threw me out and looking for a few drops of anything with a percentage sign on the label. I’m pretty sure there was a problem. It was pretty hard denying that even to me. When you’re in it, though, the only real problem is running out.

Knowing that I was able to think ahead and leave a little something made me feel that I was in control, or at least had a little control. Really, though, it was only because the few times I did wake up and have to face the world and people, or myself, for that matter, were the most excruciating moments of my life, even worse than the things that were done to me. It didn’t take too many times to figure out I didn’t want to do that again. On those mornings you feel there’re three options: facing the shame, drinking, or suicide. I chose drinking because I didn’t have guts for the other two.

So I stumbled around her house looking for something to drink. I couldn’t find my clothes or jacket and knew that I probably hid a beer or something in there, since that was all I had really. As I walked through the kitchen it hit me to look in the fridge as my ankle gave out and I hit the fridge. I cursed the pain and tried to stop the shaking as I pressed my damp face against the cold steel of the fridge door. The pain gave way to exultation, relief as I managed to back up and open the door. On the bottom shelf were two shitty pilsners from a case that I had convinced her to buy for me a couple of days ago! Before she figured out she hated me.

Holding onto the door I slithered to the floor and let the cool waves wash over me. Now that the cure was right in front of me the urgency was gone and I let a couple warm tremors pass through me. The guilt and anguish was subsiding already as I reached for a beer and felt the good weight of it in my trembling hand. I hesitated again, exhibiting some self control, feeling a test was in order. Easy enough when it was right there; when I knew I’d start to feel better in just a few minutes, if I could just get it down.

I gagged a little as I brought it to my lips, as the odor assaulted my pulpy nose, and even more at the wincing pain, as the poison medicine passed over my cracked lips and hit the back of my throat. There is something there that comes up or out or something that doesn’t want to let the stuff by, even though it knows it’ll make us feel better very soon. I was able to gag enough down past the blocker, and, even though some was spilling out down my chin, over my chest, through my crotch onto her clean floor, there was enough getting in to dull the reaction time. That was the thing, the blocker thing wasn’t as sharp or quick once you got a few scouts past it. The first scouts wore it down till it eventually just shrunk back into its globby hole and left you alone for a while. Then the golden medicine flowed freely down the gullet and the pumps down there worked it into the system letting it work its magic. Before you knew it I had the first beer down, was working on the second and wondering why I was sitting on the floor naked in front of the open refrigerator.

I managed to claw my way up too quick, too confident, something consistent with the booze, and my head began to swim a little. I felt the betrayal of the stomach, rejecting the medicine which I had poured down there. The sloshing in my stomach seemed to be matched by the sloshing of my tiny brain inside the brain walls. I had the decency for her to stagger over to the sink to puke, even though it hurt like hell. I fought ferociously to keep the alcohol down, knowing that if I could just keep these beers down I would be well on the way to a full and complete recovery back to perfect drunken bliss. The alternative was to start all over, and I wasn’t too keen on that.

I was swaying again, although that was pretty well normal for me. The few times I wasn’t staggering in those days were like a sailor returning from months at sea and taking those first few steps on solid land. It didn’t feel right, like everything was supposed to be moving but wasn’t keeping in step with the rhythms my body had become perfectly attuned to.

I was winning the battle at the sink and felt pretty good again. I lost a bit of foam down the drain, but that wasn’t where the healing powers were anyway. I laughed at my stomach for trying to clear itself out. Hadn’t it learned by now? This was just the beginning of just another day. I swallowed a couple of times and everything seemed to stay in place. I stuck my head under the tap and rinsed out my mouth and the spittle off my chin. I even drank a little water, which was harder to get down than the booze.

So this was it. I held onto the sink and took stock of the situation. Pretty bleak. I now had no place to stay, no woman, no job, no money, no cigarettes and vaporizing puke breath. But my hangover was subsiding, I had a couple of beers in me, I hadn’t even found my own stash yet and it wasn’t even noon. Things could be worse.

I knew I had to get out, at least I was damn sure I was leaving; though, I knew I could stay and talk to her and work things out. Well, I knew I could stay at least and see her, but I knew I couldn’t talk to her, not really. Not with the Shredder going. I managed to rustle up some indignation and a bit of “no one treats me like this” and decided I was going. Somewhere. One thing was certain. I needed more alcohol. Someone to drink it with would be even better, but not essential.

I groped around the house for my clothes, and had to think for awhile to recall that I woke up on the couch. I spent a few seconds wondering if the couch was a sleeping place I chose or if I had been banished there. Had I done something last night? Probably. Maybe that would explain her overreaction this morning.

I found my clothes in a crumpled bundle at the foot of the couch and lo and behold there was a beer in the jacket pocket. I was a genius! My spirits soared then, and the world didn’t look like such a bad place. I forced on my dirty clothes and saved the beer for the walk to the Cambie. Again, this seemed like great self control and somehow was proof of my competence. Again, it was much easier to have the control knowing that it was right there.

My clothes smelled bad and so did I. I didn’t care; I was starting to look good again and was feeling ready to go. I rummaged around in her room looking for money and or cigarettes. I couldn’t find any cigarettes so had to take her money. I found about a hundred in the box in her top drawer where she kept change and small bills and carried it out to the kitchen to pour the contents into a paper bag. I knew she was saving money to go back east to visit her family, but this was pretty urgent. After all, it was her fault I was now homeless and hitting the streets. I never did anything to her. So I go out and get drunk all the time and come and go as I please. What business of it was hers? I was always good to her when I was around and not hung over, or too drunk. If she would have relaxed a little and left me alone things would be fine. It was her fault this was happening. I believed that enough to bite down on while I poured her meager savings into a brown paper bag to take to the bar. I found my ability to feel bitter and wronged in this situation suddenly quite funny and I laughed a bit and sobbed.

What I needed now was a drink, another drink. And the stench and welcome company of a seedy bar. I grabbed my paper bag full of riches and headed out the door, kicking over the cat’s dish and leaving the door unlocked as I left, maybe even wide open I don’t know, didn’t care. I strolled along pretty care free then, knowing I had a beer in my pocket to keep me company and give me the strength to finish the walk.