zero, add one, and go! You have x minutes of fuel remaining. Enjoy your flight, and stop by our Abyss Cafe for a bite when you get sick of Club Average. It’s the last turn before the terminal.
“I’m back. I’ve got my check. I’m ready to sign, baby,” he says with a wink to the same unfortunate teller. He flips the check over and signs it with an elaborate gesture. “Steady as a fucking rock. Wanna have dinner with me?”
She counts out his cash and glares at him as she hands it over. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, sir,” she says coldly. “Do you need a validation?”
That sounds pretty good to him, but even if she meant it, she wouldn’t know where to begin. At this point he’s not so sure that he would either. He puts his money in his pocket, thanks her and leaves.
He goes back to the bar to fortify. The abundance of cash in his pocket is flirting with him, and he knows that he will have to blow at least some of it, despite his painful awareness of how crucial it is to his future that he be sensible and save it for drinking. He’s not sure if, given the circumstances, this particular future would be considered long term or short term, but regardlessof its categorization, it, like all other futures, must be attended to. He peels two hundreds away from his fortune and puts them in his pocket with his other petty cash. The remaining forty-four are shoehorned into his wallet which kinks and bulges in protest, never having expected to bear such a burden.
The habit of keeping cash in his left front pocket grew out of an emergency that occurred some months back. He had awakened well into withdrawals and was very shaky. Having nothing in the house he hurried to the liquor store only to find it inexplicably closed. With his shaking accelerating he was already unable to drive anywhere, so he made for the bar down the street from his apartment. By the time he reached it and ordered, his hands were in such turmoil that he could not extract a bill from his wallet. The disapproving bartender, an older man who thought that Ben was too young to be in this condition, eventually agreed to go into the wallet and get the money. Four drinks and forty minutes later Ben was recovering, but the whole incident had been so embarrassing, not to mention too very close for comfort, that since that morning he has always kept at least twenty dollars in his front pocket. In this way, no matter what his condition, he can always manage to shove his left hand into his pocket, clutch the money, and drop it on the bar or counter. The whole setup made so much sense that he got in the habit of keeping all his cash there. Not only does it prevent a pickpocket from separating a drunk and his money, but it keeps him that much closer to his liquor, a circumstance that is always the subject of his best interest.
Swirling down the hoary bourbon and feeling good enough to hold it in his mouth for a moment and appreciate the taste, to savor the bouquet as it rises and fills his throat and sinuses after he swallows, to know the hearty burn as it hits the stomach and begins with a punch its assault on the body, his mind drifts to the little bank teller. Perhaps not remarkable physically, she is themost recent female contact of record, and is certainly… serviceable. But is she desirable? Is she irresistible? Maybe if she drank bourbon with him it would help his opinion of her. Maybe if she drank bourbon and then kissed him, and he could taste the sting, maybe that would help. He might like her more if she drank bourbon with him while they were naked. If she smelled like bourbon and fucked him, that would increase his esteem for her. He could probably learn to love her if she poured bourbon on her naked body and said, “Lick this, clean it up.” He would really dig her if she had bourbon dripping from her breasts and vagina, if she spread her legs and poured it on herself and said, “Lick this, drink here. I’m a mess.” Or what if
“I’m back. I’ve got my check. I’m ready to sign, baby,” he says with a wink to the same unfortunate teller. He flips the check over and signs it with an elaborate gesture. “Steady as a fucking rock. Wanna have dinner with me?”
She counts out his cash and glares at him as she hands it over. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, sir,” she says coldly. “Do you need a validation?”
That sounds pretty good to him, but even if she meant it, she wouldn’t know where to begin. At this point he’s not so sure that he would either. He puts his money in his pocket, thanks her and leaves.
He goes back to the bar to fortify. The abundance of cash in his pocket is flirting with him, and he knows that he will have to blow at least some of it, despite his painful awareness of how crucial it is to his future that he be sensible and save it for drinking. He’s not sure if, given the circumstances, this particular future would be considered long term or short term, but regardlessof its categorization, it, like all other futures, must be attended to. He peels two hundreds away from his fortune and puts them in his pocket with his other petty cash. The remaining forty-four are shoehorned into his wallet which kinks and bulges in protest, never having expected to bear such a burden.
The habit of keeping cash in his left front pocket grew out of an emergency that occurred some months back. He had awakened well into withdrawals and was very shaky. Having nothing in the house he hurried to the liquor store only to find it inexplicably closed. With his shaking accelerating he was already unable to drive anywhere, so he made for the bar down the street from his apartment. By the time he reached it and ordered, his hands were in such turmoil that he could not extract a bill from his wallet. The disapproving bartender, an older man who thought that Ben was too young to be in this condition, eventually agreed to go into the wallet and get the money. Four drinks and forty minutes later Ben was recovering, but the whole incident had been so embarrassing, not to mention too very close for comfort, that since that morning he has always kept at least twenty dollars in his front pocket. In this way, no matter what his condition, he can always manage to shove his left hand into his pocket, clutch the money, and drop it on the bar or counter. The whole setup made so much sense that he got in the habit of keeping all his cash there. Not only does it prevent a pickpocket from separating a drunk and his money, but it keeps him that much closer to his liquor, a circumstance that is always the subject of his best interest.
Swirling down the hoary bourbon and feeling good enough to hold it in his mouth for a moment and appreciate the taste, to savor the bouquet as it rises and fills his throat and sinuses after he swallows, to know the hearty burn as it hits the stomach and begins with a punch its assault on the body, his mind drifts to the little bank teller. Perhaps not remarkable physically, she is themost recent female contact of record, and is certainly… serviceable. But is she desirable? Is she irresistible? Maybe if she drank bourbon with him it would help his opinion of her. Maybe if she drank bourbon and then kissed him, and he could taste the sting, maybe that would help. He might like her more if she drank bourbon with him while they were naked. If she smelled like bourbon and fucked him, that would increase his esteem for her. He could probably learn to love her if she poured bourbon on her naked body and said, “Lick this, clean it up.” He would really dig her if she had bourbon dripping from her breasts and vagina, if she spread her legs and poured it on herself and said, “Lick this, drink here. I’m a mess.” Or what if
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