sober.
Yes, it’s difficult to make ugly words romantic.
Then a more frank attempt. Sentences like Don’t do it , This can’t go on , and You’ll pay for it later , all of which made Crawford thirstier. Those arguments turned desire into rebellion, thirst into defiance, and sobriety into an abrasive Victorian governess who needed to lighten up.
All this internal quarrelling made Crawford realize there was nothing glamorous about being a drunk. It merely was — like standing straight or wearing shoes. Sobriety required a kind of religious faith that he couldn’t accept. Crawford was an atheist before the God of Sobriety, an unholy deity who demanded unrelenting devotion. But the God of Inebriation, well, he only required the keys to the car. You shall have no other gods before me.
I’ll save my soul tomorrow, he thought as he put on his shoes.
As he backed out of the driveway, Crawford’s eyes were trained on the bedroom window, as they often were when he was going “on a run.” If the light came on, it would be like a siren going off during a prison break.
Backing slowly… slowly… there… is… no… light… no light…
He made it. He got away undetected. This time .
There was something disheartening about escaping so easily. It triggered more paranoia.
She’s going to find out. She’s going to be pissed. She’s just waiting until I get back so she can smash the bottle and cry a little.
Until the cash hit the counter at the liquor store, he might as well keep arguing with himself. It made the drive less painful.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Turn around. Go home. Go to bed.
Happy Time Liquor was pretty run down, the store that marked the end of Easy Street (relatively speaking) and the beginning of Hard Luck Boulevard. Crawford couldn’t go to the “exclusive” deli and wine dealer that served his community. It closed at nine. He wouldn’t have gone there anyway. The owner, and often times the patrons, knew who he was and what he supposedly hadn’t done in years. The little Indian man at Happy Time was not so well-informed and Crawford wouldn’t care if he was.
The place was empty and would have been quiet if not for the TV playing behind the counter.
“Is that all for you?” the Indian man asked with a heavy Hindi accent, putting the requested fifth of Lowlander Pure Malt on the counter.
“Yes.”
While the Indian was ringing up the purchase, the sound of the TV behind him grated on Crawford’s overburdened nerves.
There were three young black men, all wearing knit caps and dark clothing, pounding their fists into the low-angled camera. The beat was hard and deep. Boom. Boom. Boom. The setting was an urban wasteland with burning oil drums barely illuminating surreal, grim structures. The lyrics, from what Crawford could tell, were fuming with violence and hatred of the white power structure and anything else they could think of. Damn, what the kids listen to these days .
Here and there we are in the ghet-to
That’s me and JB, your worst [bleep]in’ foe
I’ve got a [bleep]in’ nine, I got [bleep]in’ [bleep]
And I’m ‘bout to let go on your [bleep]in’ [bleep], [bleeeeeep]
Crawford thought about the sense of power these slum fantasies tried to convey. He thought about the discontentment it contrived to relieve. But why was this Indian listening to it? It was really getting annoying.
“You like that stuff?” Crawford asked.
The Indian, wrapping the sack around the neck of the bottle, was caught off guard. “I don’t drink.”
Crawford gestured toward the TV. “No. I mean do you like that kind of music? You have it playing pretty loud.”
“Sir, it’s for the customers.”
“Some clientele,” he said to himself.
The Indian handed Crawford the sack with his change. “Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes?”
“Why is it that these musicians try to look like criminals or something?”
Crawford looked at the TV again. “I don’t know. Maybe
Yes, it’s difficult to make ugly words romantic.
Then a more frank attempt. Sentences like Don’t do it , This can’t go on , and You’ll pay for it later , all of which made Crawford thirstier. Those arguments turned desire into rebellion, thirst into defiance, and sobriety into an abrasive Victorian governess who needed to lighten up.
All this internal quarrelling made Crawford realize there was nothing glamorous about being a drunk. It merely was — like standing straight or wearing shoes. Sobriety required a kind of religious faith that he couldn’t accept. Crawford was an atheist before the God of Sobriety, an unholy deity who demanded unrelenting devotion. But the God of Inebriation, well, he only required the keys to the car. You shall have no other gods before me.
I’ll save my soul tomorrow, he thought as he put on his shoes.
As he backed out of the driveway, Crawford’s eyes were trained on the bedroom window, as they often were when he was going “on a run.” If the light came on, it would be like a siren going off during a prison break.
Backing slowly… slowly… there… is… no… light… no light…
He made it. He got away undetected. This time .
There was something disheartening about escaping so easily. It triggered more paranoia.
She’s going to find out. She’s going to be pissed. She’s just waiting until I get back so she can smash the bottle and cry a little.
Until the cash hit the counter at the liquor store, he might as well keep arguing with himself. It made the drive less painful.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Turn around. Go home. Go to bed.
Happy Time Liquor was pretty run down, the store that marked the end of Easy Street (relatively speaking) and the beginning of Hard Luck Boulevard. Crawford couldn’t go to the “exclusive” deli and wine dealer that served his community. It closed at nine. He wouldn’t have gone there anyway. The owner, and often times the patrons, knew who he was and what he supposedly hadn’t done in years. The little Indian man at Happy Time was not so well-informed and Crawford wouldn’t care if he was.
The place was empty and would have been quiet if not for the TV playing behind the counter.
“Is that all for you?” the Indian man asked with a heavy Hindi accent, putting the requested fifth of Lowlander Pure Malt on the counter.
“Yes.”
While the Indian was ringing up the purchase, the sound of the TV behind him grated on Crawford’s overburdened nerves.
There were three young black men, all wearing knit caps and dark clothing, pounding their fists into the low-angled camera. The beat was hard and deep. Boom. Boom. Boom. The setting was an urban wasteland with burning oil drums barely illuminating surreal, grim structures. The lyrics, from what Crawford could tell, were fuming with violence and hatred of the white power structure and anything else they could think of. Damn, what the kids listen to these days .
Here and there we are in the ghet-to
That’s me and JB, your worst [bleep]in’ foe
I’ve got a [bleep]in’ nine, I got [bleep]in’ [bleep]
And I’m ‘bout to let go on your [bleep]in’ [bleep], [bleeeeeep]
Crawford thought about the sense of power these slum fantasies tried to convey. He thought about the discontentment it contrived to relieve. But why was this Indian listening to it? It was really getting annoying.
“You like that stuff?” Crawford asked.
The Indian, wrapping the sack around the neck of the bottle, was caught off guard. “I don’t drink.”
Crawford gestured toward the TV. “No. I mean do you like that kind of music? You have it playing pretty loud.”
“Sir, it’s for the customers.”
“Some clientele,” he said to himself.
The Indian handed Crawford the sack with his change. “Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes?”
“Why is it that these musicians try to look like criminals or something?”
Crawford looked at the TV again. “I don’t know. Maybe
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