Jeff rolled over in bed. The bright green light from his alarm clock met him dead in the face:
3:32. He closed his eyes and thought of sleep, but it just wouldn’t come. Usually when he drank he stayed asleep. He rubbed his eyes and tried closing them again. Then he felt the weight of the bed shift. Jane tossed and turned a lot. She always seemed to sleep just fine but she never drank. She often said that her arm would fall asleep or her neck would get cramped and she couldn’t stay in one position for too long, so she rolls over and back and forth. Maybe that woke him. Sometimes it did.
He rolled onto his other side. Her back was to him. She was only wearing panties and the skin of her back was exposed. He ran his finger from her neck to just above the line of her panties. She gave a little moan and adjusted herself.
He rolled onto his back and started thinking about work. Jeff worked too much. Warehouse job. Shipping and receiving. A millennium had gone by and all he felt he had accomplished in his life has amounted to boxing and mailing other peoples shit. Square one was his home. Maybe one day someone will take notice. Maybe he was wasting his time. For now he got by standing on his feet nine hours a day working for someone else. People younger than him had already become teachers. Others worked at the supermarket and gave him funny looks when they bagged his groceries. He had yet to make his mark. Somehow he felt that made sense to him.
In high school he would stay up all night; he could never fall asleep. Sometimes he would play jazz tunes and rock covers on this old bass guitar he was given. The neighbors never complained. When you’re young you just lose track of time. School always got in the way. Whether it’s with friends or alone you keep going even when everyone else had the answers. He found himself watching the sunrise. The first couple of times it happened it was no big deal; he just chalked it up to restlessness. Pretty soon the restlessness increased. The spiral kicked into motion when he started with the pills, mostly over-the-counter stuff.
Then it was to the doctor when the over-the-counter solution lost its effectiveness. It left him with prescriptions that were weaker than the store-bought pills. Doctors wanted to help, but they do it thinking you have a tolerance for nothing. They placate you like you’re still five years old and give you a sticker and a lollipop after they’ve said their piece. At least at the age he was at the time, his insurance was covered through his folks. Otherwise, it would have cost a lot of money for a lot of placebos.
Jeff looked at the clock again. An hour had passed. When you really need the rest time tends to be on the run. He could feel his eyes growing bloodshot. A thin headache began to creep into the sides of his head. His eyes couldn’t stay closed anymore. He groaned and rolled out of bed.
In the bathroom he emptied his bladder, shook his dick and flushed. He stepped into the kitchen a flicked on the light. It was brighter than the bathroom. He looked through the fridge and found a single beer. He popped the cap and leaned against the counter. The beer was cold, real cold. It went down quick and it settled in his stomach. Within a couple moments the bottle had been emptied and he was out of beer. If only he had made that stop on the way home like he wanted he’d have more to reach for. He played with the label on the bottle until it ripped. He crumbled it in his palm and tossed it in the garbage.
Then he noticed the bottle of vodka on top of the fridge. The cheap stuff sat better out of the freezer—he’d had a few experiences with slushy alcohol and he felt it wasn’t worth the money and if it sat atop the fridge what difference would it make. The bottle was almost out; a few decent swigs left. Maybe it’s enough to put me to sleep, Jeff thought.
He grabbed the bottle and twisted off the cap. Most people he knew would look for a mixer or something to chase it with. The clock in the kitchen read almost 5 a.m. He gave a sigh and took a long pull from the bottle. It’s not the best but at ten bucks a handle it gets the job done. He took another mouthful of vodka, then he stared at his reflection in the microwave. He scratched his balls and yawned. He took a deep breath and emptied the rest of the bottle. He pulled the bottle from his mouth and coughed. At 5:30 he entered his room and shuffled the blankets in bed. As he pulled the covers over his shoulder Jane awoke.
“Ungghhh… was I snoring?” she asked.
“Yes, you were snoring.”
“Shut up . . . No I wasn’t.”
“I just had to piss.”
“Did I wake you up?”
“No. I had a bad dream.”
“What was your dream about?”
She was always fascinated by him. Didn’t matter what time it was or where they were. She saddled up beside him and laid a leg over his. He could feel her warm skin and he was at ease. He placed his palm on her ass. She moaned. The sun had begun to rise but it was still too dark to tell if their eyes are open or not.
“I was lying in the back seat of my car in a crummy neighborhood,” he said. “It was near dawn. I was almost asleep when I heard gunfire. It got louder and louder. I looked out the window and saw several kids, these little people who barely could walk, carrying guns and running around the outside of the car shooting at each other.”
“Mmmm . . . You don’t have a car.” The words were muffled by her lips mashing into his shoulder. She was fading fast. She slept so easily.
“It was a car I used to have, an Oldsmobile,” he said. “Anyway, they were just using my car like a platoon would duck behind sandbags—they were using my car as a shield. Except these kids weren’t an army. Just horsing around, playing games. But the shots were so real, and loud. They were shooting at each other blindly, like in the surveillance videos they show on TV. They fired off round after round but I never saw a bullet hit anyone . . .”
She was already asleep. He rolled over. The sun was breaking through the curtains. The vodka was doing a good job. His eyes closed. He’ll still be drunk when he gets to work.
Author: Lawrence Goodwin
