I just found out that an old drinking buddy of mine died two years ago due to complications involving alcohol. I hadn't seen him forever. Anyway the main character in this story is based on him. It could have been me if I continued drinking.
George
By Michael S. Walker
George was forty and lived with his mother. They were both drunks. George usually got drunk on beer, did a little dope now and then. His mother liked to drink screwdrivers and usually spent her time sitting in a tan lounge chair in the living room, drinking screwdrivers out of a big red glass and watching TV. with the sound off.
George lived in the basement of the house, surrounded by a million record albums. George loved music but only punk rock. Anything else, as far as George was concerned, wasnt honest and was a sell out. George could spend hours in the basement, getting drunk and listening to punk rock groupsthe Sex Pistols, the Clash, the Ramones, the Pogues, the Germs, the New York Dolls. 1234play it young, loud, and snotty. He would play his albums, and then his mother would start banging on the kitchen floor with a broom handle, telling him to turn the shit down; she was trying to watch TV.
George also had a black binder down in the basement in which he kept typewritten copies of poems he had written. He had about fifty poems in the binder, all performed on the same Olivetti manual typewriter. One of Georges poems went like this:
Its not you/Its me
Its me hating you
Its me wanting to kick
The living shit out of you
Maybe your cat too.
For all the shit you do
You stole my very last beer bitch
And thats not something
I can easily forget.
A lot of Georges poems went like this. He had written them all when he was a heroin junkie and had lived on the streets of Columbus, Ohio. He had had a girlfriend then named Nancy, who had also been a heroin addict. They had walked the streets together, trying to scam people out of money in order to get their next fix. All of his poems were about Nancy. They were the Nancy poems. He hadnt written another poem since he had kicked heroin (and Nancy along with it) and moved back to his mothers house to become a successful alcoholic. His mother had never ever seen the poems. If she had, she probably would have yelled at him to turn that shit down too.
When George and his mother were drunk and in the same room together, they could fight over anything:
Im tellin ya, ya stupid cunt, 670 is open now. They had a ribbon cutting two days ago. You can drive down 670 now.
You dont know what youre talking about
I do. Look, do I have to get the god damn paper and show you the fuckin picture?
Yeah. And while youre at it, why dont you get a job, you lazy bum
Im tellin ya, its Captain, My Captain. Who in their right mind would write a fuckin poem with the line Captain, Die Captain.
I remember it from schoolthats how it goes. Captain, Die Captain. Im sure of it. Its about Abe Lincoln.
I know that, you stupid cunt. Ive read the poem. I aint ignorant. But Im tellin ya
We had that stupid terrier when we lived on Fox Street. Right after Dad died
And Im tellin you, we didnt get it from the pound until we moved to the trailer on Channel Street.
Ah, youre full of shit, old lady.
Ah, youre full of shitgo get me another screwdriver.
And so on. Often, somebody like the paperboy would come up and knock on the door, and knock again, and get no answer because the two of them were in a heated battle over whether Alex Trebek was gay or not.
Both George and his mother didnt drive. His mother had never learned, and George had had so many DUIs that they finally took his license away. Every day, about five in the evening, a yellow cab would pull up in front of Georges house. George would come out wearing his black leather jacket and get in the cab. The taxi would take him to a drive-thru: the 14-0 Drive-Thru on 22nd Street, and George would purchase the evenings necessities. A case of Budweiser for himself, a quart of Smirnoffs for Mom. A pack of Marlboro Reds for himself, and a pack of Winstons for Mom. And ten scratch-off lottery tickets to share. If George was relatively sober, he would sit in the back of the cab and chit chat with the driver about the sorry state of the country or the sorry state of collegiate athletics. If he were really drunk, he would harangue the driver about the sorry state of the country or the sorry state of collegiate athletics. And then, the cab would take him home.
On Saturday nights, George went to a bar called the Headless Horseman to get drunk. He would sit at the polished bar and slam back beer after beer. Sometimes, he would switch to Tanqueray. After awhile, he would start to harangue the bartenders about the music they were playing on the CD player.
Bullshit! he would yell above the mix of music and conversation. And 1234! he would yell. He would eye the beautiful women in the bar like a drunken warlord, but he would always go home alone.
On Sundays, his mother would come downstairs and stand in the basement. She would be sober. It was the only day she stayed sober. George would still be asleep, sacked out on the ratty sofa that he used for a bed, still in his clothes and leather jacket, empty beer cans and old album covers strewn all over the scarred coffee table.
Im going to church. The taxis outside. Why dont you go to church with me, George?
Bullshit, George would mutter and turn over on the sofa.
Dont you care about your soul?
Dont you care about my sleep?
Youre going to burn in hell, Georgeyou dont want to burn in hell, do you?
As long as I dont have to listen to your fuckin voice, all right then.
His mother would stand there, looking at her son until the taxi outside sounded its horn. Then she would turn around and go outside. She went to the Catholic church on Greene Street and took communion and prayed fervently that God wouldnt send her son to hell.
One day, George returned with the evenings necessities and carted them into the house. He put the alcohol on the kitchen table.
Hey Ma, I had to get you Winston Lights cause they was out of
George walked into the living room. His mom was sitting in the lounge chair as usual. The big red glass was at her feet, and a dark stain of vodka and orange juice was spread out over the beige carpet. His mom was looking up in frozen wonderment at a sepia picture of Jesus above the television set. On the TV, Vanna White turned letters in absolute silence.
Ma George said.
He took a deep breath through clenched teeth. Oh, you fuckin cunt, he whispered. You fuckin cunt
George went down into his basement. He got out his black binder full of poems and found a pen. He brought the binder back upstairs, got himself a can of beer and went back into the living room. He sat down on the sofa, tore one of the Nancy poems out of the binder. He turned the paper over to the blank side and started to write.
The End.
George
By Michael S. Walker
George was forty and lived with his mother. They were both drunks. George usually got drunk on beer, did a little dope now and then. His mother liked to drink screwdrivers and usually spent her time sitting in a tan lounge chair in the living room, drinking screwdrivers out of a big red glass and watching TV. with the sound off.
George lived in the basement of the house, surrounded by a million record albums. George loved music but only punk rock. Anything else, as far as George was concerned, wasnt honest and was a sell out. George could spend hours in the basement, getting drunk and listening to punk rock groupsthe Sex Pistols, the Clash, the Ramones, the Pogues, the Germs, the New York Dolls. 1234play it young, loud, and snotty. He would play his albums, and then his mother would start banging on the kitchen floor with a broom handle, telling him to turn the shit down; she was trying to watch TV.
George also had a black binder down in the basement in which he kept typewritten copies of poems he had written. He had about fifty poems in the binder, all performed on the same Olivetti manual typewriter. One of Georges poems went like this:
Its not you/Its me
Its me hating you
Its me wanting to kick
The living shit out of you
Maybe your cat too.
For all the shit you do
You stole my very last beer bitch
And thats not something
I can easily forget.
A lot of Georges poems went like this. He had written them all when he was a heroin junkie and had lived on the streets of Columbus, Ohio. He had had a girlfriend then named Nancy, who had also been a heroin addict. They had walked the streets together, trying to scam people out of money in order to get their next fix. All of his poems were about Nancy. They were the Nancy poems. He hadnt written another poem since he had kicked heroin (and Nancy along with it) and moved back to his mothers house to become a successful alcoholic. His mother had never ever seen the poems. If she had, she probably would have yelled at him to turn that shit down too.
When George and his mother were drunk and in the same room together, they could fight over anything:
Im tellin ya, ya stupid cunt, 670 is open now. They had a ribbon cutting two days ago. You can drive down 670 now.
You dont know what youre talking about
I do. Look, do I have to get the god damn paper and show you the fuckin picture?
Yeah. And while youre at it, why dont you get a job, you lazy bum
Im tellin ya, its Captain, My Captain. Who in their right mind would write a fuckin poem with the line Captain, Die Captain.
I remember it from schoolthats how it goes. Captain, Die Captain. Im sure of it. Its about Abe Lincoln.
I know that, you stupid cunt. Ive read the poem. I aint ignorant. But Im tellin ya
We had that stupid terrier when we lived on Fox Street. Right after Dad died
And Im tellin you, we didnt get it from the pound until we moved to the trailer on Channel Street.
Ah, youre full of shit, old lady.
Ah, youre full of shitgo get me another screwdriver.
And so on. Often, somebody like the paperboy would come up and knock on the door, and knock again, and get no answer because the two of them were in a heated battle over whether Alex Trebek was gay or not.
Both George and his mother didnt drive. His mother had never learned, and George had had so many DUIs that they finally took his license away. Every day, about five in the evening, a yellow cab would pull up in front of Georges house. George would come out wearing his black leather jacket and get in the cab. The taxi would take him to a drive-thru: the 14-0 Drive-Thru on 22nd Street, and George would purchase the evenings necessities. A case of Budweiser for himself, a quart of Smirnoffs for Mom. A pack of Marlboro Reds for himself, and a pack of Winstons for Mom. And ten scratch-off lottery tickets to share. If George was relatively sober, he would sit in the back of the cab and chit chat with the driver about the sorry state of the country or the sorry state of collegiate athletics. If he were really drunk, he would harangue the driver about the sorry state of the country or the sorry state of collegiate athletics. And then, the cab would take him home.
On Saturday nights, George went to a bar called the Headless Horseman to get drunk. He would sit at the polished bar and slam back beer after beer. Sometimes, he would switch to Tanqueray. After awhile, he would start to harangue the bartenders about the music they were playing on the CD player.
Bullshit! he would yell above the mix of music and conversation. And 1234! he would yell. He would eye the beautiful women in the bar like a drunken warlord, but he would always go home alone.
On Sundays, his mother would come downstairs and stand in the basement. She would be sober. It was the only day she stayed sober. George would still be asleep, sacked out on the ratty sofa that he used for a bed, still in his clothes and leather jacket, empty beer cans and old album covers strewn all over the scarred coffee table.
Im going to church. The taxis outside. Why dont you go to church with me, George?
Bullshit, George would mutter and turn over on the sofa.
Dont you care about your soul?
Dont you care about my sleep?
Youre going to burn in hell, Georgeyou dont want to burn in hell, do you?
As long as I dont have to listen to your fuckin voice, all right then.
His mother would stand there, looking at her son until the taxi outside sounded its horn. Then she would turn around and go outside. She went to the Catholic church on Greene Street and took communion and prayed fervently that God wouldnt send her son to hell.
One day, George returned with the evenings necessities and carted them into the house. He put the alcohol on the kitchen table.
Hey Ma, I had to get you Winston Lights cause they was out of
George walked into the living room. His mom was sitting in the lounge chair as usual. The big red glass was at her feet, and a dark stain of vodka and orange juice was spread out over the beige carpet. His mom was looking up in frozen wonderment at a sepia picture of Jesus above the television set. On the TV, Vanna White turned letters in absolute silence.
Ma George said.
He took a deep breath through clenched teeth. Oh, you fuckin cunt, he whispered. You fuckin cunt
George went down into his basement. He got out his black binder full of poems and found a pen. He brought the binder back upstairs, got himself a can of beer and went back into the living room. He sat down on the sofa, tore one of the Nancy poems out of the binder. He turned the paper over to the blank side and started to write.
The End.
VIEW 25 of 31 COMMENTS
lecia:
yep...its in the rules..lol
lecia:
