The Old Whiskey and the New Born Ghost
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I awoke with a start... grabbed, jerked from my slumber. The greatest dream cut abruptly short. The beautiful woman that should have been sleeping beside me, gone... vanished. Her side of the bed ice cold, as if she has never been here before. That was when I knew that I had lost her. That was when I knew that she was gone for good.
I swear that I heard the front door swing closed and the latch click ever so slightly, yet inevitably mine. Throwing back the top sheet and comforter I sprang from the half warn half cold bed and rushed down stairs. To the bottom of the flight, a quick right turn, down the hall and through the living room. But when I get to the front door it's locked. She doesn't have a key, I never gave her the key I had cut for her. I never let her that far into my life. Maybe if I had she would be here and I wouldn't be chasing hours old ghosts. But if she was here... if she just left... why is the chain swinging on the door frame? She had to have just left. She just had to. In the twenty seconds it takes me to process these thoughts she is now even farther away. If she called a cab then she may still be waiting, if she's on foot I can probably still catch her. Down three more flights of stairs, sliding in my socks through foyer of the apartment building I go as fast as I can. In a plain white tee, bathrobe billowing behind me, and my cock threatening to bounce free from the prison of my burgundy and yellow boxer shorts, I cut through the court yard at almost a full sprint. The new morning sun blinding as my eyes start to adjust "Please be there, please be there. Oh God, please be there. Please, Please, Please..."
Through the courtyard. Over the side walk. To the end of the street. I find...
Nothing. Only the rustle of spring trees blowing lightly in the breeze. At a brisk pace I walk to the corner. Constantly looking around, head never stopping, trying to catch just a glimpse of her dark brown hair. Quickly, go now, down to the end of the block, she might be there if she's on foot.
But once I get there...
Nothing. Just the same light rustling of the trees. I stand there looking like an absolute dumb ass. Tan bathrobe hanging wide open, plain white tee shirt (a work shirt none the less, bleached and washed so many times it's as thin as tissue paper and sporting a tear in the right armpit), burgundy and yellow boxer shorts and a rather worn pair of black Gold Toe socks. I couldn't have looked any stupider if I tried.
Sullen and down hearted, I begin a slow trek back to my apartment. I feel my eyes start to sting as tears begin. I stub my toe on the stairs, giving more incentive to cry. I blink back the tears. I want to let them fall but somehow cannot. I've already cried far too much for all the wrong reasons, now it's almost impossible to cry for the right ones. I limp the rest of the way back to my apartment. I immediately go to the twelve pack of PBR still sitting beside the bed from the night before. I pull out a can, crack the top, and down half of it in one. I've been awake less than fourty-five minuets and I'm already down half a beer. Already this day does not look promising. Downstairs to the kitchen, open the cabinet above the apartment's mini hot water heater, take down the bottle of whisky. Old Whisky River... That's the name of the brand... Old Whiskey River. I turn around and open the cabinet behind me. I take down an old fashioned glass and pour two measures. And with a mighty shove I pushed my canoe into the waters of that Old Whiskey River. Keep in mind I'm not trying to go for the white water. I just want something to help calm my nerves, I just need to quiet the voices and get my head on straight. But I'm still not doing too hot. Awake right at an hour and I can now add two shots of whiskey to my half a can of beer. Coffee. Coffee will help. I pull down my cheap ass bag of not very good coffee and grind the beans. Filter in the basket, coffee in the filter, and the finest home filtered Britta water in the reservoir. I push the on button and listen for a moment as the siphon begins to suck water from the reservoir, sounding like a cancer patient with their lungs full of mucus and phlegm gasping for air. But gradually the air is pushed out of the tube and gives way to the spazmatic sounds of the water being pushed onto coffee.
I need a shower. I need to shave. If I go to work looking like this I'll catch hell all day. I can take a shower and when I get out the coffee will be done. Then I can make heads or tales out of my situation. But oh the folly of middle age. I pour another measure and break out the paddle as I push even farther down that Old Whiskey River.
Into the living room. I find my jacket and rummage through the pockets. With fumbling fingers I thumb the hard pack open and shake out half of my half empty pack onto the coffee table. Greedily I snatch up one of the Camel Lights and exit through the sliding glass door to the balcony. A flick of the lid and a spark of the wheel and my Zippo lights on the first strike. I take my first drag of the the day. I inhale the smoke and sip my whiskey. Holding them both, the whiskey in my mouth the smoke in my lungs. I swallow and then exhale. The rush of nicotine combined with the alcohol make me light headed. I set my drink down on the cracked glass of the balcony table. I ash my cigarette over the side of the railing. The people that live below me hate this. Apparently the remains of my cremated tobacco float down to their balcony. I have been told in many nasty grams, angry letters and bright colored post-it notes that it creates a huge unbearable mess. Drag after drag and sip after sip I slowly finish my drink and my cigarette. The cigarette goes in the ashtray and I set my glass back down on the cracked glass balcony table. Maybe I won't pour another if the glass isn't within reach.
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I awoke with a start... grabbed, jerked from my slumber. The greatest dream cut abruptly short. The beautiful woman that should have been sleeping beside me, gone... vanished. Her side of the bed ice cold, as if she has never been here before. That was when I knew that I had lost her. That was when I knew that she was gone for good.
I swear that I heard the front door swing closed and the latch click ever so slightly, yet inevitably mine. Throwing back the top sheet and comforter I sprang from the half warn half cold bed and rushed down stairs. To the bottom of the flight, a quick right turn, down the hall and through the living room. But when I get to the front door it's locked. She doesn't have a key, I never gave her the key I had cut for her. I never let her that far into my life. Maybe if I had she would be here and I wouldn't be chasing hours old ghosts. But if she was here... if she just left... why is the chain swinging on the door frame? She had to have just left. She just had to. In the twenty seconds it takes me to process these thoughts she is now even farther away. If she called a cab then she may still be waiting, if she's on foot I can probably still catch her. Down three more flights of stairs, sliding in my socks through foyer of the apartment building I go as fast as I can. In a plain white tee, bathrobe billowing behind me, and my cock threatening to bounce free from the prison of my burgundy and yellow boxer shorts, I cut through the court yard at almost a full sprint. The new morning sun blinding as my eyes start to adjust "Please be there, please be there. Oh God, please be there. Please, Please, Please..."
Through the courtyard. Over the side walk. To the end of the street. I find...
Nothing. Only the rustle of spring trees blowing lightly in the breeze. At a brisk pace I walk to the corner. Constantly looking around, head never stopping, trying to catch just a glimpse of her dark brown hair. Quickly, go now, down to the end of the block, she might be there if she's on foot.
But once I get there...
Nothing. Just the same light rustling of the trees. I stand there looking like an absolute dumb ass. Tan bathrobe hanging wide open, plain white tee shirt (a work shirt none the less, bleached and washed so many times it's as thin as tissue paper and sporting a tear in the right armpit), burgundy and yellow boxer shorts and a rather worn pair of black Gold Toe socks. I couldn't have looked any stupider if I tried.
Sullen and down hearted, I begin a slow trek back to my apartment. I feel my eyes start to sting as tears begin. I stub my toe on the stairs, giving more incentive to cry. I blink back the tears. I want to let them fall but somehow cannot. I've already cried far too much for all the wrong reasons, now it's almost impossible to cry for the right ones. I limp the rest of the way back to my apartment. I immediately go to the twelve pack of PBR still sitting beside the bed from the night before. I pull out a can, crack the top, and down half of it in one. I've been awake less than fourty-five minuets and I'm already down half a beer. Already this day does not look promising. Downstairs to the kitchen, open the cabinet above the apartment's mini hot water heater, take down the bottle of whisky. Old Whisky River... That's the name of the brand... Old Whiskey River. I turn around and open the cabinet behind me. I take down an old fashioned glass and pour two measures. And with a mighty shove I pushed my canoe into the waters of that Old Whiskey River. Keep in mind I'm not trying to go for the white water. I just want something to help calm my nerves, I just need to quiet the voices and get my head on straight. But I'm still not doing too hot. Awake right at an hour and I can now add two shots of whiskey to my half a can of beer. Coffee. Coffee will help. I pull down my cheap ass bag of not very good coffee and grind the beans. Filter in the basket, coffee in the filter, and the finest home filtered Britta water in the reservoir. I push the on button and listen for a moment as the siphon begins to suck water from the reservoir, sounding like a cancer patient with their lungs full of mucus and phlegm gasping for air. But gradually the air is pushed out of the tube and gives way to the spazmatic sounds of the water being pushed onto coffee.
I need a shower. I need to shave. If I go to work looking like this I'll catch hell all day. I can take a shower and when I get out the coffee will be done. Then I can make heads or tales out of my situation. But oh the folly of middle age. I pour another measure and break out the paddle as I push even farther down that Old Whiskey River.
Into the living room. I find my jacket and rummage through the pockets. With fumbling fingers I thumb the hard pack open and shake out half of my half empty pack onto the coffee table. Greedily I snatch up one of the Camel Lights and exit through the sliding glass door to the balcony. A flick of the lid and a spark of the wheel and my Zippo lights on the first strike. I take my first drag of the the day. I inhale the smoke and sip my whiskey. Holding them both, the whiskey in my mouth the smoke in my lungs. I swallow and then exhale. The rush of nicotine combined with the alcohol make me light headed. I set my drink down on the cracked glass of the balcony table. I ash my cigarette over the side of the railing. The people that live below me hate this. Apparently the remains of my cremated tobacco float down to their balcony. I have been told in many nasty grams, angry letters and bright colored post-it notes that it creates a huge unbearable mess. Drag after drag and sip after sip I slowly finish my drink and my cigarette. The cigarette goes in the ashtray and I set my glass back down on the cracked glass balcony table. Maybe I won't pour another if the glass isn't within reach.