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Whiskey Bottles and Wet Shoes

[This is my first attempt at fiction, and something I hope to pursue in the future. Leave me some feedback and let me now what im doing wrong.]


It was another cookie cutter Friday night, sitting inside a scummy bar with poor lighting, wafts of smoke twirling above our heads. The stench of stale beer permeated the air, and the incoherent ramblings of bums filled our ears. We chose this particular bar because they served us, and no one had fake I.D.’s.

I was well on my way to inebriation, sucking down whiskey and coke as fast as the bartender could make them. My friends sitting next to me were talking about the conflict in Lebanon and Israel, stating their opinions on the matter as if they were the authority on the subject and everyone else knew nothing. I had heard the statements on Bill O’Reily or Chris Mathews earlier in the day, and I wondered out loud if it was hard to memorize other people’s opinions verbatim every day.

My comment was ignored by everyone; I was just an unfortunate presence in the group. I’m a default friend because I had been around for years, nothing more than an afterthought. They tolerated me because they had to, no one wanted to tell me to stop coming around, and I had no where else to be. I decide that whiskey and cokes is no longer necessary and just start drinking it straight.

I stumble away from the table because the conversation was becoming intolerable, more memorized opinions from other news shows and periodicals. Across the bar Mike is hitting on some underage girl, trying to score for the night. She looks like she is seventeen and I imagine the cops hauling him off to jail for statutory rape. This makes me smile. The bartender gives me another drink, and then tells me to take it easy. I decide drinking myself into a coma sounds like a good idea, the thought of my friends having to carry me into my house amuses me, so I take another swig of whiskey.

It’s starting to rain outside when I go for a smoke. The rain was always something I found comforting; it washed away the dirt and made the world clean again. Maybe if I stay in the rain long enough, it will clean me too. As the water droplets hit the asphalt steam slowly rises into the night. The break from the stifling heat is welcome, so I smoke my cigarette while slowly getting wet. People start to stare at me from inside the bar; I don’t really blame them because I’m sitting in a chair smoking in the rain. I probably look pretty crazy. Fuck them, I like the rain.

My vision is starting to blur from the whiskey, colors begin to melt together and the world becomes my kaleidoscope. The rain is coming down harder now and I’m soaking wet. My shoes slosh and squeak every time I take a step, and the cold is chilling me to the bone. It’s approaching two a.m. and the bartender yells last call. Instead of paying my tab I just get up and start walking home, hopefully my friends will pick it up. I head north into the night, barely able to walk a straight line and wet through. My apartment is nearly seven miles away, and all I can do is hope I fade into the night.