“The Lake” (2)

My Michelle…

No one dared admit how scared and insecure they were about the opposite sex. Per usual, drugs and alcohol helped and hindered at the same time, blunting certain fears while exaggerating others. Weird sexual tension, tinged by frustration, laced with anger, permeated the trumped up stories and bogus laughter, as dense as the smoke pouring out of Red’s van.

You found the scene both repellent and attractive, unsure of what you were doing there yet unable to refrain from being there. You were not fully invested in the burnout culture of the lake and this made you a peripheral character. You got high. You told lies. You tried to be cool. When it wasn’t working you simply retreated to a spot on the grass, kicked back, and watched leaves rustling in the trees or cars whipping by in the distance on Lake Shore Drive.

It was at just such a moment you noticed her jogging along the bike path. Even from the vast distance the woman’s curvy silhouette stood out. There was no other way to put it she had enormous breasts, just like the centerfolds in Playboy and Hustler. Up and down they caromed. You literally saw one rise as the other fell. Completing her teen dream looks, she had long tresses of blond hair and somehow you could see every strand of it, tickling and slapping her exposed back as she ran.

She seemed like a wet dream. But she was real.

To be continued…

The Man in Black

You sit with twenty or so others around two connected folding tables in the basement of a musty church. The usual cross-section, they’ve nothing in common save for a desire to stop drinking. It’s midday so many of them have coffees from the Starbucks next door.

Finishing her share is Dallas, a thirty-something woman with black hair striped in purple. Wrapped around her left bicep a tattoo of barbed wire. The tough exterior belies her fragility. A newcomer, she has five long-ass days and longer nights under her belt. But Dallas’s share is less about withdrawal than her rapidly changing world. “Now that I’m not drinking,” she says, “my friends don’t want anything to do with me.” She looks around the room. “But what kind of friends are those, right?”

People nod. They’ve all had to say goodbye to their drinking buddies. It comes with the territory, this new life. Dallas continues.

“Anyway, I decided they can all fuck themselves. My daughter’s the only person that matters to me. That’s why I’m here. Why I’m doing the deal.” She taps the Big Book resolutely. “That’s all I got.”

‘Thank you, Dallas!’ Chimes the group. It’s a good way to end the meeting – a newcomer with grit.

The first time you saw Dallas, at the loft, you didn’t think she’d get 24 hours. Yet, here she was. The secretary rings her bell then reads from the script: “As there are only a few minutes left in the meeting it is now time to ask if anyone has a burning desire.”

No hands go up.

“Come on, people. This is the time and this is the place!”

A pale-skinned man raises his hand. The black shirt makes him look like a skeleton. He wears sunglasses, which if this weren’t AA might have seemed peculiar. Here, it’s not uncommon, especially with newcomers. The second part of the program’s name is Anonymous. He clears his throat. “I have a burning desire.”

“Excellent!” The secretary responds. “The man in black has the floor!” The joke garners chuckles from the group. Why not? It’s Friday. We are not a glum lot is a popular phrase from the Big Book.

The man in black reaches into the gym bag sitting in front of him and pulls out two liters of Jack Daniels. One at a time he places each bottle on the table. “What I desire is for each you to have a drink.”

A gasp fills the room. But the man in black pays it no mind. He begins arranging Dixie cups into a neat row on the table. He opens one bottle and carefully begins pouring the whiskey into a cup, then another. The smell permeates the room.

The secretary rises. Like everyone else, she is stunned but somebody has to do something. This is her meeting.

“Excuse me, sir,” she says, her voice quavering. “But what in the name of God do you think you’re doing? This is a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous!”

Raising an eyebrow, the man in black merely smiles. He could be tending bar.

“Well, I’ve already told you, Mam. I want you all to have a drink with me.” With that said, he slides a full cup to the woman sitting directly across from him. “Starting with you, sweetheart! You look like you could use a pop. I hope you like it neat.”

April, a frail creature no more than 18 years old, looks at the drink and the man with terror. She can’t speak. She is literally shaking.

“I…I…”

The man frowns. “What’s wrong, darling? Jack not your drink of choice? Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. I was the same way at your age.”

April whispers. “Please. If I drink again I’ll… I’ll die.”

In the room, shock has turned to anger. A few men push their chairs back. Enough is enough. They rise.

Undaunted, the man in black continues looking directly at April. He casually pulls a large handgun from his bag and points it at her face. Inches separate the barrel from her nose.

Everyone freezes.

“No, no, no darling, you’ve got it all wrong.” He says, clucking at her, twitching the gun. “If you don’t drink then you’ll die.” He looks at the standing men. With his free hand he indicates for them to sit. When they do he returns his attention to the young woman. “Now drink up, darling. It’s damn near closing time.”

With a shaking hand, April lifts the cup to her mouth and sips. It is her first taste of alcohol in almost a year. She grimaces. The man cocks the gun.

“All of it.”

When she is done she places the empty vessel down in front of her. Two tears collapse from her eyes, the mascara making them look like black rivulets. She sobs quietly.

“Like riding a bicycle,” the pale man cackles. “Am I right?”

A couple chairs down from the gunman, an addict named Roberto can no longer hold his tongue. “Please, sir, I beg of you-

The man in black wheels around and points the gun at Roberto. His voice remains calm, sickeningly so.

“Don’t worry, Senor. There’s plenty to go around. Matter of fact, you can drink straight from the bottle. We don’t mind.”

He slides the open bottle to Roberto. It stops alongside of his Big Book.

“I…I… can’t drink this!”

Undeterred, the man in black counters. “Sure you can, amigo. Isn’t that how you got here – drinking this?”

Roberto pleads. “But it’s been over eleven years!”

“Then you must be awful thirsty!”

Roberto stares at the bottle. He shuts his eyes. Prays. He reaches for the whiskey but instead of picking it up he pushes it away, slowly, until it is just past his fingertips.

“I see,” says the man in black. “Well, how about we start you off with a shot?”

He pulls the trigger blowing a whole through Roberto’s chest. He’s dead before the blood exits his body, which it does suddenly, gushing on the table as if spilling from a bottle.

“Any other requests?”

The man in black places the smoking gun on the table. He picks up one of the Dixie cups. “Salut!” He says, before downing it. “Now then, who’s next?”

You have been sitting quietly, just a couple chairs down. You reach over and take one of the full cups of whiskey.

The man in black grins, nodding in approval. “That’s right, son. If rape is inevitable you might as well enjoy it!”

He may have said that. Or at least you think so. It doesn’t matter. A centimeter from your lips is alcohol! For years you’ve wondered if there was a backdoor, a way that would allow you to drink with impunity, without regret or shame. Here it was, at last, at gunpoint! You lift the cup.

Then…

You are on your back. Breathing hard. You taste whiskey, remembering blood. But it’s so dark. And why are you in bed? Crickets, it’s your iPhone chirping. In the rooms they often talked about these nightmares. Called drinking dreams, they said you would thank God as soon as you realized none of it was real. The truth. Drinking with impunity is both a dream and a nightmare.

Lessons from the Lottery: The “root of all evil” runs pretty freaking deep.

At least he was honest…

The lottery has been trending, hasn’t it? No not the famous short story by Shirley Jackson. (If you haven’t read it you should.) Something about 1.5 billion dollars caught everyone’s attention. Biggest jackpot ever. A “call to action” if I ever saw one. Any direct marketer would salivate if he could generate the response that Powerball did. It made everyone and their brother a consumer. Unfortunately, offering two additional lines for $19.99 on your Family Plan just doesn’t have the same pull.

The fantasy of winning untold riches is at the crux of human desire. It drove countless throngs into the California wilderness looking for gold. A few found some. More died trying. Still, there was that chance…

The Golden Ticket. It could be in that very next chocolate bar. But you have to buy the chocolate bar. Or hundreds of them.

Or you can rob a bank. Why is it we root for bank robbers in the movies and romance them in our history books? Because it taps into that same fantasy: Getting rich. Now. Safe crackers and masked robbers titillate us to the point where we overlook the criminality of it. Jesse James is revered as a folk hero and not the viscious douchebag he undoubtedly was. It’s not right but it’s true.

“It’s my time.”

The dream to change one’s circumstances via riches is deeply human and more than a little sad. Obviously, if there’s a God in Heaven, He would prefer we not covet cash. Monetary enlightenment is an oxymoron. We are taught it is the root of all evil. That it corrupts. That the super rich are super assholes. Remember the “Occupy” movement? Down with the 1%.

And yet who didn’t buy a lottery ticket this week? I’m willing to bet millions of people who otherwise despise the 1% stood in line for a shot at becoming one. Perhaps these myriad hopefuls believe, upon winning hundreds of millions of dollars, that they would not become selfish snobs living only for pleasure and hedonism. One need only look at rock stars and pro athletes to see how that plays out. Sure, I’m generalizing (there are plenty of millionaires and billionaires who are great philanthropists) but you must concede the point: We are all willing to chance our integrity for the possibility of riches. It’s the American Dream.