Hot sunlight presses upon me. The only darkness is the fog in my head. I peel myself from the sticky heat soaked floor and trudge to the fridge. Nothing there but baking soda and a bottle of vodka. I toss the baking soda aside and reach for the bottle.

There’s pounding, a deep thud, more pounding, and then silence. I lean against the cool door letting the heat pour off my body. I follow the path of sounds through my cluttered memory and realize. There’s a package at the front door.

Forget the bottle. This could be interesting.

I wake up to the stale taste of blood and alcohol. My nose is full of cotton and my pockets are empty. Socks off. Shoes on. I lay in bed with the lights on. It’s 4am. The phone’s ringing.

I slip to the floor and crawl to the nearest pile of wrinkled clothes and torn papers. My fingers find the phone. My head pounds. I answer.

“Who’s there?” I say.

The voice on the other end barely lets me finish. “Get over here now Jack,” it says.

I hang up.
Where’s my pants?
I find a shirt and pull it over my legs. Sleep presses itself upon me. I remember the bar, the last drink, kissing the floor. My nose is throbbing.

“Who’s Jack?” I mutter.

Blackness returns.

It’s not always easy to keep the smiles flowing and it’s not always necessary. A quick drink will just as easily do the trick and it costs less than therapy.

Problem is one drink often turns to many and well, here I am again. I don’t want to go through with it this time. I don’t. But something is pushing me to be here. So here I sit staring at the little glass with it’s clear poison. How did the complex get to be so simple?

I look at the clock, trying to squeeze the time from blurry numbers. 11:00? 10:30? Where did the time go? I’ve been here five hours.

The man next to me mutters something about his girl. “She ain’t coming back,” the barkeep says. “If she was you wouldn’t be here.”

If only it were a girl. At least I’d have an excuse.

I catch the bartender’s eye. A quick glare tells me it’s time to pay up. Oh well, I fish through my left pocket for the cash, fumble it to the wet bar and turn to leave. The floor catches me on the way out…

“At least it’s a dry heat,” he said.

Over 95 degrees. It doesn’t matter what kind of heat it is. It’s just hot.

“I was outside today before it rained. It was, like 89 degrees and humid. I felt like I was walking through a carpet. I couldn’t get the sweat off me.”

30 seconds outside and all the water is baked from my body.

“I was in South Dakota once when it was 98. Driving back to my campsite I thought I would just burst into flames.”

I think my brain’s melted…