Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Day forty seven...The bottle wants to empty me.

Funny how smells go right through you.

I can smell a bottle of vodka being opened 10 feet away.

And the kids in school used to call it "odorless."

Yeah right. And it will help you lose weight too.

Just another batch of High School hooey that we were taught from our elder peers. It usually came right after the one about "If you ask someone if they are an undercover cop, they're legally bound to tell you."

Usually, if you're in a situation where you have to ask somebody if they're undercover, they won't tell you until right before you are legally bound with handcuffs.

Smelling booze doesn't make me want to drink though.

It makes me want to vomit; something I could hardly ever do after a night in, despite my best efforts.

It reminds me of how I used to save my vodka bottles behind my front door for the clear goodness that would collect at the bottom.

At my peak, I used to drink between a .750 and a liter each night. Often, surprisingly, upon checking the freezer in the morning, there would be just about enough to allow for a proper eye opener. I'd enjoy that around 8 am while watching The Today Show. After that was gone I'd be in limbo until the package store opened at 9.

Time for a little improvising.

I'd open up each bottle one by one.

"Ffffssss..." it would hiss, and I'd stare at what was left in the very bottom of each vessel like I had just been bitten by a snake and this was the serum. It wasn't very much, a half a teaspoon maybe. Then, I'd hold the precious clear bottle with the red safety ring over my head and let each drop corrupt my waiting toungue.




And then I'd cap it and put it back. And I'd move on to the next bottle until I had emptied them all. And then I did it all over again. Because as that last bottle was being left alone, it was preparing itself for another round. It was pulling itself together. I'd continue my proceedings and eventually my hands would stop shaking.

And I did this until the package store opened.

The package store I used to go to had an awful smell about it. I never could really figure out its origin. But then again, I didn't spend too much time there. Quick in and quick out, everyday.

Sometimes twice.

It smelled kind of like rotted plants crossed with a million cigarettes, with just a touch of Christmas Tree Air Freshener and all the empties in the back. I'm sure it still smells like that.

I can smell it right now if I concentrate on it.

In fact, I can conjure up that smell, and then I can imagine myself opening up that big twelve dollar bottle of vodka; twisting that red metal cap off in the car, and quickly taking a big pull. I'd wipe my mouth with my sleeve and shudder. That shudder was important. That shudder meant it was working. That shudder just came over me as I was typing. No word of a lie.

I can do all that right here in front of my computer and it freaks me out.

How did this all come up?

I was sitting here at my desk with my window open. It was unseasonably warm today and so, I opened my windows.

I realized I still had one of them open as a pungent smell filled the room. An awful smell. A toxic smell.

A skunk.

But the first thing I thought of wasn't a skunk at all. Of course not.

I thought of weed. Good weed. Skunk weed.

I'm not going to open up this can of worms right now because I don't have to. I like weed. I always will. But right now my life won't allow for even the slightest bit of trouble. So I'll keep clean.

But I find it amazing that a smell which, to a vast majority of people would signal the horror that is being skunked, can make me excited. Giddy even. It made me immediately smile, look out my window for hippies, and slap myself in the face.

But because I'm not smoking weed right now I remembered to shut my window. It's supposed to get chilly tonight.

I hope Mr. Skunk has a safe warm place to call home.

I bet it smells better than that package store. I think, to me, anything would smell better than that.

But if I were him, when I got home, I'd open a few windows. There may be undercover cops hiding in the bushes. And you don't want to be getting busted because you smell like really, really, really good weed.

Thanks for reading,



Running Hard Out Of Muskrat Flats said...

Nice going Freddy. I'm glad I'm not the only one who gets a good case of the Jones whenever I pass through an area where "Flower" has done her bit of self preservation. I woke up at about 2;30 this Morning as the stench was wafting through my little subterranean hobbit hole. It must have been out side my window because the odor was pretty strong like AK-47 or Superskunk....

Oh the memories we must endure. We always think of the good ones first. Hopefully the bad will follow. Draining those bottles of their last molecule of alcohol reminds me of the mornings I would painstakingly swab out 30 empty bags of the powder attached to the walls of the plastic, with a moistened ball of an unused cigarette filter, hoping to get a good shot in case the man, who wasn't answering my call, didn't call me back for a couple of hours. And to think each one of those empty bags could have earned me 1 charge of possession each, despite knowledge of that fact, I carried them around with me anyway, just in case.

These two examples just show that it is the same disease, it is the same effed up thinking, our best thinking, that allows the progression to get the better of us. Get rid of the reservation about the weed, especially if you are going to be traveling in some back water Eastern European country to get back to civilization, to the civilized country where you are playing your next gig. Didn't you see Midnight Express? That big fat guy with the radio giving massages was the best defense attorney in his country...

Shite, All of this wonderful material I'm dropping off as a comment to you...

To bad you left the meeting early last night. Otherwise you would have seen Jim Ignatowski show up with his CVS bag full of clothes to meet his "Smithie" girlfriend. WTF?! Yes Freddy, there is Hope for us.

yr Brother in the Struggle


Timothy Owens said...

Your heart is very big Freddy Freedom. I take inspiration from your words and cherish the few moments of the day where I can log on and catch up. My heart swells when I read this blog. Thank you for sharing. Be good to yourself.