You want to go. Emily calls and wishes you a happy New
Year. When you tell her you’re not coming back, she starts to
cry.
“I’m gonna miss you,” she weeps, “I wish things hadn’t
gotten so screwed up.”
This makes you want to drink more than anything. You go
to the schoolhouse behind the track. You don’t listen to what
people are sharing. Instead, you imagine yourself dressed up as
Tom Cruise from Risky Business. You see yourself nodding at
Jared, Theodore, and all the others that you usually had to duck
away from. You see yourself handling your drinks like a
gentleman, like a champion even. There would be no more
fights. You wouldn’t puke on the pool table like at last New Year’
s party. This time would be different, you say.
After the meeting there is a dance. A man with a very long
soul patch backs his Honda hatchback up to the front door and
cranks up his stereo. Guns N Roses are playing. Two women
start dancing with each other. As you leave, you avoid the man
in red extending for a handshake.
You’re going to get drunk, end of story. Your mind says to
kill yourself instead, but that’s way too drastic. All the liquor
stores look dark. The usually glowing martini glasses are
silhouettes, only visible from the fluorescent glow of the beer
coolers. You decide to hit the Wal-Mart by your parents' house.
There is an agonizingly long line. You stand behind a man in
a ball cap and listen to his side of a phone conversation.
“I got 'em, honey, don’t worry,” he says. You imagine he’s
talking to his wife, probably some beer-chugging, NASCAR fan.
Still, though, you feel envious.
“I know, I know, I can’t wait to see you too, baby. I love
you.”
Darlene is the name of the woman at the register. She has
a smiley face button on her apron, but isn’t smiling. Her neck
hangs loosely like a hound dog. When you put your beer down
on the counter, she looks confused.
“You can’t buy this today, sir,” she says impatiently. Two
women behind you in line stop their conversation about Allan
Jackson.
“What? Why not?” Your voice is panicky.
She sighs. “It’s Sunday, sir.” The women behind are
whispering now, and you can feel heat in your cheeks.
“Christ, what’s that supposed to mean?” you yell. The
store goes silent. A man behind you somewhere clears his
throat.
“Hey, take it easy, buddy,” he says. You ignore him and
turn your attention back to a very nervous Darlene.
“It’s against the law to buy or sell alcohol in Arkansas on
Sunday.”
Tears are rolling down your cheeks before you make it out
the store. You punch the steering wheel of your father’s car.
This isn’t fair, you think. Life drunk is miserable, and life without
booze is hell. You think about last summer, when you and Emily
saw The Decemberists at the Wilma. You drank like a gentleman
that night, like a champion. When you interviewed the band for
the paper, they laughed at all of your jokes and invited you to
the after party. During their set, they dedicated a song to you.
When you declined to go to the after party so you could walk
Emily home, she told you she would love you forever.
Another memory comes to mind, this one not that long
ago. It was just a week before you came to Arkansas. You stay
up all night drinking, trying to figure out a way to pay the rent.
Finally, you drive your car to Theodore’s, but you have to stop
at a gas station and fill up your front tire. When you get to
Theodore’s house, you make sure he’s at work. When this has
been established, you kick in his back door. Under his mattress,
you find twelve hundred in cash. Under his bed, you find half an
ounce of weed. You look for cocaine, but find none. You sell
the weed to a kid with a nose ring. You decide before you pay
the rent, you’re going to celebrate. You call up Darnell, the third
string fullback for the Montana Grizzlies and your second string
coke hook up. He comes through, and two days later you’re
broke without paying the rent.
Then, like a punch in the stomach you’re hit with a sane
thought:
I don’t want to drink, and I don’t want to die.
It strikes you as the first rational idea you’ve had in a long
time. You drive back to your parent’s house. Your mother is
asleep and leaning against your father. He is watching The
Grand Ol’ Opry.
“How was the meeting?” he asks.
“Great,” you say.
The day you are supposed to head back to Montana, you
are cleaning the fryer at the golf course. After you drain the
machine, scrub the sides, and fill it with fresh oil, you take the
old stuff to the receptacle behind the ninth hole. You take your
phone out. The only person who has called you in the past two
days is Theodore. You dump the grease. The sides of the
container look like a thousand candles were melted in it. You
drop your phone in.
Walking back through the course to the parking area, you
pass a pond. Steam is rolling off it. The ground is wet, and two
Canadian geese have their wings up. They’re honking and
circling each other. It looks to you like some sort of dance,
something ballerinas in New York would imitate. It’s beautiful.
Year. When you tell her you’re not coming back, she starts to
cry.
“I’m gonna miss you,” she weeps, “I wish things hadn’t
gotten so screwed up.”
This makes you want to drink more than anything. You go
to the schoolhouse behind the track. You don’t listen to what
people are sharing. Instead, you imagine yourself dressed up as
Tom Cruise from Risky Business. You see yourself nodding at
Jared, Theodore, and all the others that you usually had to duck
away from. You see yourself handling your drinks like a
gentleman, like a champion even. There would be no more
fights. You wouldn’t puke on the pool table like at last New Year’
s party. This time would be different, you say.
After the meeting there is a dance. A man with a very long
soul patch backs his Honda hatchback up to the front door and
cranks up his stereo. Guns N Roses are playing. Two women
start dancing with each other. As you leave, you avoid the man
in red extending for a handshake.
You’re going to get drunk, end of story. Your mind says to
kill yourself instead, but that’s way too drastic. All the liquor
stores look dark. The usually glowing martini glasses are
silhouettes, only visible from the fluorescent glow of the beer
coolers. You decide to hit the Wal-Mart by your parents' house.
There is an agonizingly long line. You stand behind a man in
a ball cap and listen to his side of a phone conversation.
“I got 'em, honey, don’t worry,” he says. You imagine he’s
talking to his wife, probably some beer-chugging, NASCAR fan.
Still, though, you feel envious.
“I know, I know, I can’t wait to see you too, baby. I love
you.”
Darlene is the name of the woman at the register. She has
a smiley face button on her apron, but isn’t smiling. Her neck
hangs loosely like a hound dog. When you put your beer down
on the counter, she looks confused.
“You can’t buy this today, sir,” she says impatiently. Two
women behind you in line stop their conversation about Allan
Jackson.
“What? Why not?” Your voice is panicky.
She sighs. “It’s Sunday, sir.” The women behind are
whispering now, and you can feel heat in your cheeks.
“Christ, what’s that supposed to mean?” you yell. The
store goes silent. A man behind you somewhere clears his
throat.
“Hey, take it easy, buddy,” he says. You ignore him and
turn your attention back to a very nervous Darlene.
“It’s against the law to buy or sell alcohol in Arkansas on
Sunday.”
Tears are rolling down your cheeks before you make it out
the store. You punch the steering wheel of your father’s car.
This isn’t fair, you think. Life drunk is miserable, and life without
booze is hell. You think about last summer, when you and Emily
saw The Decemberists at the Wilma. You drank like a gentleman
that night, like a champion. When you interviewed the band for
the paper, they laughed at all of your jokes and invited you to
the after party. During their set, they dedicated a song to you.
When you declined to go to the after party so you could walk
Emily home, she told you she would love you forever.
Another memory comes to mind, this one not that long
ago. It was just a week before you came to Arkansas. You stay
up all night drinking, trying to figure out a way to pay the rent.
Finally, you drive your car to Theodore’s, but you have to stop
at a gas station and fill up your front tire. When you get to
Theodore’s house, you make sure he’s at work. When this has
been established, you kick in his back door. Under his mattress,
you find twelve hundred in cash. Under his bed, you find half an
ounce of weed. You look for cocaine, but find none. You sell
the weed to a kid with a nose ring. You decide before you pay
the rent, you’re going to celebrate. You call up Darnell, the third
string fullback for the Montana Grizzlies and your second string
coke hook up. He comes through, and two days later you’re
broke without paying the rent.
Then, like a punch in the stomach you’re hit with a sane
thought:
I don’t want to drink, and I don’t want to die.
It strikes you as the first rational idea you’ve had in a long
time. You drive back to your parent’s house. Your mother is
asleep and leaning against your father. He is watching The
Grand Ol’ Opry.
“How was the meeting?” he asks.
“Great,” you say.
The day you are supposed to head back to Montana, you
are cleaning the fryer at the golf course. After you drain the
machine, scrub the sides, and fill it with fresh oil, you take the
old stuff to the receptacle behind the ninth hole. You take your
phone out. The only person who has called you in the past two
days is Theodore. You dump the grease. The sides of the
container look like a thousand candles were melted in it. You
drop your phone in.
Walking back through the course to the parking area, you
pass a pond. Steam is rolling off it. The ground is wet, and two
Canadian geese have their wings up. They’re honking and
circling each other. It looks to you like some sort of dance,
something ballerinas in New York would imitate. It’s beautiful.
runner
by justin carroll
spring r.kv.r.y.
shorts on substances
by justin carroll
spring r.kv.r.y.
shorts on substances
photo log cabin by victoria pynchon '04