Waist Deep

35

That night I fried up a rib-eye steak to go with my Western Family Mac ‘n cheese.I cracked open a bottle of Labatt Blue and that made it a veritable king’s feast.

I didn’t enjoy the steak as much as I hoped.Mostly I enjoyed the crisp taste of the Blue and how familiar it felt sliding down my throat.And even as I chewed my dinner, I was remembering standing in the beer aisle of the grocery store, staringat all the choices waiting for me, all the wonderful choices.

I’d just grab one bottle, I thought as my eyes swept over the Miller, the Bud, the Kokanee.Just one for the taste of it.To go with the steak.

And then my eyes had drifted to the cases stacked next to the individual bottles and I was reaching for the box full of ambrosia before I’d even thought about it.I stopped mid-reach and dropped my hand to my side.

You were a drunk, I told myself. A pathetic, lost drunk. A complete mess.

Yeah, well, that was a long time ago, I countered a moment later. I could have a drink. AndI could stop at just one.I wasn’t like those pathetic, weak addicts who stood up and cried in front of everyone at the AA meetings.The truth was, I just had a bad time for a while.That’s all.And I beat it, I fucking beat it and I was just a regular guy who could have a beer with his goddamn steak.

In the end, I compromised between the two voices in my head. I grabbed a six-pack of Labatt Blue and hurried to the checkout stand.

As I finished my steak, I lifted the bottle to finish the meal with a nice draft of Canada’s best, but the bottle was empty.

I walked to the small refrigerator and took out a second beer.The top twisted off with a hiss.I could feel the small tendril of warmth in my stomach from the first bottle with dinner.

I took a healthy slug and washed down the remains of the taste of my steak.

Clearing and washing the dishes only took a short while and I sipped the beer while I worked, just a simple man enjoying a beer after dinner.When the bottle ran dry, I popped another and sat down with my notepad and wrote down everything that had happened since I agreed to take on the task of finding the little siren Kris Sinderling.

“Here’s to you, Star,” I said, raising my beer.I wasn’t sure if I was trying to sound serious or mocking.“Wherever the hell you are.”

Then I chuckled, because I was a fucking poet.

“Na zdravi,” I said, finishing the toast. Then I took a healthy swallow, which is what you’re supposed to do when you toast, and returned to my notes.

I worked on those notes late into the night, scribbling facts and ideas and questions.And I walked through all six of those beers, leaving the dead soldiers standing on the kitchenette counter awaiting review in the morning.I sat staring at that little squad of six and it took every last bit of strength not to leave the apartment and head up to the 1-Stop just two blocks away and buy the case I should’ve bought in the first place at the grocery store.Instead, I called it a night and forced myself to go to bed.

That night, I did not dream.