I need to stop drinking with Ray.
It’s 3 a.m. The train a half a mile away is click-clacking away over the joints in the rails. I can hear every contact through the open window. Every single one. It’s reminiscent of the sound an empty beer can would make when crushed, like all of Ray’s did a few hours ago. Except louder. Much, much louder.
He’s gotta be out of beer now. Finally. So am I. Now that it’s 4 a.m. and I am still wide awake, being out of beer is a good thing.
Jesus fuck, how many was that? – Me
A little ain’t enough – David Lee Roth
Wrong subject, Dave – Me
It doesn’t matter. It was too many. Again.
When your heartbeat is pounding in your temples from grabbing a water, you wonder if you pushed it too far finally. When “sleep” means dozing off to tortured dreams of forgotten cameras and surprise marriages…
Where the hell did that last one come from?
…it’s not clear that the beer is the cause of the lunacy. It’s certainly at fault for you not being sound asleep.
Obviously, I need better hobbies, when the writing muse is off shift and there’s no transpo or light to shoot.
Also obvious is that alone time part of the single life is fraught with peril. There are long hours to fill sometimes and TV/Warcrack/screaming at the leaking sprinklers can’t fill it all. In a past reality, I had a built-in foil, rather than just an enabler. It was counterpressure at the end. Counterpressure sometimes makes it easier, like when mothers need to push but can’t get any traction. [Ed.: I read that somewhere.] It motivated me to go less is more on the cerveza, both to prove a point and to be ready to escape some friction.
Without that counter, it’s easy to be sucked into the black
out hole of day drinking like it’s an acceptable lifestyle choice, and kissing off 12ers in an evening like they’re Wiedemann’s and it’s the summer of 1984.
That’s the stuff that goes through your head when it’s too loud, too cold, too quiet and too hot all at once to sleep. That and “I need to stop drinking with Ray.”