On my 21st birthday, my
parents gave me a six-pack of beer. It came out of nowhere. I never would’ve
thought they’d buy me beer. You see they were Christian folks, good upstanding
citizens, members of the PTA and all that crap. So when they got me beer for my
birthday I didn’t have a damn clue what to do. I guess it would’ve been
different if they’d gotten it for me as a joke, a gag gift, but that was all
they fucking got me. Beer.
Now,
I’d drank before. I didn’t buy into religion and all that bullshit the way they
did. Jesus turned water into wine didn’t he? Then why the hell am I not allowed
to have a couple brews? So I took it. What was I supposed to do? Not accept the
one gift they got me? That would’ve gone over great. My mother is all kinds of
strange about gift giving see? So I had to take it. I didn’t have a choice.
Two
months later and now I’m lookin’ at the last goddamned bottle. Having a staring
contest with the son of a bitch. I could drink it, but by now I’m half full of
gin. Saturday night and I’m sittin alone in my apartment drinking gin and
attempting to steal cable from my neighbors. All I can get is Wheel of Fortune.
Jesus, who watches this shit anymore? Me, I guess, on a Saturday night, drunk
and alone, staring at the last of the beer my parents got me for my birthday.
I’d
gone easy on the first one. I wanted to savor it, the first beer of my 21st
year, all that sappy, romantic bullshit. But the next couple I drank after my
girl left me. I’d already had a few but I got two or three out of the pack my
parents got me too. I mean what the hell, my girl just walked out on me, might
as well drink myself to sleep and forget about her. After this incident I was
left with just the one.
Since
my 21st I’d been keeping a lot more alcohol around my place. And why
shouldn’t I? I’m allowed to, but for some reason I wouldn’t drink the beer my
parents got me. After the first one, I probably went through two cases of my
own and two pints of scotch before I drank those other three. Well, that was
between Mary and myself, but she’s gone now. All I’ve got left is this last
bottle.
She
was there when they gave me the beer. My parents took us out to a real fancy
restaurant. It was the first time they were meeting her. Big fucking deal and
all that. That night was the last time I really remember being happy. All of us
dressed up going out on the town. Now that was a way to spend a night. Not like
this. Not sitting on my couch staring at a beer while watching fucking Chuck
Woolery spin that goddamned wheel on the tube.
I
thought about givin Mary a ring tonight. See if she’d want to come over and
have a drink, maybe even take me back. She drives me up the fucking wall, but
damn it if I don’t love her. It probably wouldn’t do any good though; she was
always stubborn. Probably wouldn’t pick up the goddamned phone. Too busy layin
some other guy or painting her toenails. She was always this way.
I
break my staring contest with the last of my beer, feeling as if I’ve come out
of some sort of coma. I’m damn near about to pick up the phone when I think,
what’s the fucking point? So I light another cigarette, take a couple drags,
put it out, and crack open the last of that beer.
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