Desk Whiskey

I pull up my chair with a grimace. My dogs are barking: these streets have put one too many miles on this beat-down frame of mine. What's left of the dim October sun glints through the window at my cluttered desk. I squint back as I take a load off and settle. It’s not my first time settling. I’ve got an empty wallet and no place to go. Here, at the junction of desperation and boredom, with a full head and an empty stomach, there's one friend you can always count on to be there:  desk whiskey.

I pull open a drawer and hoist a fifth of Bulleit. Bulleit isn't exactly my drink of choice. But when it comes to desk whiskey: nothing’s more authentic than a bottle someone else won’t be needing anymore. The bottle has glassy, empty glow. It's curvaceous but stocky, not the prettiest shape on the shelf but able to take life's lumps and keep rolling. It was kind of bottle that wouldn't break even if you dropped it on the floor. The kind of bottle whose mouth is always look a little wet, a little parted, offering a kiss it knows you'll never dare to take. The kind of bottle who, if you let her in, might kill you.

I hadn't had a stiff drink in weeks. The bottle clearly hadn't seen much love in a long while either, but I knew it was still good. Unlike the rest of us,  whiskey has no expiration date.

I uncap the bottle, considering mouth-to-mouth. Even with all we've seen together, it feels a bit too forward, so I pump the brakes. I pull out a mug so we can have a proper drink. I pour out a finger and raise it to my lips.

The scent reaches up through my nose, grabs my brain by the lapel and shakes it. “Nice neurons you got there,” it seems to say “Sure would be a shame if something happened to ‘em.” Even though my heart is walloping away like a marching band with a deaf conductor, I keep a straight face, scoffing at this alcoholic personification. You gotta take your licks if you want to get to the bottom of a mug like this. I brace and tip it back.

The vapors burn my eyes. The initial sip is seductive, velvety, almost sweet, but I keep my guard up. Just because a tiger purrs doesn't mean it has no teeth. I hold a gulp’s worth in my mouth, letting the heat build. Here, before the swallow, everything’s fine. I feel doubt claw at my throat. It’s not too late. I could still drop this whole charade, go back to my safe, warm bed. Some stones, after all, are best left unturned. But deep in my bones, I know I can’t turn back now. I’ve been an inveterate stone disturber, bed avoider, and charade pursuer my whole life, and I’ll be damned if I let this crooked swig off the hook so easily. For better or worse, I'm taking this drink down with me. 

I grit my teeth, clench my cheeks, and break the standoff with a swallow. My face contorts as the shot hits me. I feel it cooking my guts, swirling relentlessly as I jaw at the air, shaking my head in revulsion. My tongue is simultaneously sticky and dry. Even as numbness seeps in, cloying sweetness clings to my mouth. The purr, the bite, and the purr again.

The shot in my gut burns. I feel lightheaded. It’s hard to focus. What am I missing? The puzzle pieces almost fit: the means, the opportunity, the victim, it all lines up, but there’s one question still rattling inside my noggin: Why?

I stare blankly into the unfeeling bottle. It stares back, eyeless, thoughtless, cruel. You chose this, it's silence says.

I cap the bottle and shove it back in the drawer. There's plenty left, and I want none of it. Besides, you never know when a more desperate moment will strike, and that’s no time to be caught empty-handed. Better to save one shot. Better to bide my time. Because someday, trouble’s going to walk through that door, and she might just want a drink.