A Quarter Life

The Rejoice

Some days the sun was too hasty to get down. Mike couldn’t understand. He was walking down the alleys. The alleys weren’t so organized before. He could see the perfection in those. Of course nothing could be perfect. But to be perfect, one should accept a sacrifice. But fate must offer someone that sacrifice.

Mike got out from the alley. The temperature was quite low here. Mike tightened his overcoat. The evening winds were quite lively here. Mike walked across the oak tree. Was it looking at his failure? He forgot, oak trees couldn’t talk.

He came across a beggar, an old beggar, Mike knew him long before. The beggar was gentle, he wouldn’t beg for free, he would play a piano, a handy piano. The beggar would play would play a soothing tune. People on the road mostly would ignore it, and if exception, they would throw a nickel to him. Mike would see everything, from the first tune of piano to the last clink of nickel. He would see the beggar satisfied, regardless of the nickels.

Mike saw that beggar, distressed. There was no piano. The beggar was starving. The nickels weren’t there, there were few people on the road. Maybe the beggar forgot the tune, Mike would never know. Mike never threw a nickel to him. He would come, listen to the tune, go away. Mike threw a dime to him. The beggar saw him, he smiled to the beggar and went away. The beggar would value the dime more than him.

The dispensary was quite old. The smell, he could smell the medicine garbage from a significant distance.

He entered the dispensary, there was a long line of people, people with fear, people with sorrows. The people, who used to be a happy soul, running, dancing in the streets of DC, were walking in masks, heads down, eyes filled with lost hope.

He stood in the line. The line was less dense. The dispensary was busy, busier than lifetime.

The woman in front of him was frustrated, he could say that by her eyes. The baby in her lap wasn’t aware of the world. It had another world. Mike could see the sweet world, amidst of this rotten world.

The line kept going ahead slowly. When his turn came, he was still thinking about the little world.

The pharmacist asked him, 'Ok sir, how can I help you?'

He asked, 'Is there any migraine related pills? I need some.'

The pharmacist sighed, 'I am sorry sir, but those are authorized, so I can give you those only if you are prescribed patient.'

He grinned, 'Well, guess what?' and pulled out the paper.

The pharmacist was convinced. 'Ok sir, here are some Advil pills for you.'

He looked at the pills, 'Well, what components are those?'

The pharmacist replied, 'Ibuprofen, sir.'

He looked at the counter, 'Well, isn't Acetaminophen a migraine relief component?'

The pharmacist looked perplexed, 'Yes sir, so is Ibuprofen.'

He smiled, 'Never mind, give me pills of Acetaminophen, please.'

The pharmacist frowned, 'But sir, both are same effective against migraine. Why do you want that, particularly?'

He replied, 'I read that Acetaminophen is quite soluble with coffee.'

The pharmacist stopped. He could see the confusion in his eyes.

The pharmacist hesitated, 'Sir, I am not sure, but I have a clinical knowledge that coffee is a lethal migraine enhancer.'

He said, 'True. But you can't avoid your lifeline for some pain relief pills, right?'

The pharmacist said nothing. He took some Tylenol and went out. Little worlds were not always the only necessity.

He came home, tired, of nothing. He looked at the watch, it was nearly midnight. The city was quiet as hell, calm as hell, he could feel the heat of hell.

He went to the kitchen, put out the coffee beans, a new pack of coffee beans. He put some coffee beans into the grinder, then added some pills. The grindings seemed to be weird. The mixture was somewhat new, but however, it seemed edible to him.

He took his medicinal coffee and came to his room. The coffee did taste weirder, perhaps weirdest. He laughed at his own foolishness.

The sky was so numb, he couldn’t talk to it. He needed someone, with whom he could blabber, blabber about his life, blabber about this rotten world. He found his own world of sleep. The coffee remained unfinished, as always.

'So, how's the drink, captain?'

He saw a tent, a big tent, in a woody mountain. He can smell the woods, the leaves, the bonfire, and, the Bourbon. He laughed, there was a soldier sitting with him.

He asked, 'Aye Charles, from which f*****g place you got this sweet heavenly Bourbon?'

Charles laughed with him.

The sky seemed to be enjoying that conversation, he could tell that.

Charles asked, 'Hey Reeve, tell me, why do you like Bourbon so much?'

He thought for a while. 'You know, it ain't the taste, many lads think of that at first. But me? I ain't many lads. Me, just a wanderer of this rotten world, like the foams of it. You wanna see how this wanderer drinks it from the bottle?'

Charles grinned, 'Well, it will be my greatest pleasure, captain.'

He smiled, he looked at Charles, he could see the eyes, eager to know.

He stood up, took the bottle in his right hand. The bottle was quite cold. He put his left hand underneath the bottle, and shook it. He shook it like the last sip, he shook it like the last rejoice. He opened the bottle and poured some in the glass. Charles could see the foam, rising above the glass. But it knew limit, like Reeve, it never fell outside.

He said, 'So Charles, will I get 10 outta 10?'

Charles frowned, 'Not until my tongue agrees.'

He laughed, and gave the glass to Charles. Charles took a sip. He could tell by his eyes, the sip was out of this world.

Charles smiled, 'My my, I'll give it 100 outta 10, the foam made it calm.'

He laughed, they both took a glass of foamed Bourbon, and stayed there like puppets. They gossiped, about the most irrelevant things on this holy earth. They laughed, they cried. They sang every great songs in shittiest ways possible.

He knew Charles was a guy of manner, a guy of trust. He decided, he vowed, this guy, Charles, deserved a significance. He knew. He himself was a jinx, at least to his surroundings. He knew, being insignificant was a burden, but, being inauspicious was a curse. Charles needed a significance. He decided to provide the significance, some day.

The last sip of Bourbon, it seemed different to him. He closed his eyes, to feel the last sip.

He knew, this last sip would bring an unfinished coffee.