Just Throw In the Towel

The boy walked into the liquor store, gaunt and weary. He was a skinny thing; he wore gray flat front pants (which now looked pleated, his belt at its tightest, crumpling the waistband and still not completely hugging his hips), a large black jacket that made him look a bit bigger than he really was, and sported jet black, spiky, fine hair. He used some cheap five dollar gel to keep it in place. His face looked tired. The dark semicircles underneath his eyes were now replaced by small bags of slightly puffy, pale flesh screaming for sleep. His eyes, feeling hot and sore in the cold, winter night, searched the shelf behind the shopkeep for some semblance of relief. Maker’s Mark, Jack Daniel’s, Jim Beam. No, no, no, something a little more heavy duty (and with a bit more acetone), he thought. “Johnnie Walker, Red Label please,” he says but he doesn’t see the bottle. The shopkeep takes the glass flask, full of amber liquid, from behind him and places it into a signature brown paper bag, punches the amount into the register and takes the cash. The boy knows just how much it costs with tax, there was no need for change. If a slight gale came in, he probably would have struggled to stay standing. He exits the meager establishment, his purchase tucked inside the right pocket of his jacket. The cold, thick glass beneath the rough paper felt oddly comforting. Like the feeling of coming home loaded with groceries after a tiring day at the supermarket. With his left hand, he pulls his keys from his left pocket, unlocks his car, pulls the handle and swings the driver’s seat door open. He takes a seat. He closes the door. He takes a long breath. He closes his eyes.