21: WHISKY THEATER
It’s whisky for dinner that night. Phone off, TV off, fucking lights off, it’s just me and my bottle on the guest room bed.
It still smells like her. Girl scents cling to everything in their rooms with all those ointments and sprays they toss around. I breathe in the flower-scented pillow pressed against my face. How long will her scent last? Soon her essence will fade back to just an extra bedroom in my condo. Stale, untouched. At some point, someone will crash here again. They’ll comment about the renaissance crap I brought back from one of our European tours. Try to impress me with knowledge I don’t give a fuck about. Holland liked it. That’s why it returned on the plane with me. It’s not a story I bother telling anymore.
I’ve already abandoned the long list of “should-dos” that piles up when your life goes to shit. Somewhere there’s a lawyer I should be hiring. A new agent. I have a processional song to rework now that I’m a solo act. But it’s impossible to move when you’re clinging to the last remnant of Hannah. What if she’s gone when I come back?
Poof.
I snicker at my fingers that wave above me in this drunken theater. She’s evaporated. Bravo, you inspired thespian.
I’m well-versed in this whisky dialect that draws out pain in long syllables until it hurts less. My Martin forgives; my bottle forgets.
“Her darkness is mine
Desperate to hide,
In the lie of
Breathing hard.
Igniting skin, she sins in the betrayal of lust
She just, needs a sign that she’s alive and
Free to fly.”
Whisky sings too. Constructs lyrics that will stay locked in its protective oblivion because I’ll never remember them sober.
Fly, my angel. My fingers dance through the air again, this time as streaks of movement in the dim light.
“…lie in wait, hold tight, let them fight
Until you strike
Them dead.”
The “Viper” melody is nearly unrecognizable in my stuttered, drunken performance. I burst out laughing, doubling over on my side because shit. Irony, man. I wrote that song to help her kick the world’s ass, and I’m the one she sent to the grave.
My stomach cramps from amusement, then dries up in a painful rush.
I’m in the grave.
The next shot straight from the bottle trickles down my chin. Pungent drops soak into the pillow, and I spring up in alarm.
“Fuck! No no no.” I’m frantic, scrubbing at the amber liquid staining the linens. I pull it to my nose for a desperate inhale and recoil in horror. “Fuck!” Tears burn my eyes. Something snaps deep in my soul.
I slam the whisky-scented pillow into the wall. Poof. Hannah is gone.
∞∞∞
It’s Thursday, I think. Friday? Who cares. I haven’t looked at my phone in days. Haven’t even turned it on. The TV stays fixed on food channels. I eat… No, I don’t eat. I drink. And piss. And sometimes sleep when I drink enough to forget.
I finally changed my underwear this morning, but couldn’t be bothered with anything else. Boxer-briefs and cooking competitions—my new legacy.
The whisky doesn’t talk much anymore, definitely doesn’t sing. It’s just a tool now to make me numb and survivable—sometimes sick. But the nausea is worse today.
I stagger to the bathroom and drop in front of the toilet. The white porcelain isn’t in good shape since I turned the cleaning people away yesterday. “Come back next week,” I’d said through a laugh because I’ll probably be just as fucked up then. It was the highlight of my day.
Now, maybe I regret it as I launch the latest stomach-full of alcohol into the toilet. Impressive aim this time, so points for that.
Hand braced on the wall, I force myself back to my feet. The shower comes into sharp focus, and I hesitate. Maybe my new routine could use a shakeup.
Seconds, minutes tick by as I hover under the hot stream. Too hot, really. I keep cranking the controls until my skin hurts enough to drown out the agony beneath it. Eventually, it’s too much, and my survival instinct kicks in to stop the torture.
I don’t know how long I stand in the resulting steam cloud. Drops of water gather and slide down my body. I watch a few, then close my eyes to see if I can feel them. Touch. Such a strong ally I’ve been missing in my war against feeling. That’s what I need.
I shuffle back to my room and pull on real clothes for the first time in days. Thanks to my pre-shower cleanse, I’m also more lucid than I’ve been, maybe even hungry. Progress.
Once I’m ready, I buzz down to the doorman and ask for a cab. Then I’m off. Touch. Food. Forgetting the shit-fest my life has become. Harem, I’m on my way.
∞∞∞
I’ve never been to a strip club alone before. It’s hard to believe it’s the same place where I partied with Dany. It’s seedier when you’re by yourself, darker, which suits my mood just fine as the hostess leads me to a booth. I order food, no drinks this time because I actually want to see if I can fill my stomach with something besides booze.
I don’t recognize any of the dancers from my last visit, and suddenly it hits me. I’m not here for them. I skim the floor until my eyes catch the familiar gaze of the bouncer manning the VIP section. A spark of life shudders through me at his glare. It feels so fucking good. So real, and everything else fades around me.
I push myself up and beeline for his post. I’m a VIP, right? I smirk. Maybe two weeks ago.
“Need something?” Tight Black Shirt asks as I approach.
“Yeah, a table.” I say it loud enough to draw the attention of the guests behind him. The higher the stakes, the better.
“Looks like you have one already,” he says, pointing to the booth I left.
“Nah, I’m thinking I’d like something more private.”
His eyes narrow. Check.
“That booth looks pretty private to me.”
“Yeah? Then maybe it’s the view that sucks.”
“It’s right in front of the stage.”
Thick arms cross over his chest. Check.
“Exactly. That’s the problem. Where do you find these hags?”
Face flushed, cheeks puffed, muscles flexed in restrained fury. We’re in business.
“You need to leave. Now.” His voice is that perfect hiss of animalistic threat.
“I’d rather just have a table. That one will work.” I motion to the first one I see behind him.
“Not gonna happen. It’s time for you to go.”
Ready.
“You know, I would, but the cab isn’t scheduled to pick me up for another hour.”
“Then you can wait on a fucking bench.” His pretzeled arms bulge as he closes the gap between us.
Aim.
“No thanks. It’s pretty cold out there.”
Veins protrude from his neck.
“Not my problem, asshole.”
Fire.
“Hey, just a suggestion. Maybe ask your supervisor for a bigger shirt? The man-boob thing isn’t a great look.”
His arms shoot out to me, but I’m prepared enough to duck away. The resulting flail only pisses him off more, and he lunges again. My planning doesn’t help this time when I misjudge his reach. A steel fist smashes into the left side of my face.
Hell yeah!
I laugh and straighten, savoring the iron taste of blood. “Wow, that’s quite a punch you’ve got there. You learn that at the Bouncer Academy?”
“Fuck you,” he growls. “Get the fuck out.”
“What about my table?” I take a step toward the rope, and he shoves me into another giant body behind me. Bonus points for attracting the other bouncers, but these guys are pros. I’ll have to work harder. I didn’t come here for just a permanent ban from an establishment I hate.
I twist right and smash my elbow into Brute 2’s side, causing Brute 1 to jolt forward in defense of his partner. I’m faster, though, and land a solid strike to Brute 1’s nose. He staggers back, blood streaming from the broken appendage.
I get a decent gloat in before a rib-crushing blow sends me to the floor from behind. Brute 2 is quickly on me, anchoring my arms back. I struggle enough to earn a sickening kick to the stomach from Brute 3 who must be standing in for his injured friend. My laugh is more subdued this time with no oxygen to fuel it. I can’t see much with my cheek pressed against the floor, and watch a set of expensive leather shoes and perfectly tailored suit pants approach.
“Get him out of here,” Tailored Suit says to his Muscle. He must make a motion I can’t see because the grip on my wrists adjusts from painful to damaging. My suspicion is confirmed when they yank me to my feet and start pushing me to the back of the building instead of the front.
“We’re not done,” Brute 2 hisses with hot breath against my ear. It smells like the breath of someone who’s had a long day and is ready for a workout.
Congratulations, Wes Alton. You finally get to hit rock bottom in a dark alley.
∞∞∞
I have no idea what time it is when I come to. Every joint and muscle in my body aches. I can’t see through my left eye, and my shirt is stiff with dried blood. Even my nostrils burn from the stench of garbage and piss.
My wallet!
It’s there. Those guys are pros. No phone though because I left that useless piece of shit at home.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I force myself to my knees. The gravel swirls below me, and I brace my trembling palms on a carpet of debris and broken glass. My left hand is a mess. My right hand isn’t much better, and I stare at swollen evidence of the damn good defensive blows I got in before they leveled me. Two-on-one, then three-on-one. Not great odds.
I reach for the concrete wall and stagger to my feet. Hunched over, I wait for air to sift back into my lungs while the commotion of downtown Toronto hums just meters away. It burns to breathe. They must have cracked a few ribs. I rest my forehead on the arm pressed against the building. The mangled remains of my other hand clutches my side in support of my lungs. More air. I’ll need a lot more to make it to the street. Damn it’s cold.
The alley stops spinning after several seconds, and I lurch toward the main thoroughfare. It takes several long breaks and a shit-ton of willpower to make it back to the safety of civilization.
Safety? No. Civilization fucking sucks.
The first three cabs ignore my signal—not surprising given my state. Who wants the burden of a criminal or dead body at this time of night? I’ve almost given up when a brave driver finally pulls to the curb.
“Fuck. Hospital, eh?” he says as I ease into the back of the cab.
“No, Spadina and Lakeshore.”
“Seriously? You look like—”
“Spadina and Lakeshore.”
He shrugs with a must-be-fun-to-be-nuts look as he shifts back to the wheel. The car jerks into the flow of traffic, and I clench my teeth to keep from groaning. I swear this dude goes out of his way to brake late and accelerate early at every stop. By the time we pull up to my building, I fear I’ll be leaving several body parts in the back of his vehicle.
Oh well, he deserves the mess.
I tip him anyway, a reward for being willing to pick me up, and do my best ninja impression through the main entrance, past the security desk, and onto the elevator. I don’t need any commentary from Lawrence, the doorman. Ninja skills are severely lacking when half your body doesn’t work, but with no wait for the elevator, I’m gone before he can interfere.
The elevator has never been so slow. I slump against the wall, shaking so hard I’m afraid I’ll knock the car right off its cable. Will I die of blood loss or hypothermia? It’s an interesting question I ponder until the elevator finally stops. Six stumbles later, I’m at my door.
I curse at the stove clock when I manage to get inside. 3:37am. I was in the alley for at least seven hours. Shit. Yeah, I probably should have gone to the hospital with a concussion like that, but fuck it. Maybe those dead brain cells will prove to be an upgrade.
With ginger movements, I strip off my clothes and step into the shower for the second time in twelve hours. My injuries force a much cooler temperature with this one, though. God, it hurts. Fire everywhere. Stabbing pain pierces through dull aches, and the more I see of the damage, the more relieved I feel. Each wound is a badge, a fucking neon sign that I’m alive and broken and exactly where I should be.
Wes Alton’s soul is visible. Here you go, world. See what I am.
I turn off the water and by some miracle I make it to my bed, still dripping with pink streaks of water-blood. I fall to the sheets and close my eyes, praying that this time I don’t wake up.