Week Forty(June 27- August 1) Topic: Kiss 


Winner(s) tied: Davis and Megan 



A Zenith Of Irresponsibility 

by: Davis 


The ceiling swam like a school of overzealous fish for Jack Cassady. The rather tall, gaunt man sat on his barstool, inundated within his twelfth beer. Sawdust beneath his feet gave him the curious illusion that he was sinking in quicksand; sloppily surveying his lugubrious peers, he swallowed the amber dregs of the beer. Every night before Jack began his pedestrian monotonous shift driving a truck for the Denver Post he hedonistically imbibed massive quantities of alcohol. Departing from the bar repetitiously at 10:55 P.M., arriving late at 11:05 P.M., consistently showing up prodigiously drunk, completing his route, returning home to sleep; the days indiscernible in their similarity. Tonight was but another segment in the continuous linearity of Jack’s life. 

Jack stared down at his watch, twin images stating 10:45, float wearily towards Jack’s dilated pupils. The mirror behind the bar reflects a tragedy; his sunken eyes betray the look of a broken man. A man who has allowed life to pass him by like so much water over sand. Scraggly facial hair and a silvery mop atop his head exacerbate his jaded expression. His flannel shirt hangs limply over a frame depleted by malnutrition and alcoholism. Jack contemplates if he will have time to drink one or two more beers before he heads off to work. The memory of the occasion upon which he missed work to drink, and ended up kissing the repugnant barmaid for a bottle of Barton’s vodka bring a melancholy smile to his face. Luckily, on that occasion, Jack had phoned in. 

Draining his thirteenth beer, Jack observed the time as 10:50 P.M. He pondered silently why he occupied this same barstool, night after night; he felt like a slave to some cosmic system that was determined to allow him no pleasure. He no longer got drunk, regardless of how hard he tried; he merely got numb. No longer did a bar represent escape or the conviviality of human companionship; it was the only place for him to drown the last vestiges of self-respect in peace. The women were gone, his child attending elementary school in a different state, every cent of his inheritance spent on legal fees, booze and child support, all his siblings refusing to speak to him, if they knew where he was at all. Everyone would drink like me if they had my problems, he thought. The judicial clock, staring disapprovingly from the wall, struck 10:55 P.M. Not tonight, he thought, I can’t f***ing do it anymore. The same enervating routine, every night and day. I deserve an Olympian bender, then I’ll mellow out on the drink for a weeks. This was the 10th time this year Jack promised himself this. 

As the clock struck 11 P.M, thoughts of Jack’s boss’ futile attempts at reaching him made Jack grin smugly. Delivering newspaper to distribution centers had been a decent gig for Jack, but he figured it time to move on. After receiving a warning once already, he would surely be canned after omitting to appear for his shift; better yet, he thought, I just won’t ever show up again. Jack was jaded with the rented room he was residing in anyway; it’d been months since he’d played the tracks and even longer since he’d been to a casino. Jack loathed himself for being a slave to the system; working for the ‘man’. Christ, he thought, I sound like a goddamned hippie. 

At precisely 11:10 P.M, Jack ordered a scotch with water. Brutishly bringing the drink over, the bartender muttered “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else by now?” 

“I’m not going in tonight, not feeling well. I work every night of the week, don’t I deserve a night off to get stinkin’ drunk every once in a while?” Jack crossly responded to the man behind the counter; he had never been fond of the bartender. Something about his almost-brown eyes made him appear creepy to Jack. The sort of guy I wouldn’t want to be in a back alley with, thought Jack. 

“You walk in her stinking drunk already every night and then order 15 beers. Is every day a vacation or what? Anyway, I’m not giving you any credit if you get fired though, I know your type.” The bartender replied insistently defensive. 

“Whatever. Just keep the drinks coming, buddy” Jack responded, not without a bit of annoyance 

The bartender impishly walked away, leaving Jack all alone, yet again. He continued to gormandize his liquor, drinking as if to drown himself. Really, that is what I’m doing, Jack thought privately. I’m sick of this shit sandwich without the bread. Something has to change. After these next couple drinks and a good night’s rest, things will be turning around, he promised himself. We all know by now these promises were worth about as much as monopoly money. Jack was an alcoholic of the chronic sort, the type who can’t stop imbibing alcohol, no matter how hard he resisted. Jack has shunned every member of his family, and even other alcoholics can stand to be around him; Jack doesn’t care much for them either. He has no ambition but to drink and be drunk; if he ever felt happiness, he forgot what it was. A good day for him involved not being arrested, or sleeping indoors rather than on a park bench. 

As the clock struck 11: 30 P.M, Jack decided he’d had enough of the bar scene; he had a bottle of port at home to drink himself to an alcohol induced stupor that one could hardly call sleep; if he shut his eyes, it was hardly restful. Paying the bartender with a grubby ten dollar, presumably the last one he’d see for some time, his keen alcoholic mind began turning. Deciding on applying at an auto parks factory, he quieted his survival instinct enough to enjoy the rest of the night’s drunkenness. Sloppily stepping out upon the pavement, he headed towards his apartment. Drifting by other seedy bars, a gas station with bars on the windows to presumably keep would-be armed robbers at bay (or to keep the clerks and customers inside, thought Jack), the moon cats an eerie effulgence across downtown Denver. In the macabre muck of downtrodden and pitiful examples of humanity, forgotten by society, discarded by the affluent, Jack felt at home. 

Racing for tomorrow, Jack hurdled the wall at midnight, 12:00 A.M. Peering towards his right, he realized he was going to cross paths with the very place he had forgone this evening. The looming Denver Post sign shone like a specter; the sight made Jack chuckle. He was almost mirthful with his mischief, wondering if they had dropped his load of papers yet. Hurriedly, he made his way to the fence overlooking the shipping yard. A smile that mocked life itself, a smile that hadn’t been displayed in as long as Jack could remember, crept slowly onto his face like a lion after a zebra; stealthy, deceptively. This treacherous smile was directed at a pile of Denver Post newspaper that would never be delivered, on the cold, unforgiving ground where Jack’s truck was supposed to be. 



More from Davis: 
http://www.goodreads.com/story/list/2160...


~ ~ ~ 

Time 

by Megan 


(Writer chooses not to post writing on here) 




More from this contest: http://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/1824...

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