The Empty Bottle...

She said the bubbles tickled her nose.

Then she'd giggle.  Every time.

In general, she didn't really like to drink.  Didn't like the way it made her feel, all confused and dizzy, and sometimes a little sick.  When it came to partying, she was always more of a "passing a joint with some friends on the back porch of a summer evening, listening to the crickets, and watching the fireflies" kind of girl.  But she liked champagne.  She liked the dry, crisp, tangy bite of it.  She said she liked the way it made her feel like someone who was "all rich and fancy."  And she liked the way the bubbles tickled her nose.  And she'd tell me that, every time.  And then she'd giggle.  And it was the most adorable thing in the world.

I was the one who liked to drink.  Pot just made me paranoid.  And outrageously hungry.  I just didn't see the point of it.  But booze... a good scotch, a fine brandy, a properly-poured Guinness - these were some of life's greatest pleasures.  They had a romance, and a history about them.  And they brought relaxation, and ambiance, and character, and perspective.  The only thing I loved more than a good drink, was her.

And I guess that's why I'm here, walking alone in the woods, in the middle of the night, in my best suit, carrying a bottle of her favorite champagne.

...

She'd said it was my drinking.  That night, at the restaurant, when she'd found the ring I'd managed to slip into the bottom of her glass of champagne.  When she'd gotten this look when she first saw it, this look I'd never seen before, like she'd lost something forever.  When she'd handed the ring back to me, saying, "I'm sorry, but I can't."  I'd asked her, "Why?  Why not?"  She'd said it was my drinking.

I hadn't seen it coming, at all.  We'd been so happy for so many years now.  The years we'd spent together had been the best of my life.  She said they were hers, too.  "But, I can't marry a drunk."

"I'm not a drunk," I said, startled.  She'd never said that to me before.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not," I said, starting to get a little angry, feeling more than a little hurt, and betrayed.  How could she be rejecting me like this, all of a sudden, after all these years?  "Yes, I drink, but so do most people."

"Most people don't drink the way you do."  Staring down at her plate; she wouldn't even look at me.

"Look, just because you don't like to drink, doesn't make me a drunk!  This is ridiculous!"  My voice was rising now.

"I'm sorry, I just can't."

"So, what, that's it??  We're just over now??  You'd throw everything we have away, just like that?!"

"No, of course not.  I just can't marry you.  Not right now.  Not when you're drinking like this.  Marriage means forever, and I don't know what you'll be like down the road if you keep drinking.  Haven't you noticed how it's changed you?  Haven't you noticed how much more quickly you get angry now?  How much less affectionate you are?  Can you even remember the last time we made love?  And I'm not counting the times that you tried, but were too drunk."

"Fine!," I barked, dodging her questions, wounded by her accusations.  I brought my hand down a little too hard on the table when I said it, and the dishes rattled.  People were starting to look at us now.  And the irony of it all, was that now I really needed a drink.

"Fine," I said, quieter this time.  "Enjoy your dinner.  I'll be at the bar."

...

Walking down the path through the trees, the heavy weight of the bottle swinging in my hand, I remembered it all with sobriety's stark clarity.  Felt it all over again, as if for the first time.  The hurt, the sadness, the regret, the loss, the shock, the betrayal.  And the warm relief of the double-scotch-on-the-rocks afterwards.

...

I'd done it almost to spite her.  Left her sitting there at our table-for-two in her best dress, all alone.  An eye for an eye; humiliation in kind.  If she thinks I'm such a drunk, then fine, might as well get drunk, then.  She thinks she knows everything.  She doesn't know a goddamned thing.  She doesn't even like drinking, so what the fuck does she know about it?

I took a seat at the polished bar, with its upholstered seats and brass rails, and ordered my usual.

Mmmm... That first sip is always the best.  Before the ice has had a chance to start melting, diluting the heat of it.  Taste like liquid woodsmoke.  Tongue of flame snaking down my throat, into my belly, and up my spine.  Warm dopamine rush cascading from my brain, down through my limbs.  Ecstasy and nirvana all rolled up into one glass of amber peace.

I can't believe she said that.  What the fuck does she know, anyways?  I don't drink that much.  Hell, I only really started drinking a few years ago, anyways.  I mean, yeah, there we times we snuck Dad's beer here and there when we were kids, but all kids do that.  It's not like I raided their liquor cabinet or anything.  I mean, every once in a while I'd steal a sip of this or that, but just because I liked the warm feeling it gave me.  It's not like I was getting drunk off of it or anything.

And yeah, I went to a few keg parties in high school.  But, again, so did everyone.  Hell, so did she!  How the fuck am I the bad guy here??  And I did the usual pushing-your-limits thing that everyone does in college, but still - I only got blackout drunk a handful of times the entire time I was there!  I knew guys in some of the frats who would do that every weekend.  Now that is a drunk!

And after college, I really didn't drink hardly at all.  I'd go to happy hour with the guys from work every once in a blue moon, and maybe we'd have some beer or wine with dinner occasionally, but that was it.  I really didn't even start drinking until... well, I guess I started soon after I lost that job, didn't I?  But, I mean, that's understandable, right?  Laid off, couldn't find work, my girlfriend supporting me - it's understandable that a guy would try to drink that off, right?  I mean, that's not easy to deal with.  I needed something to help me relax and forget about how much I felt like a failure.  And besides, it all worked out in the end.  I mean, that was years ago, and I got a new job, a better job.  A job that can support us both, and a family, too.  So, what the fuck is she so upset about?!

I swirl the ice around in my glass, drawing curly-ques on the bar-top.  The ice makes a delicate, crystalline tinkling as it knocks gently against the sides of the glass.  I love that sound so much.  It makes me feel safe and warm to hear it, like the sound of a mother's voice to her child.  tinka-tink-ta-tink  Like the sound of an angel, tip-toeing.  I signal the bartender for a refill.

Ok, so, after I got the new job, I didn't cut down on my drinking.  But so what?  I mean, I had every reason to be a little nervous, a little gun-shy, after just losing the job before that.  And, yeah, ok, so, I drink every night, but it's not like I'm getting drunk all the time.  I mean, a few beers, then a few whiskeys, and then I'm off to bed.  It's just my routine.  I don't see what's wrong with that.  Ok, so, that might sound like a lot when you lay it all out like that, but that's only because I've been doing it for years.  I mean, that's the equivalent of what one beer and one whiskey used to be for me a couple of years ago.  It's not really that much.  And she has to be able to see that!  She's been there the whole time!  She knows this was a gradual increase over a long period.  And she knows I'm not getting wasted every night or anything.  Why is she making such a big deal out of this?

Ok, ok, ok - so I like to get drunk on the weekends.  So.  Fucking.  WHAT?  I work hard, and I need to relax!  That is completely normal.  I don't understand what her problem is.  It's not like I'm a violent drunk who beats her up or some shit.  I mean, yeah, we've been fighting a lot more lately, that's true, I guess.  But it's not because of my drinking.  It's because she's always nagging me about shit when I'm trying to relax!  "No, I don't wanna mow the fucking lawn right now!  Can't you see I'm watching the game, you stupid bitch??"  "Can't you walk the fucking dog yourself?!  Jesus fucking christ, you've got legs, don't you?!  I'm sitting here, nice and relaxed, and you've always gotta come in here with some fucking thing to try and get me to do!  Take care of your fucking self for once, for a fucking change, why don't you!"  "I swear to fucking God, if you tell me to fix that fucking drawer one more motherfucking time I will break your fucking legs, DO YOU HEAR ME?!!"

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Wow.  Ok.  So, maybe I might need to cut back a little.  Maybe.  I mean, it's completely ridiculous to call me a drunk, or treat me like I'm one of those poor, pathetic losers who have to go to those stupid meetings all the time or something.  But, yeah, I've probably been a little hard on her.  And, yeah, I guess I probably wouldn't have gotten that upset if I hadn't been that drunk.  And, yeah, maybe I...

"Hey."

I look up from my empty glass, snapped out of my reverie, to find her standing next to my stool.

...

It's so dark out here.  The trees block what little light the Moon might've provided.  I'm pretty sure I'm still going the right way, though.  I see what looks like a bit of a clearing up ahead.  I make my way through the last of the brush, and come out into the open air; the night and noise.  Yes.  Yes, this is it.  This is where it happened.

...

"I want to leave."  She looks so sad.

"Yeah, well, I'm not done yet."  I can't let it go.  I'm just so pissed at her for treating me like that.  In public, no less!

"Fine, stay here, then.  But I'm leaving.  You can find your own way home."

"No, you're not!"  How dare her!  "You're not taking the fucking car and leaving me here!  Fine, you want to fucking go, let's fucking go!!"  I jump off my barstool, stumbling a bit on the landing.  How many drinks did I have?  Thirty oughtta cover it.  I slam the money down on the bar and stomp off toward the front entrance.

In the parking lot, trying to get my key into the door.  "DAMMIT!," as I drop them for the second time.  She's got me so fucking mad I'm shaking!

"Please, let me drive."

"No!  Fuck you!  I can drive.  I'm not a fucking DRUNK!"

"It's not that.  I'm worried about you driving when you're this angry."

"Fuck you, I can fucking drive."  Bitch fucking calls me a drunk, completely fucking rejects me, humiliates me in public, and now she won't even let me drive!  I have the doors open by now.

"Fine.  Just please be careful."  I see her look at me for a moment before she gets into the car.  I have no idea what she's feeling just then.  I don't care, either.

Gunning the engine, I squeal out of the parking lot.

"Please!  Be careful!"

"Shut up!  When you yell at me like that it makes me nervous!"  Rounding the corner through the yellow light at 35 miles-per-hour.  "You keep distracting me like that and we will get in a fucking accident!"

We drive down the dark two-lane in blessed silence for a while.  I'm pushing the limits of what our little car can do, but it feels good.  I can see her gripping the door handle tightly when I round the corners.  That feels good, too.  I push it a little harder, the highbeams cutting a tunnel of light down the dark, wooded road.

"Please!  Just slow down!"

"I fucking told you..."

A flash of white outside the windshield fills my vision for a split-second.  I panic, and swerve.  I hear a scream, and the world goes completely insane.

...

It was a long walk from the reception to this lonely stretch of wooded road, and I'm all sweaty in my suit.  I had no idea what that flash was at the time, but I can see it so clearly now in my mind, as if it were in slow motion.  An owl.  A white owl, riding the updraft over my windshield, wings spread wide.  I guess it must've been diving for a mouse in the road or something.  I wonder if that mouse made it, like I did.

It's one of life's cruelest ironies that it's usually the drunk driver who survives the wreck.  The theory is, they're more relaxed, and they don't tense up as quickly, so they kind of "go with the flow," as it were, and so often just bounce around a bit, but don't break.  I woke up here, in the middle of this road, and I had a few bumps and bruises, and a cut on my scalp, but that's all.  They tell me I was actually thrown clear of the wreckage, and that it probably saved my life.  She was wearing her seat-belt.  She was trapped as the car rolled over and over down the road, smashing down onto the asphalt again and again.

I might've walked away from that wreck, but I never really left it.  No more than she did.

When I saw they were serving her favorite champagne at the funeral reception, I realized I couldn't take this anymore.  All the false sympathies, all the accusing stares.  I know it was my fault!  You think I don't fucking know that?!  You think I need you looking at me like I'm a murderer in order to know what I've done?!  I know what I've fucking done!  I threw everything that meant anything to me in this whole fucking world away, forever, for nothing!!  I killed your little girl, and your sister, and your friend, because I was a fucking drunk, and I was too goddamned stupid to know what I had!  I picked up one of the bottles, and walked out into the night.

I'd intended to drink the whole thing sitting by the side of this road, here, where my life ended.  Where I'd ended her.  But now that I'm here, I can't seem to bring myself to do it.  I haven't had a drink since that night.  I'd wanted to celebrate her by drinking her favorite.  But now it feels more like I'd be killing her all over again, somehow. 

I don't understand what she ever saw in me.  Lord knows I didn't deserve her.  The fact that she cared about me at all, that she wanted to help me, that she loved me, is a fucking miracle.  Another miracle I threw away, because it meant nothing to me.

What the fuck am I doing feeling sorry for myself??  What the fuck am I doing, sitting here, crying by the side of the road?  You think you've lost everything?  Fuck you.  She lost everything.  Because of you.  For you.  She loved you and she wanted to take care of you.  She wanted you to get better.  And you killed her.  So now you have a choice.  You can sit here, and keep pretending this is all about you, or you can get the fuck up, and keep fucking living, and make sure that your life is worth the price she paid for it.  Get off your ass, and live a life she would've been proud of you for.  Live the life she gave you.

I stand up and brush myself off.  I pick up the bottle of champagne and walk out into the middle of the lonely road.  I remove the gold foil from around the neck of the bottle.  Holding it in both hands, pushing on the cork with both thumbs, the white plastic stopper suddenly explodes and rockets out into the night and disappears.  The bottle ejaculates cold, white, foamy bubbles all over my hands, pouring down onto the road.

I hold the bottle up, looking at it closely.  I want to remember this moment forever, as vividly as I remember her final night.  I look straight up at the sky and, with my mouth closed and my eyes wide open, I upend the bottle, and pour the champagne into my face.

It's cold, and it stings my eyes badly.  I keep pouring.  It goes up my nose and I start to choke.  I cough and I choke, but I keep pouring.  It's streaming off of me, soaking my suit, and splashing all over the road.  Finally, the bottle is empty.  I stagger and cough and blink my eyes, trying to get a hold of myself.

When I can finally breathe again, bent over double in the middle of the road, I realize, that the bubbles are tickling my nose.  And I laugh, like I can't remember ever laughing before.  I laugh and I laugh and I laugh into the night until I am completely empty.  Until there's nothing left of me.

I set the bottle down on the side of the road, and start walking.

...
...
...

It's common to see trash along the side of the road.  Any road.  But this morning, I saw an empty champagne bottle of all things, along the side of the twisting farm-country road of my new commute.  Never seen that before.  And I thought to myself, "Ok, there's got to be an interesting story behind that."  So I decided to try and make one up.  I'm guessing the real story is probably much better than mine.

I didn't plan this out at all, didn't have an outline or a clear story in my mind when I started.  I just let it come to me, one piece at a time.  I kind of feel like I let the story tell itself, through me.  And this is what came out.

So, if you didn't like it, don't blame me.

I'm just the messenger.