Whiskey

There was one uncle that I never quite cared for. In fact, I could count on one of my hands the people who actually cared for his company. He was a shorter, bulky man near fifty. His head was clean shaven and his face round and pudgy. A pair of rectangular, steel rim glasses always sat heavily on his squashed nose. The corners of his mouth were creased with layers of wrinkles on his pale skin from years of drunken laughter. He was a strong man, stronger than most gave him credit for, and stronger than was necessary for him. He was married and had two, grown children. His son, in many unfortunate ways, was very much like my uncle, and he had begun to grow detested by many of the same people who detested my uncle. A vicious circle. Perhaps he had been neglected as a child, and maybe wanted to seem more like his father, as if to make him proud. Maybe that was the case. But it was at a cost to him, if this was the case. My unlce was also an ex-marine, so he had developed a sort of hardness to him, a toughness of sorts; tough as nails, so the expression goes. His hands were always coarse and dry and in the winter time they would crack and bleed every time he folded his fingers. He was a carpenter, so this was a regular occurrence. His tight face, however, always seemed to glow, but his eyes were cold dark stones, grey and misty. He never spoke of his war experiences to anyone. No one knew what he had lived through in the many winters he was gone, and the many, cool springs he had spent stationed in Spain. They could have only brought bad news and fresh grief and loss, or so I imagined. Any memories, good or bad, were hidden beneath his rocky exterior. His wife barely knew him, his daughter wanted nothing to do with him, and his son wanted to be everything he was.

It was a December night when he appeared in my kitchen. I was tucking my small daughter, only a year old, into bed when I heard a knock at the door. I heard my wife's footsteps move to the door, and remained attentive on tucking in the half asleep infant. I smoothed her short tuff of hair and kissed her on the forehead.

"Emily! Well.. ahey! You seen Cal around?" I lifted my head hearing the noise, like a deer detecting its hunter. A fire snapped loudly in the fireplace down the hall.

"Umm... Hi Paul...yea he's... just through here. I'll get him for you."

"No, no, I'll get him." I heard heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor heading my way. They stumbled slightly, and crashed into something in the hallway. I quickly walked out of my daughters bedroom and shut the door behind me. I was looking him right at him.

""Cal! C'mon, lets go get a few drinks, eh? Toast to... Somthin'." As I approached him, the smell of whiskey grew strong and fine on his breath. He was getting drunk, a favorite past time of his. He wore a cream colored sweater and dark, tight jeans over his large figure. He had on boots with pointed toes that knocked on the maple trim. Overall, he looked well dressed and sharp. I cringed, hoping he wouldn't wake the baby.

"I...I don't know about tonight, Uncle. I've got a busy day tomorow." He looked at me over the top of his glasses, his grey eyes afloat in a dreamy mist. He leaned against the pale colored walls, softly illuminated by the fire and lamplight from the living room. A couple couches, a few plants, and a small, old coffee table cast long shadows down the hallway.

"What? C'mon, just you and me!"

"Not tonight, Uncle."

"Well, why not!"

"C'mon." I cleared my throat. "What brings you out this way, Uncle? Quite a ways from home, to be walking.

"Oh, yea. Me and the Mrs... nice little fight... darn mad she is... but a nice little fight." He laughed a stern, hallow laugh. "Well, if we can't go out, we'll just have to enjoy ourselves here." He jumped up from the wall and took heavy footsteps to the kitche, flipping on the light switch and starting the ceiling fan at the same time. He laid his rough, velvet coat on the table and stretched his arms behind him, before going to rummage through the cabinets. I looked in disbelief.

"Cal..." My wifre gave a hushed, hurried whisper and we both knew why.

"I know, I'll take care of it. Don't worry." I kissed her on her blushed forehead, between the parts in her soft, blonde hair. I gazed into the sea of her eyes and notice her worry, and annoyance. This had happened before.

"Uh, Uncle? You, know, Tyler lives right down the street. Maybe you should pay your son a visit?"

"Nah, I like you better. We're a lot alike, you and I." I shook my head, not wanting to agitate him just yet. When I looked at him, he had pulled a bottle of old whiskey from my locked liquor cupboard, somehow picking the lock when I wasn't looking. He brought the bottle and glasses toward me. I grabbed the bottle from his hand. He froze. I thought he might snap.

"What do you say we take it to go, huh?" A frown, once curling his brow, formed into the characteristic smile of his. The corners of his mouth curled in wrinkles, re-etching the old scars.

"That sounds better! C'mon, let’s go for a walk." He grabbed his coat, marching in large strides towards the oak from door, leaning against the oval piece of mulit-facet glass in the center. I kissed my wife, and hugged her, shaking my head. She nodded in understanding. I could tell she wasn't happy. Neither was I.

"I hope I'm not too long." We both flashed a quick smile at each other, and I felt warm. I dressed in a black coat and dark red scarf, and put on one more kiss from Emily, before following my uncle out into the chill of the night.

Under the bright light of a full moon and starlit night, I found my uncle on our wide, narrow patio, already breaking into the bottle of whiskey. I put my hands in my pocket and exhaled, partially just to see the puff of breath that rose and hung over me. A light, crisp snow had fallen and settled the night before, and it glowed incandescent in the moonlight. Houses lined the icy streets, many sided with an odd wood paneling, and few had their lights on. Three large pines blocked most of the road and the homes across the street from view. A soft wind blew, and it bit my ears. I could feel it gently lift and toss around my long, thin hair. My nose was already starting to run from the cold.

"Yer turn!" My uncle handed me the bottle that had several, generous gulps missing from the neck. I sighed, dissatisfied, and took a pull. The whiskey burned, but with a whole, oaken flavor that was rather nice to taster after the burning had passed. A few extra bucks for something nice can go a long way, clearly. I handed the bottle back to my uncle, returning my hands to my pocket, and the whiskey spreading through my body. We walked off the patio, down snow-covered stairs to a cleared icy path that led us to the asphalt of the driveway, and from there to the road. We walked shoulder to should down the gravel, mark-less road.

"You know, they don't really let people drink in public like this."

"Pff. They ain't gonna catch us. We just hide the bottle in our pockets like this." He dropped the bottle into his oversized coat pocket. "Ta-da! Haha!" he snickered, "No problem. Here, have another." He handed me the bottle again, and I took another quick pull. He then resumed drinking some more himself.

We walked for some time down the road; snow that had been compacted and glued to the road crunch with a deafening roar beneath us. I was walking in neat, even lines on the side of the road, my footprints making even compressions in the snow. My uncle wobbled next to me, his steps erratic and uneven, and he was putting more weight on the soles of his feet. We walked, for nearly a mile in a ghostly silence, passing the bottle back and forth. Each time it came to me, he stared at me. At first I would pause to look back at him, the bottle at my lips, and one of my eyebrows raised. But he continued to stare at me, and eventually said to hell with it and too my drinks without looking back at him. His eyes continued to stare at me.

After some time, we came to a park. A path, covered with trampled down snow, was cut clear into what was once tall, dry grass. Now, the tips just brushed the tip of the snow, twisted and dead. We walked towards a large oak, which looked sickly, being devoid of leaves. Each dark, individual limb was lost in the dark space of the sky. The moon couldn't show them all, nor could all the stars in the sky. A street lamp cast soft orange light on the snow near the tree, and the trunk. My uncle walked over to the tree, watching the orange ring of snow with wide eyes.

"This here snow... it's orange."

"That it is uncle."

"Peculiar." he muttered with his eyes at the ground. "Peculiar." I frowned, staring at him wander after the evanescent light, like a lost cat. "Had a fight with ya aunt today."

"Yea, that's what you said." We both took a sip from the bottle, which was nearly empty. As I handed it back to him, I found that it was not so cold anymore. As I looked up, there seemed to be nearly twice as many stars. I sighed.

"Yea. Something about how I don't do nothing, or something. I don't know. Don't make sense." I grunted. "Yea, complains I work to much somedays, and then others she wants me doing this and that, and that, and don't forget to mow the lawn. Christ. Like I don't already do enough." He laughed and took a pull.

"I thought you got laid off?"

"Shhh..." he snickered, like a conspiring group of school kids all in one form. "Can't tell her that. She would not be happy. No sir, not a bit." I looked at him with my eyebrows raised and brow furrowed. "And then, the damn government won't give me no unemployment! Says I don't qualify. The hell I don't. The hell do I half to be other than unemployed to get unemployment!" He gave a look of disbelief and nearly finished off the whiskey.

"Are you looking for a job?"

"Been taking some time off. Been working hard, ya see. Up until I got laid off, anyways." I took the bottle from him and drained the last bits of whiskey, coughing a little. He laughed. "We're out of booze," he said, suddenly stunned, and a little solemnly.

"I know."

"Well, lets get some more. The night is still young, so lets get some more."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, lets get more. We need some more. You're young, and you're sober."

"No, not really," I said, half stumbling.

"No, you are. You are young and not drunk. C'mon. I had a fight with my wife. Lets get something a little nicer."

"You're buying." He laughed

We left the oak tree to soak in the warm light and walked further down the icy road, until we came into town, where we were engulfed with yellow-white light. The whitewashed buildings had a sickly sulfur-yellow tint to them, and the light glared off of windows like small suns. Shriveled and snow covered gardens lined the sidewalk that we walked on, and tuffs of dead weeds stuck out from the cracks in the sidewalk. There was a silence between us. The air smelled surprisingly sweet, almost spicy, like ginger, and I moved my nose around in discomfort. A light wind bit at my hot cheeks, and it felt nice. I looked at my uncle. He was walking perfectly straight now, the empty bottle still clenched in his left hand, his pale thin fingers wrapped around the neck. He continued to look down at the bottle with longing. Eventually, after passing many apartment complex's, parks, and a dark, rumbling overpass, where two arching street lamps hung over the edge, above the chain link border, my uncle stopped outside of a liqour store. The 'open' light was not on in the window. I heard my uncle make a grunt from deep in his throat, an odd gurgling noise. He walked over to the glass door, which was seperated in half horizontally by a metal bar. the florescent lights inside were bright and unwelcoming. But they revealed shelves of rums, whiskeys, scotches, and older drinks I had never heard of. They were all in glass bottles, and I could see the still liquid gleam in the bright light. Of all of these, however, none of them seemed to be 'nicer,' as my uncle had put it. He gazed at the red card that hung from the inside of the which listed the hours. I checked Tuesday's hours. One o'clock. I saw my uncle check his watch.

"Twelve fitty eight." he slurred, and pushed open the door. We were greeted by a rush of warm air and the clear tolling of a small bell that was disturbed as we entered. I shivered, sighing with relief at being out of the cold.

Behind the counter to the right, a cashier was bent over busy with some work underneath in the shelves below. As soon as the bell rang, he raised his head a little. He was young, probably a college student home on break. He had rich, thick blonde air and bright eyes, which had a hint of innocence about them. My unlce paid him no attention and walked past the counter, stumbling haphazardly on the gleaming polished linoleum tile.

"Sorry, Sir, we are closed now." My uncle stopped and turned and looked at the cashier. He examined all of him, the eyes, the hair, the young face which drew in a short breath when he saw my uncles face. We didn't live in a very big town.

"Sign says one. It ain't one yet."

"Sorry sir. I was closing."

"Closing too soon. It ain’t one yet.” I’m paying.” I sat and watched them talk at each other, my eyes moving back and forth until the room began to spin and I had to stop and just listen to them.

“Sorry, we’re closed.” He checked the time on the register. “See, one o’clock.”

“Yer a damn liar, ya are!” The young man swallowed hard.

“No, see.”

“Ya stalled me! You stalled. Just so I couldn’t buy nothing! Ya see that!” he turned to me, my mouth gaping like a fish fighting for air. I didn’t like the look in his eyes. He teeth were barred, like he was hissing. His chest was rising heavily.

“I didn’t do anything. I’m sorry.” My uncle took a few, uneasy steps toward the counter, and reached into his coat pocket. I stepped forward.

“Here…” I pulled out my wallet and withdrew a fifty. Just let him grab a bottle and we’ll leave. Please. Just let him grab one bottle.” The young man looked torn at me. He bit his lower lip, looking at the bill in my hand. Money as a vice, at its finest. He finally, after several seconds, reached for the bill. He was rather hesitant. Once it was near the edge of the counter, he snapped it into his hand and clenched his fist over it.

“Hurry, we’re closed,” he said icily, before returning to his work. I never saw him place the bill in the register.

“I know thanks.” My uncle stared malevolently at the register for a second longer before turning to the shelves of booze. He reached and grabbed a heavy bottle of whiskey. As soon as he had it in his hand, he walked out of the store, his eyes straight ahead of him.  I gave him an apologetic look as I left.

“You owe me fifty dollars,” I said as we stepped outside into the cold night again. A lamp across the street flickered, through dancing shadows on the frozen road, swooping, dipping, and twirling like salsa dancing pairs.

“I ain’t got no job Cal!” I sighed and took the bottle from his hands and took a few, rather generous sips. I stumbled a little, and my head was very unclear. He took it back and beamed at me.

“C’mon, let’s got to the bar… uh… I think there is one a couple of blocks away…” His voice trailed off, as did his thoughts, I guessed.

“Do we really need to?”

Yes, of course. It’s young and your drunk… er… yea?” I sighed and rolled my head on my neck.

“Fine, let’s go.” We were both stumbling as we walked down the cold, quiet street. The buildings on either side of us seemed to topple and sway, like they would fall over. I feared for it. Trees seemed to have twice as many branches as they would normally have. Curious. My uncle passed the bottle to me, but I refused it. He persisted, but I continued to resist. He was angry. I threw my gaze to the thin shoes on my feet, and I realized my toes were going numb. I bent and twisted them as I walked, trying to warm them, and nearly fell over as I did.

A man, in a thick coat, approached us on the sidewalk. He, too, had his head down and hands in his pockets, as I had been doing, and wore a cheap looking woven cap on his head. I dragged my uncle in front of me, to make room for the man to pass. My uncle was preoccupied with the bottle of whiskey.  I had forgotten how much he could drink, and was amazed I had kept up. I thought I heard him mumbling under his breath, but I couldn’t make out words, if there were any. The man approached, and I tried to casually look at something in my surroundings; a tree, the bright streetlights ahead. He was not looking forward at all, so it made no difference.

As we were about to pass, my uncle swayed and stumbled, as if tripped by an invisible bar at his ankles and fell into the man. The bottle fell loose and crashed to the ground, making a dark patch on the sidewalk. My uncle cried out and stared at the shards of glass that gleamed in the soft street lights. The man looked up from his feet. There was a full, reddish grey beard on his face, and sallow, sunken eyes. He didn’t speak, but just glared from me to my uncle, then back at my uncle.

“Paul?” His voice was deep and scratchy and I guessed he was a smoker. My uncle whirled around when he heard his name. He gazed into the strangers face, his eyes squinted and focused on the man, and his forehead wrinkled, like he was thinking hard. After several seconds, the man spoke.

“Charlie?” The stranger answered my father for him.

“Charlie. Son-b***h.”

“Son-of-a-b***h? Huh.”

“Don’t mock me. That’s what I said.”
“I know that’s what you said.” My uncle flapped his mouth and turned to me.”

“See what he’s doing? Tell him to stop mocking me,” he said like a child.

“He’s not mocking you uncle.”
“Calm down Paul. You’re drunk.”

“So what? You owe me money. That’s more important.” My uncles steps faltered, and I rushed to catch him, but he righted himself. Headlights grew brighter then dimmer as a car drove by, making an uncomfortable, crunching noise on the compacted snow.

“I don’t owe you money, ya damn fool. You owe me money, that’s how it is.” Quite a bit, if I remember right,” he said, his hand on his chin, his eyes searching the sky in a mocking, wondering gaze. “Gambling money, I do think.” My uncle clearly took the gesture sarcastically.

“Yer a son-of-a-b***h.” My uncle, with a reflex that I didn’t expect out of him in this state, plunged his cracked hands into his pocket and pulled out a folded utility knife. Small streaks of red ran down his hands, and having been standing close to my uncle, I felt the warmth of it on my own hand. I stumbled backwards. I heard the ring of the metal and my uncle pulled out the longest knife in the set.

“What are you doing?” Charlie said, with a little less surprise than you would expect.

“I wanna set this straight.” Charlie had taken a step backwards in surprise, but held his ground. My uncle made preemptive strikes as a warning and threat, swinging his arm about. Charlie stared at him, his eyes wide and his mouth stretched open. After a few of my uncles threatening, wild slashes, Charlie pulled a revolver from the folds of his coat, which glowed almost gold in the light. My uncle froze. I shouted.

“Just put down the knife and walk away, Paul.” Charlie was cool. One hand was at his side and the other held the revolver firmly at chest height, his arm stretched out straight. My legs felt like lead, and I wanted to run away.

Leaves kicked around my uncles feet as he made a move towards Charlie. I heard him let loose a loud, dog-like snarl that startled me. My feet slipped under the iced street, the flat soles of my shoes unable to catch on something. I heard a loud retort and smelled the biting scent of burning metal and gunpowder, and I realized I moved to quick and slipped to far. I felt something pass through my arm, a rather uncomfortable feeling, as I fell into my uncle. I felt something hot hit my face and run to the corner of my lips. I tasted metallic blood. My uncle fell into a snow bank, nearly rolling into the street. I fell on top of him, but I quickly and inadvertently rolled on the sidewalk. My arm felt numb, and I braced myself, biting my tongue. I held my free numb hand to my wound and felt the hot blood seep past the gaps in my fingers. It felt nice on my hand at first, despite being sticky and thick and disgusting. I heard my uncle struggle to push himself off of the snow bank, like an insect trapped on its back.

“D****t!” I heard Charlie shove the gun back into his coat and take off down the sidewalk, slipping intermittently as he did.

Then it came. A sweeping pain that hit instantly, with no warning. Nothing eased me into it, and I was so started by it I drew blood from my tongue I had been biting. More of the iron taste filled my mouth. The pain coursed through my arm. Each heartbeat brought new waves of pain. Each beat felt like getting re-shot in the arm again. I moaned. My uncle was just managing to pull himself off the ground. I saw his start to run after Charlie. I lifted my leg just a little so he couldn’t step over it, and felt him fall over it, landing face first in the sharp, cutting snow. I heard him breathing heavily as he lay there, and took it as a sign that he had given up. His knife skated out of his hand and across a patch of ice.

“Get me to a hospital, and forget the fifty dollars you owe me,” I said, defeated.

Author's Note

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