The Arnold Palmer part 7

Read the previous chapter here:

Part 6


---Begin part 7

Steve pulled into his apartment complex, tires screeching as he sped around the curb and into his designated spot. He parked the car and jumped out, leaving his keys in the ignition and the car running. As he slammed the door, he realized his mistake and looked at the closed door in horror. 

"No, no, no, no," he said, but deep down he knew the door would be locked. He began to feel panic creep up the back of his neck. He almost let out a violent scream and was a moment from kicking the car when he reached for the handle and pulled the door open. 

"Oh," he said, looking at the open door in confusion. "Ok." This act, forgetting to turn off his car and keys, somehow seemed like the highlight of his day simply because it didn't turn out to be as bad as it could have. He turned off the car, grabbed his keys, slammed the door, hit the alarm, and sprinted to his apartment.

He nearly ran over his neighbor carrying a garbage bag to the dumpster in the parking lot. 

"Whoa!" the older man said as he jumped out of the way. "Watch it!" 

"Sorry!" Steve sputtered. "So sorry, man. Been a long day." 

"No problem," the man said. "I know exactly what you mean. This morning I..." he stopped mid-sentence as Steve sprinted away. 

"In a rush, have a good one!" Steve yelled behind him. 

"You, too," the man said, then, under his breath he added, "jerk."

Steve turned the key in the lock and shoved open the door to the apartment complex. He ran past the mailboxes, then stopped for a moment, thinking maybe he should get his mail. Then he thought about all the bills waiting for him and continued on his way. 

"They're not going anywhere," he muttered. His day had been long enough. He didn't want to think about how much money he owed. He didn't want to think about anything except the delicious refreshing drink he was about to finally pour himself. A smile came across his face as he envisioned the sound of the ice cubes hitting the bottom of his glass. When he thought of the sweet mixture of iced tea, lemonade, and the finest vodka the local grocery store provided, a tear slowly rolled down his cheek. 

"No time to get emotional," he said as he wiped the tear with his sleeve. "Stay focused."

He ran past the elevator directly to the stairs. The elevator was one of those old ones with the iron gate. It always felt like he was traveling back in time when he pushed the gate aside and stepped in the small box. To be honest, looking out of that little porthole window to the inner machinations of the elevator as it descended and ascended freaked him out a little. His nerves couldn't handle it tonight.

His shoes barely touched the steps as he ran up to the 3rd floor. Any pain from his toe was hardly registering. He opened the door to his apartment, unbuttoned his pants and threw his button down shirt on the ground. His roommate was asleep on the couch, also with his shirt off. Empty pizza boxes, plus a few empty cans, bottles, and glasses were spread out on the coffee table. Apparently he had missed some kind of gathering, because the apartment was not like this when he left in the morning. Not to say it was clean when he left it, per se, but there were only 2 empty glasses on the table at most. Maybe one empty pizza box, too.

Steve walked to the small kitchen and looked for a clean glass in the cupboard, coming up empty handed. The dishwasher had been full of dirty dishes for a couple days and neither roommate had the determination to put detergent in and run it. Instead, they'd grab a dirty glass, rinse it out, use it, and put it back in the machine, just as Steve was planning to do now.

He grabbed the cleanest looking glass, placed it under hot water for a few seconds, then dried it off with a paper towel. 

"Perfect."

Now for the moment he had been literally fantasizing about all day. He opened the fridge and took out the bottles of lemonade and iced tea. There was just enough lemonade for a tall Arnold Palmer. He'd have to go back out to the store if he wanted more; after the day he had, he'd either fall asleep after one drink or need 8. He wasn't thrilled about the idea of going back out, but if he needed to, there was a corner store 5 minutes away. 

He opened the freezer and dropped 4 pieces of ice into his glass. Maybe he could make the lemonade stretch into two drinks after all. He reached for the most important ingredient, the bottle of Smirnoff...only to realize it wasn't where it was supposed to be. He moved the ice trays and the boxes of frozen pizza and chicken nuggets around in the freezer. Still nothing. Frantically he opened the fridge and moved the milk and eggs around, pushed the cans of soda to the side, pulled the box of baking soda out, knocked over the cartons of leftover Chinese food, only to find....nothing.

"No."

It was 10:45pm and he lived in Connecticut. Because of the Puritanical values that still pervaded this New England colony, the liquor stores all closed at 9pm. When he was in college less than 10 years ago, all liquor stores closed at 8pm and didn't open at all on Sunday. People would have to plan their drinking ahead of time like some kind of scientist, it was outrageous. Unfortunately, the extra hour wasn't doing him any good tonight, and he hadn't talked to the bootlegger he went to as a teen since...he was a teen. Maybe he could find his number somewhere? Even if he found it, dealing with that guy usually took hours. Who knows if he still even bootlegged. It would be pretty sad if he was still doing it 15 years later. Steve expected more ambition from his bootleggers. So that wasn't a realistic option. No, if he didn't find the bottle, he'd have to go to a bar. The closest bar was 25 minutes away, and it always smelled like used kitty litter. 

"No."

He looked back in the freezer, hopelessly moving everything from one side to the other in hopes that it would somehow appear.

"No."

Back to the fridge. Then back to the freezer. Then he turned around and scoped out the kitchen counter. Nothing. The kitchen table....nothing. He almost jumped into the living room where his roommate remained snoring loudly on the couch. He scoured the coffee table, the floor, the entertainment center, he lifted his roommates feet and looked under his legs. Still nothing. 

"No!"

He hopped back into the kitchen. He opened the stove just in case. He checked the sink. He checked every cabinet. He ran to his room and looked under his covers, in the closet, in his dresser, then in his bathroom. There was no vodka to be found.

As he ran back to the kitchen, he spotted a white garbage bag near the front door. It was stuffed to the brim, and right at the top, near the red drawstrings, the red top of a glass bottle poked out. He ran to the bag and pulled out the bottle. 

Smirnoff. Empty.

"No!" The vein on his forehead looked like a railroad track crossing from temple to temple. He opened the bottle and tipped it back, hoping for any little bit to drop on his tongue. He didn't realize how much he resembled a cartoon caricature of a drunkard, and he didn't care. He was furious. He had come so close to his cherished Arnold Palmer and it had been taken away from him. 

Before he could think he screamed and kicked the front door with all of his might, then immediately passed out from the pain that shot up from his toe.

"Steve?" his roommate murmured from the couch. He pulled the couch pillow off his head and looked towards the heap of flesh on the ground. "Dude, we're gonna get complaints from the neighbors if you keep yelling. Chill out man." He placed the couch pillow back on his head and resumed his alcohol fueled snoring. 

---End Part 7

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Dark and Stormy

It was a Dark & Stormy Night; that was the name of the drink he received from the tall, thin blonde with over-sized round glasses. She smiled as she handed it to him. He assumed it was an attempt for a better tip and not an attempt to make an actual human connection. He hadn't had one of those--an actual human connection--for some time, so he wouldn't know what it looked like anyways.

As he sipped the drink, he put a $20 bill on the bar. Not too long ago, he would've waited for change, but he'd come to the conclusion that he'd rather be broke than be looked at like a pariah. He wouldn't have enough money for a cab, but he wanted to walk home tonight anyway. It's not like anyone was waiting for him.

He took the drink and moved from the bar, his back facing the blonde bartender as she asked about his plans for the night. She hoped the others at the bar didn't witness her embarrassment. It seemed the guys she wanted to talk to never felt the same, and every guy she didn't want to talk to felt an unstoppable urge to converse with her for the entirety of her shift.

The man reached the open stool in the corner of the bar and placed his drink on the counter that ran the length of the wall. As he placed it on the coaster with a local brewery's logo, he heard the first notes of Taylor Swift's new song playing loudly overhead.

He was dumbfounded. This was a bar. For adults. Why was this happening? He looked around the crowded, small space. In the opposite corner there was a digital jukebox, with a group of 5-6 young men in baseball caps with college names embroidered on the front, drinking beers and laughing loudly. Two were mouthing the lyrics as one belted out every other word.

He couldn't tell if the guys were truly enjoying the song, or if it was "ironic," but either way, it was beginning to make him gag. He swallowed the knot in his throat, a physical embodiment of the anger he felt brewing inside, then sucked down the rest of his drink. He waked to the bar and put his empty glass down. The bartender asked, "Another round, handsome?" but once again, her words went unnoticed by their intended target as he walked towards the door.

"Sure, I'll have another one, sexy," a middle aged man with an unkempt mustache and eyebrows that stuck out in every direction said as he jiggled the ice in his glass in her direction. She heard the door closing, sighed and went to make another Screwdriver for Eyebrows. As she walked to the end of the bar to take a glass from the shelf, the other bartender, Stinky Steve (the busboys weren't that clever with their nicknames, but they were accurate) walked behind her, forcing her to turn to the side to fit through the narrow area behind the bar. She faced him as he passed and leaned backwards so her breasts wouldn't rub against him; she knew what he was doing and wasn't going to give him the pleasure. She told her boss about his obnoxious behavior plenty of times, but apparently Stinky Steve was related to a family member.

"Excuse me, hon," Stinky Steve said as he passed, lifting his arm towards the shelf, grazing her shirt but not making the contact he desired. A clear look of dissatisfaction crossed his face.

The man who chugged the Dark and Stormy stepped outside into the crisp, early winter air. He muttered to himself, "Really, that's the fucking song you choose? There's other people at the bar, you know. Assholes."

He walked a few paces and took deep breaths, letting the cold air fill his lungs. His mood started to improve as he thought about the blonde bartender.

"That drink was damn good, though. That bartender..." his mind wandered off to a warmer locale, where the sun beamed down on him and the blonde bartender, enjoying drinks with umbrellas in them by the ocean. It was the first pleasant thought he'd had in weeks. A vague semblance of a smile crept onto the corner of his mouth.

Then he remembered the Swift fans. He literally growled, startling the older woman walking past him carrying plastic grocery bags (she avoided grocery stores in the day to avoid dealing with crowds; the downside was that she had to deal with the growlers at night). She tightened her grip on the bags and quickened her pace. She loved this town, but wasn't sure how long she could put up with its residents.

--

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.