Another short story for you!
When I stopped smoking, I cried. Will I cry if I stop drinking alcohol? No one could answer me on that one. The guys sitting at the bar all looked at me like I was crazy. I carried on though. This is important to know. It means we’re here by choice; know thy enemy and all that crap, I added. Jordan asked if this means I was going to get god in order to skip out on him, it was my round next, he reminded me. No, I’m not getting god in the next ten minutes, I told him and sipped the pale ale in front of me. It was time to shut up apparently. I just can’t talk about drinking to those that drink. The bartender wouldn’t engage with me after the fourth beer, but fine, I know what I’m trying to say. It all started with the company doctor last week asking me how much do I drink. Per day, I’d clarified, or per week. Either one, she’d said, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I told her. She tapped it in. I have good eyesight for my age. I noticed that she put in brackets a higher number. I asked her about that. She explained without blushing that ‘we all know how drunks down-count the numbers. We add 25% on average. The paramedics, nurses, doctors, we all do it. You didn’t know? It’s different for men and women, how you process alcohol so we take that into consideration, she said, looking at her notes and not the old fool in front of her. And then that company doctor got me fired, saying it was ten in the morning and I shouldn’t be drinking on the job, but it’s not like I’d sipped anything before work, it was from the night before, I told them, but it didn’t help me keep my job, did it? Since then I’ve carried a marker with me and noted on my left forearm the pints as I drink them. I was going to say as I buy them but it’s not that easy as so many are gifts and who am I to refuse a gift. I keep track. I’m into learning about this numbers game. My arm now is black and blue with small crosses marking each beverage. I started playing with colors. Black for shots. Blue for pints. There’s nothing else that I drink. A pint in every sandwich, oh, no, I mean the other way around. But more importantly, would I still come here if I didn’t drink a few pints of beer each day? And if I didn’t, who would I talk to in the afternoons since I can’t keep a job? It’s not like I’m old or anything, but I’m a bit worried about all of that and it’s a bit of a problem, is what I said, and Jordan nodded at me but held his empty pint glass up for the bartender to refill, telling her it was on my tab. He got me another pint too, and I reached for my blue marker. There wasn’t much bare skin left to write on. I’m scared to run out of room because what happens then? What will I do with myself? Where will I go?
On this platform, I share stories, mostly mine this time. Fiction, contemporary, flash, novels, you name it, I write it. You can find more at http://www.sarahleamy.com
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