I have a
runny chest this morning. I can feel it, hear it dripping like a leaky tap. I
have this shunt that drains fluid from my skull into my stomach. When it works
it sounds like murmuring voices. Like voices from my past, recorded in fluid. I
once knew a guy who was determined to drink himself to death. He owned a
restaurant where I worked as a cook. His name was Bob. He would open the
restaurant at ten a.m. and begin drinking screwdrivers. He would drink
screwdrivers for the next twelve hours, then down a double shot of straight
vodka and go home with an unopened quart. The next day he’d start all over
again. He averaged (conservatively) a gallon of vodka a day. His skin was
yellow, the flesh of his face and hands swollen, deformed by years of alcohol
addiction. He had a frightening smile. He was quite a character and I wondered
what caused his bottomless pain. I lost track of him after I quit my job in
1992 but I found out a few years ago that he’d finally succeeded in dying. Now
I can hear his slurred, murmurous words in the thunking, shunking draining of
my shunt...
