Two In The Morning

The refrigerator hummed throughout the night. A toilet kept running down the hall. He tossed ’bout in his twin bed.

A Mexican blanket covered him. At the end of the bed were black and blue feet exposed. His toes cold. He shivered. A cold chill ran throughout his body while sweat poured onto a soaked stained pillow.

Thoughts ran through his head. Not dreams; thoughts. Thoughts of leaving and never coming back to the town he grew up in, that’d left so long ago only to return again and again. Adventures only last so long.

He sat up in bed; flabby stomach itched, his nose filled. Looked at the clock. It was past two in the morning. And it was quiet outside. No cars, nor wind. Just silence. The old man began to get dressed but remembered he had no place to go to. It would be another day of talking to spirits, ghosts in silent babble.

The wrinkled man looked over at his small bar. A bottle of Jack Daniels stood there along with Paddy’s Irish whiskey; choices. There was also a bottle of Titos he’d been given, but no tomato juice, no celery stalks, or, dill pickles. Just vodka straight.

Be a man, he whispered. Make a choice, he ran his fingers over the dust on the bottles. He’d picked one. The fat fellow made his way to the freezer above the refrigerator; no ice cubes. He would have to drink it straight.

So, he poured Jack into a small glass. ‘Bout two shots worth. At first he sipped at it, then in one gulp downed the whole drink.

Crawling back under the blanket, he crossed himself, thanking God for this night. Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep. Sins forgiven for one more day.

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