Homeward Bound

Soaked through my own lather nearly half a century in the making, I slither down the block I grew up on, a bottle of Tanqueray in one hand and jug of Minute Maid OJ in the other.  I take a deep slug from each beverage and march on, my stomach blending the brew. Claustrophobia clouds my thoughts, though I'm not physically confined (it's more an emotional enclosure pressing in, clamping tighter).

The night has caught up with me on this particular stroll and I see a light flickering through the window of what used to be my upstairs bedroom, though the rest of the place remains bathed in darkness. I stand there transfixed near the driveway, drinking and dizzy: I haven't known the inhabitants of this hovel since my mother sold it almost 30 years ago.  The same is true of the neighborhood at large.  I have no reason to believe any of the former residents are still around, certainly their kids have since grown up with rug rats of their own now (some of my contemporaries may even have grandchildren).  Still, I have an overwhelming desire to run and hide, feeling the unseen eyes of those disco days following me from their perches all around.  I'm as nervous out in the open as I was when I lived here those last years (from Cuckoo's Nest to Raging Bull measured in cinematic time).

Terrified of ... what?  Or is it 'who?'  Anyone, everyone.  All those who see through me, past my calm facade into the madness within.  Who see my family and how we live(d).  I was taught well the power of shame, with a strength equalled by few other things in life, at least in my experience.  Mom was the headmaster for this lesson, Dad her fine example.

I reflect on this briefly before tossing the half empty gin bottle straight through that bedroom window where it explodes into a shower of glass and dull screams of confusion and shock from within.  Fuck 'em.  I'm the one out half a liter of booze.  You're welcome for the housewarming gift.  Drink hearty.

I resume my stroll on down the block, taking with me my orange juice still to enjoy.

And then the bottle strikes me squarely in the back of the head.  I turn passing out but there is no one there, no sounds of scuffling feet or other indication of life.  I see my bottle lying a few yards away as my knees buckle.

Fade to black.