Drunk Driver Every morning, in front of...

Drunk Driver
Every morning, in front of the bathroom mirror: the alphabet backwards. He watched flies zitting around in the filthy kitchen. He took the steps down the stoop on one foot. Every trip from couch-to-fridge-to-bathroom was done toe-to-heel, straight-lined.

He and his girlfriend were working to offset DUI inevitability. You’ll see soon that this is not so much a story, but a rendition of everything that’s expected.

Carrie and our man were always together, with the rest of their friends. Their training was why they ended up back at the apartment. They’d all leave the Pub, piled into the man’s Jeep, and everyone would screech out, “To the Zephyr!” Some stupid punk band would be playing that Mike just had to see. The group would find themselves parked in the space at the apartment ten minutes later. Our hero had trained himself to autopilot home. Mike said, “There are artists and leaders of men, but Dave, Dave’s gift: he can drink and drive.”

Dave had gotten himself out of scrapes, once even high on crack. The cops pulled him over for a busted headlight he knew beforehand was gone, but Dave had chained himself to barstools for so long he hadn’t had it fixed. Dave went into his zone. His heart rate dropped. He willed his pupils to un-dilate. The cop said, “What’s the matter with your buddy?” That was Terrance. “Terrance is just scared of cops.” The officer—he wore glasses, so Dave knew he could out-lie him—said, “You seem fine to me, just get home and don’t go out anymore tonight.”
Now Dave wonders if Carrie’s alive, what she’s doing, who she’s fucking, where she lives. Dave rides trains downtown, up to midtown, out to Harlem and Brooklyn. There’s no use for a car in the city.