Not so Happy Christmas

The cold is sharp and un-forgiving. The ideals of joy and love that normally warm these times have long since abandoned me, and I am left with a cheap overcoat, and a bottle of Colt-45.
I walk down the Boulevard with no direction, stumbling past souls fortunate enough to not join me. I share company with lights and wreaths, and am graced with the backdrop of over played carols. My bottle gives me one last swig, right before I cast it aside to the nearest sewer. At this point, I wouldn’t mind joining it.

My journey takes me to Main Street, and a bar I too often frequent. One of the few Jewish owned businesses in town, it’s sure to be open today. I essentially fall onto a stool, collect my balance, and focus towards Mic, the owner.

“Gimme a 2", I slur, surprised I can muster those few words.

“Merry fucking Christmas, eh.,” Mic utters. I take no offense. Mic has been hardened by a bar too often filled by the men of this desperate small town. He know s he’s not helping any, but everyone is going to drink regardless, so he might as well collect the tab. This bar has seen just about every form of loneliness, depression, desperation, and (as a product of the three) addiction. Today is a day where most men put all those aside, and portray a shallow happiness. Family is great, love is everywhere, and joy follows suit (at least for these 24 hours). But still, my current state is no surprise.

The beer goes down quickly and smooth, as it always does. The BLT, not so much. I eat what I can of the sandwich and fries, probably leaving enough to feed the next customer. I reach into my pocket and throw some crumpled money onto to the bar, stumbling out of the building before Mic has time to count it.

I re-trace my steps now, heading back to my empty apartment. My journey takes me past houses full of family and cheer, food and warmth. For now, at least, the alcohol stifles my envy. One block from my apartment, my stomach loses the fight with the BLT, and my meal covers
the side of a brick building. The vomiting lasts a few minutes as I stumble deeper into the ally, and eventually sit down. It’s cold, dark, wet, and the beginning stages of sobriety are kicking in. Despair begins to take over, and my head pounds against the brick in frustration. Unaware of the small cut and blood resulting from it, I bow my head, and close my eyes. Consciousness breeds depression, while sleep is much more enjoyable.