I plod the squalid hall of my one-story house, numb to my surroundings. A cigarette and a quarter bottle of Jack Daniels occupy my hands like clockwork–two pulls of the cigarette, then a head nodder of whisky is my rule. A steady repetition keeps the ghost away.
I wave a hand at the anticipated mess in the living room. It’s always there to reintroduce me to the atomic explosion I call my kitchen—no need to clean when your state of being feels the same.
For a second, resistance grows in me to my conditions, two pulls of my cigarette and a head nod of Jack Daniels bring me back into acceptance.
I snatch a pair of jeans from a clothing entanglement on the couch and yank them on. Instincts tell me, I have to be at work. Buttoning the last two buttons on my black button-up, I glance into the mirror.
I see a stranger.
My companions ease the pain–two pulls and a head nod.
