Justice

It was a long drive to the coast, but the whiskey made it shorter. It also made it more like a ride than a drive. It was hard to think these days. My mind and my soul were constantly being bombarded by thoughts. Thoughts of playing again. Thoughts of weighing in at under 250. And of course thoughts of anger. But not just any anger. This is the kind of anger that make your breaths shorter. The kind of anger that takes a thought like serenity and crushes it.

I figured I had about an hour or so until I got there. With Nevada finally behind me, the thought of hookers might finally leave my mind. God damn women and their bodies. It’s weird how one thing can diffuse and fuel anger all at the same time. It’s like scarfing down your dessert during your colonic. What a completely ugly thought. The drink must be making its charge.

I can smell the salt now. Taste it too. It makes the whiskey better. It’s a funny thing. “Purple Rain” is playing on the radio. It’s a hell of time to hear the saddest song I know. And almost like a conversation I hear him say, “I never meant cause you any sorrow.” I smile and say, “Ah, that Prince. He’s a wise ass.” If driving down the freeway, with your gas tank and your whiskey bottle showing the same kind of empty, doesn’t make you crazy. Talking to the radio would surely secure you in that category.

I pull up to her house. I sit in the drive way and stare at the front door. I know in my heart what’s right and what’s wrong, but I can’t bring my mind to care. I have to do this. Certain actions require certain reactions. It’s almost like a rite of passage. It’s almost like justice.