A Million Little Pieces - James Frey [204]
I look at Bob and Kevin. I speak.
Why don’t you guys go shoot some pool.
My Brother looks at me.
What are you going to do?
I need a couple of minutes alone.
His face is full with fear and disappointment. It is none of my concern. It is time for the reckoning. It is time for the Fury.
I turn and I walk to the bar. I pull out a stool about halfway down its length and I sit down. There are mirrors and bottles in front of me. The mirrors run from the ceiling down to a set of shelves. The shelves are lined with bottles. There are whiskey bottles, vodka bottles, bottles of gin. There are rum bottles, tequila bottles, bottles of strange liqueurs from foreign Countries. There are clear bottles and brown bottles, there are red bottles and blue bottles, there are multicolored bottles designed to please the eye. Some of the bottles are short, some are tall, some are wide, some are thin. They are all filled with alcohol. They are sitting in front of me. They are filled with fucking alcohol.
I look toward the Bartender. I speak.
Barkeep.
He looks up.
Yeah.
Give me a little help?
Sure.
He sets down his paper and he walks toward me. When he is standing in front of me, he speaks.
How ya doing today?
I’m not here to talk.
You in a bad mood?
I’m not here to talk.
What can I get you?
I look at the bottles. The beautiful bottles filled with alcohol. I let my eyes wander until they settle, avoiding the mirrors, avoiding myself. I stare at a black bottle. A thick black bottle with a thin neck that is filled with Kentucky Bourbon. It is the bottle the Fury most craves, the bottle with which it is most familiar. I point to it, stare at the Bartender, and I speak.
I want a glass of that. I want a big glass. Not one those bullshit cocktail glasses, but a big fucking pint glass. I want it filled to the top.
That’s gonna be expensive.
I set the forty dollars my Brother gave me on the surface of the bar.
Just bring it.
The Bartender stares at me like I’m crazy, like he’s debating whether he is going to give me what I want. I stare back, let him know that I’m not leaving until I have it. He turns around. With one hand he reaches for a tall, thin pint glass, and with the other he takes the black bottle from the shelf.
I watch him pour the drink. As if in slow motion, I see every drop. When the glass is full, he turns around and he sets it in front of me.
Thank you.
I’ll be down there if you need anything else.
Thank you.
He walks back to his newspaper. I stare at the glass. The Fury rises from its silent state it screams bloody fucking murder it is stronger than it has ever been before. It screams you are mine, Motherfucker. You are mine and you will always be mine. I own you, I control you and you will do what I tell you to do. You are mine and you will always be mine. You are mine, Motherfucker. I stare at the glass.
I put my hands on the bar. I put them on either side of the glass. They are not touching it, but they are close. Close enough so that when I decide, the glass will be within easy reach. I lean down. As my nose moves toward the strong brown alcohol, I can smell the fumes drifting from its shimmering surface. They enrage me. They make the Fury scream louder. They taunt me. They draw me closer.
I close my eyes. I stop moving when the tip of my nose hits the liquid. I close my mouth and I take a deep breath and it comes comes comes. With all of its strength. The beautiful aroma of oblivion. The foul stench of Hell. It makes me shudder, shakes me. Inside and out it destroys me and fortifies me. Though it has not met my lips or entered my body, I can taste it. Like sweet strong charcoal mixed with bitter gasoline. I can fucking taste it.
Time stops. I do not move. I sit with the tip of my nose in a glass filled with alcohol. I breathe. Deep