Gutter Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
Max walked to his car in the parking lot and took a bottle of
champagne out of a cooler in the trunk. It was a pretty pedestrian bottle of
champagne that had been purchased a little over an hour earlier at the store
down the block. It wasn’t so cheap that he was guaranteeing himself a bad
headache the next day, but it certainly wasn’t expensive or high class. He
wasn’t in the mood for expensive or high class. He was in the mood to
celebrate. And he was determined to celebrate. No matter what. Even if he had
to go it alone.
Max wasn’t short for anything, but somehow people always ended up
calling him something longer. Most nicknames abbreviated someone’s name, but
maybe because his name was short, people felt compelled to lengthen his. He had
been Maximilian and Maximus in high school and college. At work he had gone
from Maxwell to Maxwell House and finally to Coffee. Max did drink a lot of
coffee, but he had no appreciation for any of the nicknames. He liked his name
as it was. It was short and simple. Max was a short and simple individual. He
said what he meant and he did what he said.
He sat down on the curb and considered his evening that had been
and the evening that was still to come. He slowly opened the bottle of
champagne, meticulously, as if it were a ritual. He slowly peeled away the
foil, making sure to remove as much as possible, leaving behind a thin layer of
sticky glue on the outside of the glass neck of the bottle. He twisted the
outer wire cage, freeing the cork. Then he paused. This was the moment he
always dreaded. No matter where he aimed the bottle he always had some
irrational fear that he was going to shoot himself in the eye and partial blind
himself. But it was that hint of danger, no matter how improbable, that made opening
a bottle of champagne so much fun. He slowly twisted the bottle one direction
with his right hand and the cork in the other direction with his left. Slowly
he turned the bottle; slowly, until the cork finally released. It was an obvious
association, but he always thought of sex. He couldn’t help himself. Whoever
created the champagne cork must have had a filthy mind.
Max took a long swig from the bottle. He was going to get drunk.
Right there on the curb of the parking lot. He wasn’t leaving until the bottle was
done. And even then, he might not be going anywhere fast.
The room had been empty. No one had shown up. Max didn’t invite a
lot of people, but he had invited enough. He expected someone to show up. One
friend was out of town with family, another two were driving cross country over
the long holiday weekend. There were a
few that were unemployed or underemployed and couldn’t afford a night on the
town. All of those were understandable. But then there were the flakes and the
no-shows. Those that RSVP’d, but always seemed to disappear the day of an
event. Some just shut their phones off. Others sent last minute text excuses.
The worst were the ones that said they were on their way and then never
appeared. If someone had been there, if Max had enough to drink, he might not
notice when a few people weren’t there or failed to live up to their promise.
But when a room was empty, no amount of drinking was going to hide that fact.
Max drank long and hard. It wasn’t a pleasant or fun drink. It was
a lonely and determined drinking that only had one purpose – to drown one’s
self. He drank the drink of pain and tried to forget.
No one showed up. The room was empty.
Max sat on the curb, drinking a bottle of cheap champagne by
himself.
Later he would pass out in the gutter.
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