In for the night.
Tonight I ate good pizza. I pulled down from the cupboard a biodegradable disposable plate made of potato for the pizza. I went into the living room and turned on the t.v. Back in the kitchen, I poured a drink and cracked a beer. The night before I drank more than I should have. It was two weeks since I had a drink and then I fell off of that wagon again. Wouldn’t be the worst of my bad decisions, but it did make for a lousy morning. The t.v. and the couch and the old t.v. tray waited for me. I poured another drink.
The t.v. tray used to have my signature scrawled into one corner with a cheap ball point pen. This was something I did on another drunken night. The signature has worn away. In it’s place there is a tiny sticker of a simple cartoon drawing of a yellow baby chick. A woman whom I loved placed it there one night much like this one. It was a sticker given to her by her 7 year old nephew. I loved her nephew too. I first met him when he was only 5 months old. I haven’t seen him in years. That too broke away a little part of my heart. We would babysit him often. I was there when he took his first steps and spoke his first word, when not even his own parents had been. Now the sticker is still with me, but not my love, nor the boy.
While I ate the pizza and drank, I watched a German movie. It co-stared an American actress, unknown by me. She was an older woman, maybe in her mid to late 50’s. An attractive woman that was in Vienna because her name and number was the only found on her cousin that had fallen into a coma. The woman would spend time in the Vienna art museum when she wasn’t at the hospital with her cousin. At the museum she became friends with a museum security guard. The couple in the movie made me feel lonely. But the pizza was very good and the tequila and beer helped to make up for it.
In the German movie, the museum guard told the woman the story of a Vienna legend, St. Augustine. He was a notorious drunkard. He lived during the time of the black plague. One night he was found so drunk, he’d passed out and had been mistaken for dead. They carried him off and tossed him into a mass grave. He woke and, apparently, began to play his bagpipes and the people pulled him out again. He made money and a living from the re-telling of his story and playing his bagpipes.
I’m going to drink as much as possible tonight. I don’t know how to play the bagpipes, but if you happen to stumble across me and I’m not heeding to you, be sure to give me a good nudge or two, just to make sure that the plague hadn’t taken me when I wasn’t looking.