I told myself I'd be on the road again today, but I decided to stay one more night. I have the suitcase loaded with supplies, but I just couldn't help wanting to sleep in a comfy bed one more time.
I found out why the pantry was locked. It wasn't to keep the daughter away from eating up all her breakfast cereal. It was her parents hiding a bottle of Jack Daniels. As I was clearing out the pantry, my hand snagged a loose nail on the side. After studying the panel the nail was poking from, I noticed it wasn't flush with the rest of the pantry. There was a slight crack in the panel where it met the wall of the pantry, and I wedged my pocket knife in and pried the panel open; a secret compartment. Sitting there was a bottle of old Jack D. Someone in this household was an alcoholic and wasn't letting the other know. This was their stash. But why go to so much trouble to make a secret compartment only to lock the cabin? I just found that odd... This place held one secret. Maybe it holds more. Maybe I should stay an extra night. We'll see.
Remember how I told you not to drink? How imbibing alcohol lowers your awareness, dulls your senses, slows your reflexes? I almost broke another of my rules. At this rate, I might as well light a fire at night, standing right next to it sweating like a pig, shooting off a full clip of ammunition. Eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch is one thing. Drinking alcohol's something entirely different.
I held the bottle in my hands for some time, tilting it back and forth, watching the golden brown liquid slosh in the dim light of the house. I love Jack. It's probably my favorite drink. You give me a Jack and Coke, not a Coke and Jack like most steakhouses try to con you with, and we become great friends. I wouldn't say I'm an alcoholic. I only got drunk twice, and both times I remembered everything. A couple of my friends, though, developed bad drinking habits. They weren't bad people; just... well, idiots. They're both dead.
I think about them , Kurt and Davis, as I rock the bottle back and forth. I think about the time we drank a bottle of Jack we stole from Davis's father when we were about 17 or 18. Little did Davis know his dad marked the bottles. Davis showed up to school to the next day and never lifted his head, couldn't look either Kurt or me in the eye. Of course, Davis's father called our parents and we both got in some serious trouble.
What I hate about alcohol is that it turns people into worse versions of themselves. It removes the inhibitions that our natural instincts suppress. Davis lost self-control and drank himself to death; alcohol poisoning. Kurt? Kurt thought he was alright to drive home and well, it cost him his life and the life of a 23 year old mother and her six month old son.
As odd as this may be, I'm glad they're dead. Horrible choices they made, but fortunate ones. They never lived to see the zombie outbreak, to see how much more pathetic society has become now that there's no structure left. Everyone fends for themselves and no one trusts each other. Hoarders, murderers, thieves, rapists. All these criminals turned criminal out of necessity and cowardice. They all share something similar. They're all being hunted. The zombies don't care if you're a clean as a priest's sheets samaritan or a ruthless cold blooded killer. Sober, or drunk, they'll eat you all the same. People I've meet on the road sometimes choose to be drunk, hoping they'll be so numb, they won't feel their end coming.
This bottle I hold in my hands, it hasn't been opened, the black plastic seal still intact. With all this reminiscing about bad times that stemmed from alcohol, the wicked brew that transforms people into monsters, I can't help but grip the cap tightly and turn it until I feel the seal crack. I turn it some more until the seal's completely broken, pause for a few seconds, and then screw the cap off. I sniff the underside of the cap, and then take a huge whiff from the bottle. I shouldn't be doing this, but like I said, Jack Daniels is my favorite, and it's been years.
I put my lips on the bottle and tilt it up, letting the liquor pour into my mouth, washing over my tongue, submerging my teeth and splashing back up to the roof of my mouth. I pull the bottle from my lips, keeping them closed, and I swish the Jack around, but then spit it out. I only swallow what's left in my mouth, savoring the taste, happier for that sweet sensation than the warming feeling I'd have had I swallowed the jigger of whiskey. I do it again, pouring more into my mouth, swishing it around and spitting it to the floor. I repeat, like a child who just had a tooth pulled, rinsing his mouth out with saltwater until his excavated gum stops bleeding. As I get to the last of the bottle, I finish it off, and hold it in for quite a while. I debate constantly whether or not I should send this last swig down to my stomach, or join it with the rest of the whiskey sprayed on the floor. I lean my head back, allowing the Jack to flow down the back of my throat, but then cut it off, gargle with it and spit the last bit of Tennessee whiskey on the floor. I let my saliva build up enough to swish around my mouth, and spit out the remainder.
This little moment I had with the bottle I view as riding the very edge of temptation. Like we do with life, we live it until the edge of death. Only when we reach that edge do we realize how much of a folly it is to cross over. We have to be reminded of our weaknesses so that our strengths become more apparent. We need to test ourselves to see just how far we can pass. If we think we're safe, we have no idea just how close by danger lurks. Every moment we live, we need to always remember that death can come in each and every moment.
Sorry to wax poetic. I do that sometimes when I get lost in thought. It's funny. Here I talk about riding the cusp of temptation by rinsing with a full bottle of Jack Daniels, yet the one thing I can't resist is a soft and pillowy bed. I keep looking up at it while writing this, and it beckons to me harder than the bottle ever did. Just one more night in that bed, then I'll hit the road with my suitcase full of food and supplies. Maybe I'll take a pillow and the comforters! Sounds like a plan.
Until tomorrow, if there is a tomorrow.
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