The taste

Two years ago yesterday, Bobby kissed Sharon bye, grabbed his keys and headed out the door. He was on his way up to Golden, to Mount Olivet cemetery. He stopped on his way at a convenience store for a can of beer and a pack of smokes. Back then beer was not available on Sunday, except the watered down version, 3.2 beer, because of blue laws, or unless you went to the bar. Bobby and Sharon live one block from a bar, but he never took advantage of it. Only an alcoholic would do that. He bought a pack of cigarettes, and a 24 ounce can of Budweiser. The clerk handed him his change, and he wheeled out the door, the cemetery being only a couple of blocks west. He had taken his fishing chair with him, and expected to stay awhile. He dismounted from the truck, the cemetery was vacant. He could not see anybody else, it being Labor day weekend, and a Sunday, the sun was warm, but not too hot, and the sky had an autumn feel to it. . The fresh sod on her grave was taking hold now, and the fishing chair sunk in because the grass being overwatered. He adjusted it, and managed to stop sinking. He had already lost 50 pounds, The pain had changed in intensity over the last month, he had been trying to drown his emotional pain, but it increased his physical pain. That weekend, he had not drank any beer, unheard of for labor day weekend . He had been telling Sharon that he was close to quitting. Ardis dying had convinced him to. He didn't want to die like her. A year prior, his brother had questioned him at the request of Sharon, about weather he though he had a drinking problem or not. He had come up with a logical explanation to Jeff as to why he did not have a drinking problem. People who have problems cannot switch to 3.2 on Bronco game Sunday at dad's house, and they can't ever stop at one or two. Bobby had started buying 3.2 for the bronco game since becoming very very drunk during the Denver bronco's loss to the Jacksonville Jaguars a few years back, and enduring a lecture from his father. He was embarrassed, so he made it a point to never take regular beer over there again. But lately, even 3.2 beer was getting him very drunk, and he marveled at how amazing that was. So, he cracked this ice cold can of Bud, lit a smoke, and inhaled, and as he let out the smoke, he told himself to really take it in, the feeling. The taste. This was an experiment to really contemplate life and death. A taste test, if you will. Sitting here on Ardis' grave, pissed at almost everyone he knew because of his perception that no one really knew how much her death had destroyed him, he drank. He smoked. He knew that his liver was very sick. So far the doctors were all being fooled into thinking that I was fine, but Bobby knew better. Today, he enjoyed this feeling, and most of all, this taste. He had a saying back in his 20's that a cold beer, and a Marlboro were life's end all beat all, and that he wanted them as a dying wish. But today, he knew he would have to choose. If he chose the beer, he knew he would be giving up Sharon, but every time he had asked her if she was at the end of her rope, she just patiently said"not today, hun". She had been so patient in the weeks following Ardis death, especially since he was on a bender and he had never done this before. He was completely out of control. Like a car coming down a mountain with no brakes. He knew that choosing the beer meant choosing death.
He gathered his cigarette butts, his empty can, and paper bag, and sat in the bed of the truck for awhile. The equivalent of two cans of beer never used to have this effect, but he didn't feel safe to drive, so he waited. He waited the prescribed amount of time required by law. More proof of not being an alcoholic. When he got home, he didn't have any thing more to drink the rest of the night. Yet more proof. The next day after work, he bought another 15 pack of beer. He just wasn't done quite yet. Rock bottom loomed just 7 days away.