Exhilaration

The vodka is stale, but in a good way, in a way that makes the one sipping it feel happily drunk before the first searing drop makes its way to the stomach, burning holes and clouding the mind. My mind isn’t clouded, though it definitely could be, and it surely would be if I tilt the neck of the glass ten degrees higher until the rim touches my nose and the bitter liquid makes me happier and happier as it slides down my throat, leaving only burned skin behind. Scars concealed beneath joy. All for the sake of happiness, I suppose.

I’m not drunk. I’m only pretending.

The table legs are shaking and the people’s legs are nervously tapping, coated in shiny stockings and baggy pants. Affordable shoes bought for a 10% off discount at the local thrift store don the feet of these people, gathered at this banquet hall to celebrate an unnamed holiday about unknown people and forgotten histories.

“Oh, Susan, did you see the letter he sent me? I don’t think I showed you- Oh, yes, yes, I did, yes. Isn’t he just wrong?”

“He isn’t, not at all, he’s just scared, I’m sure. He still lives in that dangerous place, no? I told him not to move there, no wonder he’s so scared…”

“Darling, he’ll come running back in no time, just ignore him. No man deserves you if he can’t treat you alright.”

“You think he can give me his number? I’ll talk some sense into that pothead of his, so don’t you worry.”

Underneath the table is quiet, but not the good kind, the kind that makes the one beneath it shiver every time a creak is heard or a heel is clicked, giving their paranoia the ability to roam free and spread the creative wings to imagine any type of disillusioned scenario full of danger and tears.

“Who took the last vodka shot?”

“Oh, it’s not me, Peter. I’m going on a diet, a new one. The doctor says I’ve got to quit that stuff. It’s killing my liver, they think.”

“Don’t you listen to any doctors! There’s no such thing as a field of medicine. The body does what it does, and there’s no stopping or curing it. This stuff’s been working wonders on me. I feel like I’m thirty again.”

“Well, it can’t be the kids. They know they’re too young. If they did take it, they’d just be in a whole world of trouble.”

Yes, because age determines that ability.

The empty glass is in my hand now. It’s getting heavier, or maybe I’m getting tipsier, but suddenly I can’t hold it up anymore.

If I just crawl out from the walls of tapping feet and kicking legs, I could easily put it on one of the cracking granite counters of the banquet room, pick up another shot, and crawl back in. But they’d see me as soon as I step out.

“Oh, Nancy, is that your girl? Look how she’s grown! Come kiss your auntie! How’ve you been, honey? How’s school?”

And when I say, “I’ve dropped out,” they’ll look at me like I’m insane before noticing the empty glass between my twiddling fingers. Then they’ll see my bloodshot eyes and drooling lips, instantly realizing that I’m drunk and disorderly, as labeled by society. 

“What a shame, what a shame, this new generation! What’re you going to do now that you’re outta school, huh? Why’d you drop out? Drinking isn’t good at your age, you know, you’re too young. You’re on the wrong path.” 

And I’ll smile weakly and wipe the string of drool dripping from my lips. I’ll feel the tears stinging at the back of my head, pushing themselves out, but I’ll keep them in. If I let them out, they’ll only be reassured that I’m an alcoholic, immature failure of a child in need of a good scolding. They’ll proceed to give me that scolding, maybe even swatting my hand or squeezing my shoulders with the permission of my silent mother as she carefully avoids my eyes. They’ll look at me pitifully and ask why I did what I did, why I chose rebellion over conformity, and I’ll look at the glass in my hand and the last drop lolling around inside. “I was scared,” I’ll say, sniffing and steadying my hand to prevent it from tilting, “because I had no future. And if I didn’t before, I sure don’t now.” The last drop will have evaporated and I’ll smile, knowing that it won’t have to endure the burden of being swallowed by me, to live in the belly of the beast.

They’ll whisper among themselves and exchange glances before motioning for me to come closer. I’ll stand stiff and breathe heavily until an unfamiliar cousin comes toddling about to poke at my wrist. He’ll find the empty glass and beckon for a sip before I wave him away.

“You need help, honey,” someone will say. By then, my mind will really be clouded and drunk, not just pretend anymore, and not from the vodka. I’ll believe all the pretending until I’m so drunk that my head will topple over from side to side and my vision will blur.

My eyes will finally give in, and I’ll let out a tear or two, then a sob, and I’ll be bawling until I collapse on the banquet table and whisper, “Yes, yes please.”

They’ll smile conceitedly, knowing that they’ve just broken my brittle pieces, once held loosely together by the mention of bliss. With nothing else to believe in, with no one to confide in, with no seed of hope planted in my soul, I’ll surrender to the icy hands of those holding me captive, to those who never cared or dreamed or hoped.

I’ll force a halfhearted smile, stand up, and dust my shoulders. “Yes, I want your help,” I’ll say, knowing their help is the wrong type, the type that’ll only conform me. I’ll know their help is nothing more than a euphemism for manipulation, but I’ll play along. I’ll imagine my pretend-induced drunkness caused the problem, that my right mind had nothing to do with the situation, but it’s only pretend, after all. They’ll take me by the hand and seat me on the banquet table, huddled between an aunt and an uncle, treating me as one of their own. My imagination will give in to reality.

So I stay under the table.

It’s better beneath these wooden legs than under their puppet strings.