A good day to change

CONTENT WARNING:

The following story includes alcohol references and some unsettling situations.

"Today's the day I change." He said to the ceiling. And this time, he meant it.

Last night's drunken brain had succumbed to the futon's advances with little resistance and now his thirty-seven year old back dealt with the aftermath. Though, the stiffness in his lower spine would have to play a supporting role to the swollen watermelon at the end of his neck. The throbbing agony between his ears made him question if at some point during the night he had taken an axe to the top of his skull.

His unlocked phone lay by his outstretched arm as if he had been gunned down while using it. The screen displayed an opened banking app with his updated account balance near the top (having recently assessed the damage of last evening's festivities; being gunned down seemed like a pleasant solution).

The room was impossibly bright–causing him to reconsider his original stance against window shades. The evil sun beaming through what must have been magnifying glass, forced his vision to retreat behind the fleshy walls of his eyelids. Yet, hiding in the orange darkness provided little relief, due to the constant wrenching of the tendons connected to the back of his eyeballs.

For a while he just laid there. He was less than okay, as long as he didn't move. He might have drifted back to sleep if not for the inflated water balloon that now replaced his bladder. Judging by the pressure and tension of his lower gut; waking up dry was nothing short of a miracle. Thinking of miracles, he remembered the one about Jesus turning water into wine. Lusting for a cold Gatorade, he fantasized about converting the tap water from the sink into the sports drink. He would've salivated at the thought, if every last drop of liquid in his body weren't currently stored in his bladder (he observed the irony of needing to empty it and also fill it up at the same time). He knew he had to get some fluids in him. His tongue was like an artificial children's sticky toy. It felt foreign between his teeth as he had to actively peel it from the roof of his mouth.

Just as he was gathering the necessary strength to sit up and pass across the desert that was his living room–the remains of his 2 a.m. takeout order wafted from its Styrofoam grave on the coffee table and crept into his nostrils. Fighting his stomach's urge to empty its contents, he disconnected the stench by stretching the collar of his t-shirt over his nose. And for a second, he was safe. Though, unknowingly he had imprisoned his sense of smell into a fabric prison with a stink that was so foul, his own body rejected it. For over ten hours, the consequences of a night filled with: coca-cola, cheap liquor, beer; a dozen cigarettes, and a mound of greasy-cheesy fast food; all brewed inside the covered lid of his lips like the world's grossest Crockpot meal. Two exhales of hangover stew were all it took.

He felt a little better after the intense ab-workout. Resting his head against the toilet seat, he opted to flush the bowl without peaking. The water–and whatever else was in there–getting sucked out of existence soothed him. In a way, he cleansed himself of the disgustingness that was last night. A fresh start (in a way). He was rejuvenated. The joyous sensation lasted until he stood and heard his heart pounding out of his ears. Reality reintroduced itself to his forehead, with a hammer.

With help from the bathroom wall, he eventually navigated his way to the sink. The water from the faucet was room temperature when it first hit his lips. It turned cold sometime between his mouth rinsing and face splashing. Having properly cleaned; he guzzled the blasting spout like a wild dog on a summer afternoon. Large, thick gulps were only interrupted by his need for oxygen. Panting and bloated, he killed the water. Looking into the mirror, he gripped the sides of the sink as if he were going to rip it out of the wall.

He hated the person looking back at him. This man–no, this was no man. This was a boy. A boy still in last nights clothes. This flu looking boy, with the water dripping from in unshaven face, was a slob. A failed marriage. A dead end job. Content with being a nobody and never accomplishing anything. He was an embarrassment. Even his hair gel had given up on him. Too many run-ins with this boy left him without the slightest sliver of sympathy for him. It was time to be honest and hurt some feelings–in situations like this, you can't have one without the other. "Today's the day I change." He said to the boy in the mirror. And this time he meant it.

Alone in his one bedroom apartment on that Sunday afternoon, he told that boy in the mirror things were going to change. He unleashed his plans for redemption behind an assault of finger pointing and name-calling. Even his hangover stood down during the crescendo of spit bullets spraying the glass. After shouting everything that needed to be said, he reached back for the toilet and nearly fainted before the porcelain seat caught him. His head returned to the inevitable pounding–but he didn't care. It was a fitting punishment for his stupidity. Breathing heavily and still a little dizzy, something occurred to him. This moment was his bottom. This was the part in the movie of his life where he turns it all around. He had been the "loser" for the first half, but now was his big inspirational moment!

The rest of that day he spent in bed, hydrating and eating Saltine crackers–which were the only thing he could stomach. But that was okay, because he used the time to watch motivational videos on YouTube and did research on which self-help books to buy. Besides, he had to get his strength back before he could really get the ball rolling.

When the night finally came, it brought back his appetite with it. He decided to make a single grilled cheese sandwich and a can of tomato soup after searching through all the processed garbage in the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets. But that was okay, because he'd already bought the stuff and it would be a waste of money if he didn't. Feeling gross after scarfing down a third sandwich; his spirits turned quickly as he rebounded by purifying the apartment from every last ounce of alcohol. Besides, it was okay to have a third sandwich because he hadn't eaten anything all day.

After dinner, he nestled in for the night and found a new show on Netflix to watch. The alarm clock next to his bed read, 9:57 p.m. in bright red numbers. He added the math in his head. The shows' episodes were roughly forty minutes a piece; which meant he could watch a full episode tonight, and still get over seven hours of solid sleep before his newly scheduled 6:00 a.m. alarm would go off. Feeling accomplished and structured, he hit the play button. Three episodes later and the clock read, 12:27 a.m. But that was okay, because today was a wash. Besides, his real schedule didn't start until tomorrow.

The next morning he snoozed his way through the first three alarms. His right arm went rogue, as if flailed independently from his body and struck the clock's every alert. Finally, the last beep was silenced just after 7 a.m. It was an hour later than planned, but it was better than his normal 8:15 start. Swinging his legs to the side of the mattress, he interlocked his wrists above his head. Reaching towards the ceiling he yawned obnoxiously. After smacking his lips a few times , he noted the fog around his brain. Yesterday's recovery day had only nursed him back to 75-80%. Probably smart to hold off on the morning jog for one more day, he told himself on the way to make breakfast, just until I'm closer to 100%.

The kitchen was more inviting without the hordes of beer bottles and cans (though, it still had a distinct "expired" smell that eluded detection). With the empty coffee pot needing filled, he caught himself in his old habit of playing Jenga with the mountain of dishes–rather than washing them. Swelling with pride after the scrubbing and rinsing; he filled the pot with fresh water, over an empty sink.

By the time the bean-juice making machine started working its magic, he was in the middle of cleaning the infestation of crumbs from last night's cheesy-sandwich triple feature, which were glued to the table thanks to the sticky residue of an improperly cleaned spill from an unknown date. The dripping liquid started to fill the pot. Soon the kitchen was dominated by the bargain brand's aroma of burnt cardboard. The odor caused a chain reaction. Starting with a rumbling tickle in his bowels, it then triggered his need for a morning cigarette. Seduced by the coffee's perfume, he sat at the table and romanticized a smoky stimulant in each hand as he ushered in his new life. One last bon voyage to the old ways before closing that chapter forever. Suddenly, a moment of doom set in. Recalling yesterday's irrational disposing of his last pack, he felt indecent. As if the cigarettes had been living, breathing things that experienced his rejection. He had wronged them and must make things right. Besides, his morning routine would not be the same without them. Before he knew it, his shoes were on, the car keys were swiped off the counter, and he was reaching for the door. Grasping the brass knob in his hand, he froze. This was a test. His first true test, and he was about to fail. Stepping away he said softly to the door, "No." And that morning he stood on his front porch and appreciated the wind dancing through the trees. Sipping on his lone stimulant as he watched.

The next month was a battle. There were triumphant victories and humbling defeats. Though surprisingly to him, he won more than he lost. He didn't jog every morning, but he did so a couple times a week. He didn't eat a healthy meal every day, but he did substitute in quite a few more salads. He didn't quit his dead end job, but he applied to some other ones that better lined with his interests. And while he didn't check off everything on his list, he did manage to cut out alcohol and tobacco. Not a single drop or puff for an entire month–that was his goal. His list didn't bring him happiness every second of every day, but he felt better. So much better that he figured one night out with the boys wouldn't change anything–he was solid. Besides, tonight was his buddies' birthday and what kind of friend would he be if he didn't go. He just wouldn't drink. Well, maybe one. Two at the absolute max.

The first mixed drink went down smooth after a light arm twisting from his friends (though, more of a nudge than twist). Next was a round of shots for the whole table that would've been awkward to decline. His second drink he slurped down as a reward for all his hard work over the last month. The cigarette that followed was okay because he'd just bummed one and didn't actually buy his own pack. The third mixer came with a twin (he was a little hazy, but he was pretty sure the entire group, besides him, had bought the birthday boy a drink and to do so was proper etiquette). His fourth drink did some damage (or was there a shot before that drink?) as chunks of time began to disappear and someone had hit the fast-forward button on the night. It wasn't until the fifth (or sixth?) drink that he noticed the party had slimmed down to only a few giggling members. It took a second for his body and its mischievously delayed reactions to grasp the situation. He was the source of these gigglers' amusement. Feeling a false sense of sobriety; the gradual realization ended in him thrashing up from his slouching as if his seat had boiled the buzz right out him. But the laughing only intensified as he spilled his (7th?) drink all over himself, while loud noises–needing subtitles–clumsily plopped out of his mouth.

The rest of the night was a revolving door of fragmented snippets of consciousness, scattered between gaps of complete blackness. Helplessly, he looked on as his autopilot body performed the lead role of a play titled, "Watch me make a fool of myself", inside a theater with continuous power outages. His nightmare dragged on late into the morning hours. Finally, the bright light of dawn came. The beaming sunlight through the window baked his skin underneath his denim and cotton outfit he had chosen for the party. Using his hand to shield his face from the light, he slowly opened his eyes and the throbbing intensified. Squinting towards the coffee table he saw a takeout box and a pack of cigarettes with only two survivors. The futon squeaked as he laid back. Closing his eyes and reintroducing saliva to his mouth, he tasted the staled sour of a bender.

"Today's the day I change." He said to the ceiling. And this time, he meant it.