One Day at a Time

Content Warning: substance abuse, alcohol abuse

My eyes peeled open. I felt the stinging light of the day coming through my translucent window shades. I’d always meant to get some proper daylight blocking shades, but never got around to it. The sound of glass crashing into the back of the recycling truck on the street had woken me up.

Damn. I’d missed a chance to get rid of the empty bottles that surrounded my bed. Were they coming on the right day? I was in a daily battle to get rid of all my bottles. Missing a recycling day was rough. Maybe they were coming on a different day because of The Plague. Then again, I wasn’t sure what day it was.

I stretched my legs to discover triumph. I hadn’t soiled the bed the night before. All dry and still smelling of dryer sheets from the debacle a few days prior. With all the building’s units converted to makeshift work-from-home stations, it had been harder to access the basement washing machine, let alone the privacy to wash your bedsheets without the telltale smell of urine being detected as you waited your turn. I didn’t have to worry about that hurdle on this day, whatever day it was. 

My mouth felt like the cracked clay of a dry riverbed. I had the acute desire for rushing water, but a distinct anxiety rushed in: going into the hall meant I could come across my roommates. I had no open conflicts with either of them. I’d been drinking nightly for God knows how long, well before everything happened, but I believe my efforts at daily deception had been successful when everyone was always pulled away to their lives outside. Now everyone was home. Inside. All the time. Daily trips to the liquor store were put on display when no one was supposed to make trips anywhere. I didn’t want to face anyone who knew what I was up to, so avoidance of my roommates was task one for the day, whatever day it was.

I would need to emerge at some point. I cracked my door open and glanced at the hall. The bathroom door was open and I could hear the television on in the living room. They were watching the news, the daily news. New cases, new lockdowns, new information. I’d get updated by looking at my computer later. 

I made a quick scamper over to the bathroom and shut the door. My urine was a dark orange. Not a good sign, but today I would be better. After I flushed the toilet I looked in the mirror over the sink. Dark circles around my eyes, but who wasn’t losing sleep in The Plague? I’d read of the collective unsettling dreams. My mouth and cheeks were bordered with pronounced creases. I really needed some water. I turned on the sink and let the water flow through my hands. There was no cup. I bowled my hands together, collected water, and brought my face down to drink. Sucking up the water out of my hands. Relief. I filled my bowl again and sucked in more. My stomach turned at the influx. The bubble rose through my esophagus and I braced myself. Retching. Violent and hurtful. The back of my throat constricted and grinded against itself. This was just a retch. No vomit. Vomit came at night. Just retching in the morning. I used my bowled hands to throw water on my face. That’s enough drinking for now. My bloodshot eyes and flushed face looked back at me. The water dripped over my chapped upper lip. When you drink whiskey straight from the bottle, it hits directly on the middle of your upper lip. My lip had been eroded away by ethanol. I don’t know how many days worth of drinking it takes for that to happen. More than one. It had been a number of days now. I’d have to get chapstick today, whatever day it was.

I thought about going to the kitchen to make some toast. Perhaps dry, maybe a little peanut butter. It would theoretically be good to get something in my stomach, but I’d also be risking contact with my roommates, so I darted back to my room. I shut the door. I looked at the bottles on my floor. Not so many. Not bad for a seven day total. Must be seven days, since I’d missed the recycling truck. I then remembered earlier in the week. I’d snuck some bottles in underneath some cardboard boxes. When the neighbors would look into the recycling, they’d see boxes, not empty bottles of Steel Reserve and Thompson whiskey. In light of that fact, there was a decent amount of bottles for a half week. I’d have to figure a way to discreetly discard them, but I’d need to wait. Empty bins would mean that all my bottles would stick out as the only content. A task for another day.

I saw the flash of a red cardboard box around the corner of my desk. I looked over to see a flattened frozen pizza box covered in crumbs. Apparently I’d eaten last night. Good. No need to worry about breakfast. Fortified. 

Kicking the pizza box further behind my desk, I opened up my computer, my portal to the world. First order of business: check my bank account. I’d filed for unemployment as soon as I was laid off. A lot of people had. It had taken a long time. Now it was taking a long time to get my check. I had savings, I had a credit card. “Wait times could be longer due to the increased volume of requests.” I didn’t know how long ago my request had been put in. 

I logged into my bank account and was pleasantly surprised. My first check had been deposited. Right as rain. The amount was actually more than my typical check would have been for working. When I was working, it was easier to reign things in. I had to be in the office for the workday and keep it together. Now, I didn’t have to be anywhere. Night had expanded to day.

I saw my phone flash out of the corner of my eye. Someone texted me. That was a surprise. Not many people were texting me. It was Will: “Here’s the link to the Zoom meeting. Really glad you reached out last night.”

A wave of terror flashed through my body. My skin raised and tingled. Did I talk to Will last night? I looked at our previous text chain. I had sent a message to Will: “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide.” Will had called me right after that and we apparently talked for 96 minutes. I had no recollection.

I knew Will from college. We’d met freshman year in philosophy class. Will had taken five years to graduate. During what was supposed to be our senior year he’d left school in the beginning of Fall semester. He’d gone to rehab. He was into coke and that was his problem. He’d stay up for days. I never did coke because it made him look fiendish. He came back in the spring semester, but I didn’t see him much. I could still drink and he couldn’t. I said that the coke was his problem, so he could still drink. He said it didn’t work like that. He went to meetings. 

He hadn’t drank since then. I’d been drinking since then. One time, a while back he’d taken me to a meeting. The meeting was at a church that had a lot of people smoking cigarettes in front of it. I drank some really strong coffee. Will knew a lot of people there. They smiled and laughed. I didn’t like them. During the meeting, someone droned on about how grateful to God they were that they had a spiritual solution to all their problems. I was really disappointed that Will associated with these people and these meetings.

I was at a real disadvantage in not having known what I said in those 90 minutes. I guessed it wasn’t all a discussion of Camus. We hadn’t taken a philosophy class for a while. I thought about some of those people at the meeting. Not the one who droned on about God. One guy had talked about waking up covered in blood and now he didn’t. I had a couple burn marks on my arms. They itched.

I’d probably told Will I would go to another one of these meetings. Apparently these meetings now happened on Zoom instead of at churches where people smoked cigarettes outside. I’d been to Zoom meetings for work. When I got laid off, it was over Zoom.

My phone flashed again, “7:00. Look forward to seeing you there. Give me a call if you need anything. Just take it easy. One day at a time.”

I felt some stirrings reading Will’s text. It was nice to hear from someone. If they tried to talk to me about God at this meeting, I wasn’t in for that. But Zoom meant I wouldn’t have to leave my room. 

It was 12:00. I had a lot of time until 7:00. I opened up the Times webpage to get the day's news. It looked very similar to other times I’d opened it up on other days. Cases were up. Unemployment was up. Stock market was up. That one didn’t make so much sense. How could people not working and being sick be good for the stock market? Why were they making more money? It got me a little amped. Getting a little amped gave me an idea. Maybe a little whiskey. I had Will’s meeting, but there was a lot of time until then. I could just do some whiskey and read the news until then. Maybe a Steel Reserve just to level me out. Seven hours is a long time. I’d be fine by then. 

I grabbed my wallet. My check had arrived. put on my coat. I grabbed the mask that we were supposed to wear. I didn’t mind the mask. It covered my chapped lip. When I opened my door, the television was off. My roommate has presumably started working-from-home in his room. Good. Maybe he was keeping the stocks up.

The liquor store was just around the block. Everything else around the block was closed, but the liquor store was open. I went in and the guy I didn’t like was working. I saw the liquor store guys all the time. I liked a couple of them. I didn’t like this guy. I brought my Thompson and Steel Reserve to the counter. The guy rang me up. It cost the same amount it always did. The clerk used his latex gloved hands to put the bottles in the black plastic bag. Most places didn’t use plastic bags anymore. The liquor store still did. They were black. As he slid the bag across the counter I said, “Thank you very much,” very politely.

“See you tomorrow,” he said.

I hated when he said that. Maybe he wouldn’t see me tomorrow. I was going to Will’s meeting tonight. Maybe tomorrow would be different. He didn’t know.

I got home, went to my bedroom, and shut the door. I took off the mask and peeled the bag off the bottle of Thompson. I felt the Thompson sting my chapped upper lip. Damn. Forgot to get chapstick. The whiskey soothed its way down my esophagus. The scratch of themorning’s retch was soothed. Calm. Relaxed. Mellow. I took another big pull. The second hit never quite as good as the first, but it was still good. I would drink the Thompson first, then drink the Steel reserve. That was my order. My routine. I did it every day.

I came to in the darkness of my room. There were more bottles on the floor and a couple black plastic bags. I looked at my phone. There were two missed calls from Will and a text: “We missed you at the meeting tonight. Call me to let me know you’re okay.” No way in hell was I going to call him. 

I texted him back, “Shit man. Sorry I missed it. I didn’t know it was 7:00 today. Must have lost track of the day.”