So as you all know, Cormac set Friday Flash up for a community of writers to keep the creative juices flowing. We vote on the first sentence and then write a story, poem, whatever. We have from Friday to Tuesday to get something in.
As the sixth shot of whisky burnt its way down, I suddenly remembered what I left the house for.
The first shot was 2 fingers in a Gravity Hill shot glass. Gravity Hill in Pennsylvania was one of those places my ex took me to on a regular basis. She’d see this on Ripley’s Believe It Or Not and had been on me for weeks to bring her up here.
When we got to the bottom of the hill she was bouncing up and down, smiling like a school girl about to ride a roller coaster, not that she could fit in one of those now. “Let’s see, let’s see, take your foot off the gas,” she says. And I think she’s nuts and give her a sideways glance to let her know as much.
“Now, Gordan G. Bisson,” she scolded, “this ain’t the time to be getting’ smart with me. We drove all the way up here fer a reason and if you ain’t got the sense to enjoy the moment, step on out the car and I’ll fetch you when I’m through.”
I gritted my teeth and nodded. The dentist told me I have ta stop grittin’ my teeth for the simple fact they were about flat as Northern Ohio and I wouldn’t be able to eat soon.
So I brought my right knee towards my chin in a grand show and, honest to heaven, the car kept going uphill. It was the damndest thing I ever saw.
“Ain’t this somethin’, Gordan? My the world is a wondrous and mysterious thing.”
“How’s it work?”
“The hill? How’s it work?”
“Cain’t you just accept that there are things in the world that are unexplainable?”
I couldn’t and that drove her crazy. She popped the can of Mountain Dew, unrolled the window, and stuck her fat arm out the can gripped in her chubby fingers.
And she dumped the can. I was about to yell at her since we just bought it up the road a piece at the Seven 11, but then I watched the yellow liquid go uphill. “You see that?”
She damn well knew I’d seen it. I opened my mouth, shut it, then opened it again letting only air escape. She giggled, her Gerbil eyes looking at me with a gleam and sparkle.
After the second shot I got caught up watching some crazy mother fuckers on TV. A woman just shit on the floor. I shit you not. And everyone was walking around, pointing and cursing, blaming one another, and I was thinking they ain’t nothing but untrained animals shitting on the floor and fucking like they do.
Then Sheila came in with a grilled ham and cheese, chips, and pickle in one hand and a glass of Mountain Dew in the other. I hadn’t eaten since lunch and it smelled mighty fine.
“What the hell you watchin’, Gordan?” she growled lowering herself into her lazyboy.
Then she leaned over her plate of food, her breasts practically smashing her sandwich, and she asks, “Gordan, is that shit on the floor?”
“What’s the hell’s wrong with you?”
I was in my truck when I did my third shot. I just needed a little peace. I looked at the trailer, well kept considering, and listened to the wind. The windows down, my head leaned back on the headrest, my right arm along the seat like I was pulling in some woman real close like.
Of course I weren’t out there for two damn minutes before I saw Sheila open up the front door, the blue TV glow behind her, with one hand on her rolling hip, the other in some weird salute as if it would help her see me in my truck.
“Whatcha’ doin’ out there, Gordan? We gots things to do.”
This was code for she has chores for me.
The fourth and fifth shots were done in the bathroom sitting on the shitter. I had been under the sink fixing a small leak that had started to stain the cabinet and who know what it doin’ to the subfloor. I could barely fit in the cabinet and considered ripping the whole cheap thing out and chucking it right through the window, but then I’d have to hear Sheila nag me for weeks.
A little thread, putty, and cursing got the leak fixed in no time, but I wasn’t in no hurry to go back out to the living room where I could hear her guffawing through some sitcom rerun. When she called me to tell me I was missing all the good parts, I couldn’t help but agree.
So I snuck out the house as quiet as I could considerin’ I was drunk as shit. I got in my Ford, fumbled my keys into the ignition, and pulled out. I think I saw her wave to me as I drove out of the driveway, he mouth jawing something of course.
It weren’t but a mile down the road that I figured my lights needed to be on, and another before I could find the bottle to get another swig of Jack. As the sixth shot of whisky burnt its way down, I suddenly remembered what I left the house for: the old Jackson Bridge.
When the old rusted thing came into view, I didn’t feel like jumping anymore. Probably just screw it up. I’d get halfway there and pass out, or fall the wrong way and wake up with a hell of a hangover and a bump on my noggin’.
Naw, I decided to just run my ole Ford right off the embankment. I swear, as I went down the world rushed right up past me like some great miracle.