chapter 1
the mother of ruin

The tremors violated his drunk dreams. Like background noise, their distortion lingered in the strange plot lines that made his mother three people at once. They grew closer until Jakk awoke to the vertical placement of his hardwood floor. Wood grain running straight up to the ceiling.

Crazy night.

Amid stars, he rose and walked flat-footed into the kitchen, his bare feet picking up hundreds of coffee grounds along the way. He made coffee. Poured a cup, mixed it with cancer-causing non-dairy creamer and went to the bathroom medicine cabinet.

Behind the mirror was the BC powder he craved. His method of applying it was to plug his nose, pour it into his mouth and wash the whole thing down with coffee. BC made up for its harsh application by providing instant, powerful relief to many different ailments. It wouldn't cure heart disease, but it would make Jakk forget about his aching head long enough to recall last night's social blunders.

The tremors were a different story. They were a new phenomenon that he had yet to cope with fully. He accepted them but not processed their message. He knew that the only way to combat them was to continue drinking but "hair of the dog" was never his style. He also knew it was the first step tp dependency and he, aobove all, was indepepndent.

He also considered hangover his penance for the previous night's revelry, like the relationship between Mardi Gras and Lent. The ole equal and opposite reaction. Jakk considered the Tremors a challenge. Another demon to slay. It must have been the Gin. The "Mother of Ruin" as it is often called.

On the front porch, Wednesday life was continuing as usual. The nine-to-five crowd was on their lunch break and Jakk admired the skirts of the business women driving by in their Hondas and BMWs. From his second-story vantage point, he could see through the car windows at their spread legs and hiked-up skirts working the gearshifts and gas pedals of their sporty cars and SUVs. The sun shined on his wrinkled face and receding hairline. The brightness stung his blood-shot eyes. More punishment he deserved.

There was something Rebecca said last night that hung in his head like one of those, "last thing I remember was..." recollections. Shaking her head at his fractured and insolent rhetoric, she asked, "What's become of you?"

Jakk resented her position of social elitism. This from the girl who was engaged to a murderer in high school? Who had sex on top of a car while 12 guys watched? Whose insanity was the stuff of legend? Who had two counts of battery on a law enforcement officer to her discredit? In what universe did she have judgemental authority? Was she a home owner?

Rebecca's blurry and fading inquiry was Jakk's social car wreck of the night. It would linger until late afternoon. Until the television made everything less cumbersome. Until work. Until he could envelope himself in the culture of the bar. Enter his own comfortable environment. The McMichaels would "shoot the shit" with him about politics and great sports figures. Then he could forget the judgment of Rebecca, forget her shaking head and scowl.

As the BC took effect Jakk began to grow more comfortable, the stiffness began to wane. The coffee was casting its spell, easing him into his daytime mode of consciousness.