chapter 2
the cowboy vampire

Jakk killed two hours with television. Hangover was becoming detached from his being and floating into the sea of sobriety. Its barrier islands washing away temporarily. Stiffness was waning. Headache dissolving.

In the bathroom, Jakk stared at himself in the mirror. In the last few years he was resembling some sort of cowboy vampire. His skin had leathered. His oil-black hair taking on a deep blue tint. The grays encroaching from the sides. He appreciated his appearance. After years of sinewy gangliness, his frame and accessories were coming into their own. Two years from 40, he felt his personality and appearance had become one. He talked the talk and walked the walk. He really was a cowboy vampire. Except he slang drinks instead of guns and sucked whiskey rather than blood.

He felt thinner today than the day before.

Not last night though.

Last night it was gin. A visit to the bar by Sharon with her new boyfriend triggered the entire episode. They weren't there long. Just enough to make an appearance and put on a show.

So she had a new beau. It was fine. If it didn't have the appearance of some staged presentation Jakk may have been more upset.

But he was kidding himself. It did upset him. Or perhaps he missed the distilled juniper. Or perhaps he just felt like destroying himself again. That gin has hooks in it. Fucks up your face.

It wasn't that she moved on that bothered Jakk. The whole world was moving on. It was the pageantry of her action. The display. The dog-and-pony show. The manner in which she went out of the way to pitch her voice in his direction. Her intention was to hurt him and elevate herself at the same time. Through his destruction she would rise up. It was a zero-sum game. If she gained in the insignificant stature of their social scene, he would be diminished.

She hurt him. But not in any transcendent manner. What bothered him most was the malice. Her first-degree destruction of the good feelings he tried to preserve after the break-up. It was another lost ideal. The thought of it coupled with the typically human feelings of having one's void filled caused Jakk to reach for the Boodles and pour a gin and tonic. Perished ideals were a worthy reason to cast oneself into a pit of fire. It was just another suicide. One you wake up from.

Sure she was a sexy thing but he was the bartender for God's sake. For the females, the choice would be simple. They had adored Jakk for years. Gave him a taste of love a night or two. But then there were those he had denied who shared some bilateral bitterness towards him and secretly longed for his suffering.

The fellows would be another story. Sex or liquor would seem like a difficult choice for them. They needn't look him in the eye to order a drink. But they would if they wanted a stiff one. A tall one. A good one. Not the watered down Kentucky Deluxe in the Jack Daniels bottle.

A shower may help.