Alcoholistic

The bottle rolled back and forth. The amber colored liquid leveling out glistened under the lights. Each seat seemed positioned for the last drop of the whiskey. With a spin, the bottle pointed towards a haggard man. He was about fifty with gray locks and beard. He wore a gray hoodie and black jeans and sneakers. His dark skin contrasted with the shirt and almost blended with his trousers. His name was Trawell Warrington. A thirty-five-year-old woman named Latricia Chansing missed a front tooth. She shifted her weight and her t-shirt slightly showed her bra under her white t-shirt and blue jeans and black flats. Her hair had been tied in a pony tail. Her skin looked light-skinned and made her hazel eyes pop out with intensity.

“Alright,” Warrington announced. “It’s yours.”

“But, but, it’s yours. The bottle pointed towards you,” Latricia recognized.

“This is about shunning the self. I know it came to me. But my life is not my own. That is the creed of this new faith,” Warrington mentioned. Latricia looked around. As her eyes darted, she hunched over, reached out, and grasped the bottle. She brought it to her chest and like a squirrel negotiating a nut unscrewed the cap of the whiskey. By taking it to her head, she polished off the brown splendid liquid.

Warrington laughed. It wasn’t a clean laugh. It seemed haughty and humble at the same time. “You failed.”

“What?” Latricia’s worry lines appeared on her forehead and she looked at him incredulously.

“This is about selflessness for us both. If we’re to grow this faith, we must be completely unselfish. You were supposed to say to me, ‘No, it’s yours,’” Warrington grinned as if venom oozed from the corner of his mouth.

“I—” Latrice said.

“We’re going to go easy on the ‘I’ and other singular pronouns as well,” Warrington explained.

“Can I get out of here?” Latrice asked, her pulse increasing.

“Whenever you wish. But you won’t see the excellence of this glorious system without the final demonstration.”

“What system?” What demonstration?” Her brow continued to furrow.

“This is a whole body experience of imbibing. We drink to get drunk and then fall to our knees and announce our forgiveness to God.”

“Why drink in the first place?”

“We drink to commune with the spiritual aspect of alcohol.”

Latrice folded her arms. At the door, a burly man named Kismet Maddox hauled in more booze. He was fortyish and wore a black plaid shirt and blue jeans and boots.

Latrice focused her attention on Warrington again. She looked as if age had sped up on her and she fretted mercilessly. Warrington continued.

“It is about your spirit, your wealth, your health, your entire being. Through booze, we’re going to make sure you’re going to be full of the philosophy of drinking. We put the -ism in alcoholism.”

“But—but aren’t I supposed to not drink? Isn’t this the purpose of this whole program?”

“No,” Warrington said like a shot from a pistol. “We are going to subject you to every alcohol from wine to Scotch. You’re going to enjoy the taste even more. You’re going to fall in love with every drop.”

Latrice stood straight up and down like a bowling pin.

“No, I want out of this.”

“You can do that, but in time.”

“How much time?”

“That all depends on how serious you are.”

“I’m serious. This must stop.”

SIX WEEKS PRIOR

“Mrs. Chansing, you had a DUI where you could’ve killed a couple. You’ve got five already on your record,” Dr. Gatling Gooding imparted.

“Yes, I know all that, doctor and I’m sorry. I truly am. I will put down the bottle.”

“That’s insufficient. We need to start you on a program.”

“Twelve steps? Again?”

“No. This is something totally different. I’m assigning that or you’re going to jail for six months.”

Latrice shook her head. “Anything but jail. I am not anywhere close to being in a life like that.” The very thought of a six by nine foot cell caused her to shudder. She needed to get back to the idea that she could participate in this program.

“Yes, whatever, do it. I’ll complete the program.”

“It’s settled. Pack your bags. The shuttle leaves for Dover in the morning.”

Latrice scrounged around her luxury apartment in Wilmington, Delaware. Discarded empty beer cans and rum bottles with some content within dotted her closet. Like little notes on her pain, they signaled her strife and fight against alcoholism.

After packing her suitcase she found herself all alone. No husband, no children, just the idea she was a workaholic and an alcoholic. She knew the first had been an imposter and the latter had been a specter.

In the shuttle, only the driver had been the other occupant. She didn’t speak, only she blared jazz standards. Latrice furrowed her brow not knowing what lay ahead of her. She wondered if it would be stuffy or cold or anything like the settings she had already experienced. Thoughts of how a technician installed a breath test in her Goulding to allow her to drive. The bite of this reality always seemed to sting most when she snuck some booze late at night. Now, on her way to destination unknown, she summoned up enough courage that had not been liquid.

The vehicle pulled up to a large house of the Postmodernist era. Irregular roofs and dizzying slopes punctuated the place's peculiarity. She looked about the premises and saw people swigging brew. Women and men commingled in the summer heat. A landscaper did not use any kind of heavy machinery but just his hands. He boasted a stainless white dress shirt.

After she got out of the shuttle, she walked up to the front steps. A dark-skinned woman She was about fifty-years-old and about five foot five inches smiled broadly. She dressed in an all white business suit.

“Welcome, Miss Chasing. I’m Dr. Bellica Nust. This is the Cherry Crescent Dormitories. Your bed is upstairs, the second door on the left past the hallway closet. You can stash your belongings there and then come to my office. It is on the first level near the kitchen and the demonstration room. We’re so glad you’re here.” She then ascended steps and disappeared.

“Jesus,” Latrice said.

PRESENT DAY

“Latrice, you’re due for another breath test and a urine sample,” Warrington pronounced. He left and started the demonstration on other members of the house.

Latrice had taken these measures before and worry crept into her soul.

“It’s fine. We’re looking for as much alcohol in your system as possible.”

Latrice looked cross. It was a look of profound bewilderment. She blew into the device and she scored a .03%.

“We’re looking for at least a .09% You’re going to need to drink more booze. Try vodka. We’ll see about your other results some time tomorrow,” Dr. Nust explained. “Go get some lunch and make it a liquid one.”

Latrice cracked a worrisome, forced smile.

In her mind, she figured she’d take in this moment and permit herself the slight unease that pervaded her conciousness. She then journeyed to the room where the other inhabitants had gathered. In her time, she had only associated with about three other people in her similar situation. Tall and somewhat hawkish, Clyde Samser welcomed her to have a seat. He had light features, gray eyes and a short Afro. He was thirty.

“Latrice,” he said between a bite of a BLT and swigs of a cognac. She sipped her red wine.

“Clyde, I’ve been here over a month and people have just drank and had relations in the rooms. Whose idea was this?”

He swallowed and smiled. “It was started in the mid 2010’s. They shunned any news outlets from covering it. This only emboldened podcasters and documentary teams to swirl stories about Cherry Crescent. They couldn’t make it past the gates due to the heavily guarded arms and the possession of private property deeds.”

“I’ve not known that this whole time and I kind of wish I hadn’t asked,” she sipped her vino.

“Yes, well, if you want to come to my room tonight, we can have a nightcap,” Samser suggested seductively.

“We’ll see,” she answered. He got up and put away his plate and cup. A dishwasher knocked back some gin.

Latrice looked at her hands. They trembled. She looked around and shot up to her feet. From the lunch counter, she marched to Dr. Chasing’s office.

“Miss Chansing, so you’re….”

“I need to be out of here. This is insanity. You’re supposed to be weaning people off of alcohol by complete abstinence. Do you even know what this kind of lifestyle is doing to our livers? Our brains? Our minds? Selfless self-sacrifice and altruism are the hallmarks for a corrupt soul. What are they doing for narcotics down the street? Allowing people to smoke crack and pop fent at will and engage in orgies?”

“That’s exactly right!” Dr. Nust exclaimed. “You see, we show that if you truly are subjected to your weakness, you will be transformed. We practice altruism and total selflessness to nurse you back to health.”

“No,” Latrice announced. “I don’t know why the hell I signed up for this but I want out, now!”

“Two more weeks and you will be given the treatment for recovering alcoholics.”

“And what the hell is that?”

“You have to drink a gallon of your potent potable of choice and then when you’re fully inebriated, you’ll be evaluated if you don’t die.”

“Whatever. Whiskey. Let’s go.”

Dr. Nust smiled and got up from her chair, towering over Latrice.

“We’ll set it up right now. Trawell, get the good stuff.”

“Copy.” He replied.

The demonstration room looked like half a bowl. A stage sat in the front of the bowl. The patients in Cherry Crescent Dormitories all had a drink with them and they sounded rowdy and hype. Latrice sat on the stage. In front of her sat her favorite whiskey. She sat with her palms on her knees. She breathed regularly and looked at Dr. Nust.

“We have our latest patient who has opted to speed up the process and go through the Ritual. This is our one hundred and seventh demonstration in the history of this institution. Let’s see how she fairs,” Dr. Nust set the microphone back in place. She made a showcase movement with her hands and the crowd jeered and applauded with irregularity.

Latrice looked around with confidence and palmed the bottle. She took a deep breath.

The audience grew silent.

“Now, remember…no chanting is permitted. You will be excused from this exercise and reprimanded with near beer.”

Latrice looked around the room. “The battle with the bottle is something we all have faced. This program is thoroughly evil and must stop. I will not drink another drop of alcohol. It is in my own rational self interest that I do this. I’m standing on business when I say I am ready to go away now and become a better me. It doesn’t matter how long it will take but I will improve and make the best decisions for myself and others. This here,” She held the bottle in her palm. The brown liquid blended with her hand. “I know better than to kiss my lips to another drink in my future.”

“Alright! You’ve done it!” Dr. Nust acknowledged. “You are free to go. Someone please gather Miss Chasen’s belongings.”

SIX WEEKS LATER

The tapping on the screen produced images that Latrice used in her presentation. She donned a cranberry business suit with gold pinstripes. In the pocket, a chip reminded her of time in sobriety.

“….And that is what the future of chemical production looks like in the First State.” Applause rose up from her fellow workers.

“Thank you.” The room then cleared. Her smartphone buzzed. As she approached, she made out the words to the text. In clear all-caps, it read, “CONGRATULATIONS FROM THE CHERRY CRESCENT. YOU’RE WELCOME!”

Latrice’s grin with all her front teeth stretched like an expansion bridge.