Driver's Seat

My head is shaken. Thoughts feel scrambled but there's a rumbling beneath my back that keeps me comforted. A cat’s purr. Savoring the last moments where I’m somewhere between asleep and awake. I love this area. Thoughts come about in the fashion of little vignetted dreams. Shortened, somewhat realistic little things. I’m thinking of the old bottle. Can feel its cold exterior pressed against my thigh. In my little shortened dream it's reaching out to me with little glass arms. It's got a slice of lime for a mouth but it does not speak, not directly to me. We just look at each other. The air between us is as tense as the air between two lovers in a quarrel. Can almost taste it. The bitter air sits heavier on my tongue. Savoring the moments without it makes it so much better once it finally touches the tongue. It waits patiently. Old friend. Time to soothe the quickening nausea. My eyes open and I grasp the neck of the bottle. Swirl the liquid around in the glass. Very fortunate to find that it's nearly full. Sweet brown nectar sent from the gods, prepared by the devil. Love it when they work together. Makes for quite a show.

I’ve tired dreary eyes but as the juice drips down my dry throat I can feel them livening. Fresh oil in an old machine. My beard itches and I sit up to realize I’m on a train. The tips of little branches almost brush the train windows as it passes. They seemed to have learned their limits, where not to go. My cart is empty, I’m the only one here. Designated for drunkards perhaps. Sounds like I’m the only reasonable bastard in this place. Haha. My feet are trudging forward with some difficulty. The train doesn’t shake like a plane or bus, yet somehow I walk like it’s rocking me back and forth, trying to tuck me to bed.

I’ve got stages in my head. To measure my drunkenness. In the early stages right now. Two or three. In stage two I start speaking in a British accent. Not a very good one. A man with a trolley is coming towards me. Not sure where he came from but happy to see him. Good looking lad. An older gent. A little ghostly but a nice head of hair on him. Dangling little curls dripping down over his brow like ivy over a bank.

‘Hello friend! Is there a bar on this train?’ I ask.

He doesn’t bother. Stares right at me. Right through me. Keeps on walking towards me with that expressionless face. I just stand there waiting. He passes right through me. A brief moment in time where his skin is my skin and his eyes are mine and our blessings are twice as ignorable but our worries are twice as worrisome. He can’t see straight. His vision is always swerving, topsy turvy like. Stuck in a perpetual pendulum ride. Plenty to worry about. He passes through me and we return to our own bodies. The hair on my arm’s is sticking up like the fur on the back of a startled cat.

‘What a wanker’, I mutter. Definitely in stage two.

When I open the door to pass to the next cart, I’m greeted by a soft, wintery afternoon. The air is cool, but there is no bite to it. The snow is quite heavy looking. It weighs down the branches of the fir trees and on occasion, a pile of it will fall from a branch, setting the branch off like a catapult-a gentle one, firing only the dusty fragments of the snowpile to mist into the air. There is a river that has frozen over and in parts the ice sticks out in large jagged shards like the nose of a tipping ship pointing out from the ocean. The air is quite nice.

I’ve swapped carts. Shocked to find an assortment of different me’s, all in different stages. One is going on about the British Empire to a group of fellows-all me, in stages one, three and four respectively. The empire is something I know he isn’t well educated upon but at this stage I want to join in and make a counter argument. You are me, sir and they are you. They know what you know and you should know this. Some of them are stroking their chins as though plotting some meticulous scheme. Stage ones. Some of them are dancing. Stage threes. A repulsive mix of the salsa and the Cadillac ranch. I scoff with my nose up and catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the brass encasement that borders the booth. Really am feeling quite British. A few of the others are snapping their fingers and humming little tunes. Stage fours. Some of the others are being quite obnoxious. Not in the British way. They are being quite nasty. Stage five. Awful stage. Some angry child resurfaces. Mean, mean demon that takes a lot of drink to drag out. He’s an awful feller. Said awful things to many lovely folk. Undeserving folk. They're gone now. Not the different me’s, but the undeserving folk. They’ve been gone for a while now. He’s saying mean, nasty things to a me who’s in stage six. Severe case of stage six it appears. His head is bowed down to the floor. He’s using his nail to scratch the skin on his wrist. Just thinking about it. What it would entail. Wanting it, much like hunger. I want to sit in front of him. Put his chin in my palm. The same way some of those undeserving folk used to do for me. Whisper sweet nothings. Sweet everythings. I look at my own wrist. Scratch marks all over them. Some, pink and scarred from years ago. Some fresh and opened and crusty with scab. Can’t help the stage six me I’m afraid. Too risky. Last thing I need right now is a stage five me on my ass. Bloody wanker.

I exit the cart filled with the different me’s. Bottle still in hand to my surprise. I’m in between the two carts standing above the rattling coupling. To my right, the sky holds still above passing mountain tops. Its periwinkle in color, forgiving in its presence. Little sprinkles of different galaxies scattered about. I choose which one I’d like to go to most. Dullest one. Furthest away. I put the bottle to my lips and together we share a moment, me and the sky. I shift my focus to the ground. Looks dry and hard. Unfriendly, certainly not wanting me. Somehow it seems enticing. I’m wanting it. Wanting to make a donation. Full human body to give. It’s not in bad shape-a few bumps, bruises, scars, a crooked nose and a damaged soul. Cacti are spread apart on the ground. Some are as tall as street poles. Recently someone told me that wild cacti survive on no more than the morning dew. I, on the other hand, drink and drink and I’ve probably consumed more liquid in the past twenty four hours than the cacti have in their entire lives. Yet somehow, I’m just as dependent as them. More so even. Sure would love it if my thirst could be quenched by something as simple as dew. Haha.

The next cart is a party. The bar is there and I move towards it with a laser focus. In need of a different liquor. I order a double tequila and after slamming it back I see them. All the undeserving faces around me. Scarred and maimed and bruised and battered. Faces that, beneath all of that damage, we're faces I knew very well. Once. Faces I’d loved and ruined. They come towards me, and I order another shot to enter the next stage.

Half of Julee’s face is a bright pink. Pickled onions. I don’t ask what happened. Seems rude given the context (that I am at a bar on a train in a cart filled with no one but old friends who I’ve wronged and all of their faces are damaged in one way or another because of my own doing). Very much like Julee to be the first to pull me aside. She kisses me gently and reminisces over good times. The tequila settles in and we dance an ugly dance.

My mother is missing her nose. Tears drip down her face in a steady stream. Never are the cheeks not wet. I fill her cup and she goes on and on, telling me of the days when she was young and in love with the bottle. All the bad things that happened to her that made her want to curl up and let the liquor slowly unfurl her to the universe. She passes me a cigarette and I crack a window. ‘I wasn’t a very good mother’ she says as the smoke curls around her lips. ‘Wasn’t?’, I ask.

I can feel myself getting mean as Tom begins to speak. Unlucky bastard. Old roommate. We used to be so close, him and I. His face is stuck in a bitter pucker. Perhaps at what I’ve just said. What did I just say? My hands look red at the fingertips and white at the knuckles. The knuckle bones are protruding out angrily. Little nail indents are lined up on my palm like a trail of pine needles. I’ve been clenching the fists I guess. Tom looks around him, waves in the group. I’m feeling fucking angry. Telling Tom nasty things. Some part of me wants to say something other than what comes out but it's observing from a distance. Through a faraway window. The party is all looking at me. Coming in closer. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it you fucking scumbags. They’re swarming me. Each of them muttering the things I've done to them all at once. Saying it like robots. ‘Where's the bottle? ‘I need a drink!’ I bellow out as the crowd inches in. ‘No drinks for you’ they all answer in synchronicity, and I cower to the floor until they stop. Head wrapped in my arms. Fingers plugging my ears. I can feel just how red my face has gotten. Creeped up my neck like a disease. Infected my entire head. The commingling of the surrounding voices turns into a murmur and slowly they all disappear. The last voice remaining is Tom. I lift my head, to see him looking over me, tall and proud. ‘You are a wreck’ he tells me. And just like that, I am one.

Passing over the coupling that connects the two middling carts, I look to my left to see that the scenery has changed. On the horizon is the rising sun colored a brightened pink. Small strident streaks of cloud shoot themselves through the air like bullets froze in motion. Beams of light shine a path that stretches wider as it approaches me, displaying the navy ocean before me. Small rippling waves splash against the cement barrier that separates the water from the train tracks by only ten feet or so. The water looks inviting. Feel like I’m sobering quite a lot. Seems as though I’ve reverted to stage three. My shoulders shimmy to the rhythm of the tracks and in an exaggerated step, I open the door to the next cart.

It's quiet and dry. The bottle I woke up with is gone. Lost somewhere amongst the straggling folks I left behind. The cart I’m on is empty in appearance, but it's actually quite full. Something else is in here. Whether a demon, a god, a final boss or a rat. Something is around. Smells like piss and rotten apples. Sour smelling cart, no wonder none of the other guests are here. The me’s would hate it here. I hate it here.

I approach each booth with quiet feet, so as not to disturb the other being. Hoping to freeze it in its tracks. Ask it how I got here. Walking down the aisle with my hands jumping slowly from booth to booth. My head shaking back and forth and my eyes searching each side for whatever it is that's taunting me. For a second I think I catch a glimpse of something, but the sun is shining bright and ignoring the blinds. Turns out to be only my shadow. Shadow looks different. Which I suppose means I look different. Hair isn’t the way it was once. Seems curlier. Limbs are skinny and frail looking. Skeleton fellow. I’m trying to focus on finding the other occupant of the cart, but each time I look to my left I see that damned shadow looking back at me. Wanker, he is. Can’t fucking stand him. ‘Off with you’ I say. Seems I’m British again. My pace is quickening and I’ve stopped looking at the left side of the cart. I’m moving at a brisk pace with my body hunched over and my hands reaching from booth to booth like a goblin trudging through waist high waters. I finally look up, sweat dripping down my brow, chest heaving in and out. Walloping swollen knot from the bottom of the breast plate up. It's him again. The man from the first cart. He looks at me now. Something he hadn’t the courage to do during our previous meeting. He mimics my movements. He mimics my voice. My mouth moves and so does his. He strokes his chin thoughtfully. And he is speaking like a British fellow. And he is carrying a bottle which I ask for a sip of. And he won’t share. And he won’t stop putting it to his lips. And he’s taking me along with him. Through the stages. He’s dancing an awful dance. Takes me in his arms and my body goes limp. He dips me down so that my hair dangles from my head like a limp flag on a windless day and my head dangles from my neck like a bowling ball tied to a string. He holds me there and our eyes hold each other. Familiarity stuck between us like a fence separating grass from more of the same grass. A border separating mountains from more mountains. We bear no differences, him and I. Just separate beings. I think. His fingers snap in my ears gently and lullabies drift through the cavern of his lips like droplets of water echoing through a tunnel. I almost want to sleep then. The snapping stops, his iris’s begin to whiten, pupils dilate, sweet soft melodies turn to harsh barbarous yells. His saliva hangs in strings from his yellowing teeth. I can feel it splatter against my skin and it carries the anger of the being with which it came from. He’s telling me awful things. Good for nothing. Dog breath. Coward. WASTE OF LIFE. Abuser. A wreck. A wreck. A wreck. Then he falls on top of me. Entering stage six. He holds my head in his shaking, wrinkled hands and he bawls. He bawls in the empty cart, filling each empty crevice with the sounds of his wallowing. I break a boundary. I am now sober. Not stage six. But I wallow too. Together.

Crossing to the locomotive. Feel I’ve aged quite a lot. Can feel the wrinkles in my hand like grooves on a beach. Can feel the weight of my body. It is heavy but dry. A dehydrated cactus. It stores within it some semblance of the day before this one, and the one before that as well. So it continues. It is morning and the breeze caused by the train’s glide is gentle and clement. The snow is long gone and the earth's floor is covered in stones.The cacti are gone, replaced by tall oaks and pines, sturdy and friendly. The ocean is gone but the smell of it still lingers, having grasped onto the sides of the train and the grooves of the grates beneath my feet. Decide I’ll quit with the drink as the hills begin to splinter and show their valleys filled with leaky creeks and pummeling rivers at their lowest points. A decision I must come to I’ve decided. A decision that would be made for me if I did not soon decide myself. I enter the locomotive feeling light on my feet.

I guess I expected to be the driving, but the seat is taken. In it, is the man from the last and first cart. He looks much better than when he was crying. A rejuvenated lad with happy eyes. We share the same smile. Our chins are cocked to the right in the way a really good mood can make them do. I ask him if I can toot the horn. He turns his head towards me and nods. I pull on it and a ribbon of sound lets loose into the air, careening like an untying knot into the atmosphere. Through the front window of the locomotive, I can see that the tracks lead over rolling hills that unfurl without end. Beyond them are the regal mountains, faded but evermore present with the distance shortening. Beyond the mountains are more of the world's wonders. Sweet desirable little sceneries that cannot justifiably be described. Again we share a moment, with the same smile, and the same cocked chin and it is like this forever. Little moments where I am him and he is I. But together we ride the rails which are chosen for us. Our destination, ultimately the same. He has ridden these rails for years, he tells me. ‘What you’ve seen, I’ve seen and lived dozens of times. One day you’ll sit where I am in this seat and you’ll realize just how silly it is to pretend to be driving. I have no control over this train. It rides the rails that have been set in place for it. You and I are just visitors. Guests. Don’t forget that. The bottle isn’t driving either. He's just a good actor. Deceptive little bugger. It’s more like an illusion. Let's say I covered the window here, so that all of this scenery before us couldn't be seen at all. That’s what the bottle does, deceives, but it's never really driving. There will be days when you want nothing more than the sweet taste of liquor on your lips. That day may be today, tomorrow, yesterday, whenever really. You can decide to put it there if you please. Against your lips. It doesn’t matter. But ultimately, the difference between doing it or not is about feeling. It's about catching a glimpse of this little ride before you. Remembering as many little tidbits about it as you can. If the bottle obstructs that, well, it might be best not to touch it. As I said, I’ve rode these rails for years. Each time around, I notice something I missed the last time, and each time it gives me a greater thrill than any bottle ever could. Just know that each cart you passed through and each scene unfolding before your eyes as you crossed the couplings gives a glimpse into what your life is. The parts of it you can’t always see. The future, the people who care, the earth, yourself. It's all in there. You can go back through it as many times as you like’.