Black Comfort

He was only a half step away from his bed frame when the vertigo set in. A reminder of last night's sins swaying him to a halt. Not a minute after he’d risen up to take on the day like a phoenix, or rather like a hungover magpie.

He loathed the bright mornings, dragging him out of the black comfort he finds at the bottom of a bottle of spirits the night before.

Breathe, Cal. You’ve been here before.

The blinding morning light filtered in through the kitchen window and let him know that he was near the pantry. He walked past it. Reaching first for the medicine cabinet, for the soluble aspirin. His hand wandered along surfaces, his eyes too sensitive to open entirely.

He ran his fingers along the grooves of the pantry, prizing it open and feeling for the cut slit in his packet of oats. He plonked them on the kitchen bench, performed a sickening pirouette, and reached for the door of the fridge. Empty.

Great. No milk.

Having no milk for his oats might be a blessing in disguise. A stomach as weak as Cal’s is probably best mixing water with his oats.

He popped the aspirin in a tumbler glass. I wonder whether I can kill two birds with one stone and mix the aspirin with the oat water next time?

Ha ha- fizzy oats.

Cal cracked himself up. If only other people could see how funny I am, he thought- a snide smile creeping onto his mouth behind the glass.

He trudged into the living room and his eyelids open in a slit. He navigated the busy artwork and mid-century furniture with disdain; it all belonged to his late father. Cal weaved in and out of teak chairs, stumbled on the lips of Turkish rugs, and head-throbbed over painfully colourful surrealist canvasses on brick walls.

I wish the bastard just sold all this shit and left me the money, he thought.

The same thing he thought every morning.

He took a seat and shifted his gaze to the bubble and fizz of the aspirin as it danced in the water.

I wish I had that sort of energy.

Bleary and unsettled, his eyes were fixed on the neutral colours of the glass. That was a lot easier than grazing over his father’s collection. Both because of it’s over-stimulating nature, and it’s frustratingly illiquid existence.

The throb of his head wasn’t the only sign of his hangover; he had breath that smelt like the foam of a skunked beer, a face that was hot with high blood pressure, and sweat dripping from his pits like acid rain.

The piss poor insulation of his father’s apartment made the heat of the already suffocating Brisbane sun unbearable.

If he sold half of his collection maybe he could’ve afforded a place with aircon.

If he cared half as much about his son maybe he wouldn’t have fathered such a fuck-up.

A sole bead of sweat swam down Cal’s unkempt sideburns. Liquid to his thoughts. I should get a haircut before the funeral.

A short back and sides is fifty bucks these days, the same price as a bottle of rum.

Bundaberg rum…

Cal licked his lips at the thought, especially while the head throb of last night's ALDI rocketfuel was still on his mind - literally. Maybe a bottle of bundy would be a good treat for after the wake.

Or before the funeral itself?

Hold on, whose funeral was it?

His brain hurt to think. But boy Cal liked thinking, and he could smell that first sip. That first sip like sorbolene cream on cracked skin. Instant relief. The smell burnt through his nose and his mind's eye with equal flame.

Hold on.

Whose bloody funeral was it?

Cal could feel the satisfying burn of the rum against the back of his throat.

Fuck it.

S’pose there will be one of those funeral programs that tells you about the poor bugger who carked it. Strange they only ever do a two page, folded A4 thing to commemorate someone. I want mine on a gold plate.

He had barely finished a quarter of his oats when he found himself charging out the door in his pluggers. They slapped the scolding hot asphalt like slices of salami slapping onto a greased pan.

There’s no better hangover cure than a hair of the dog. I’d rather be drunk at the funeral than hungover. At least that way I can think without the pain.

It was bright, so bright he almost considered going back to get his shades. Nope. The bundy was too overpowering for a pit-stop. He strolled through the kiddy park, past the Mums in activewear that pretended he didn’t exist. He arrived on the shaded strip of the main street. It was overrun with shops. Cafes; a wanky new one, and a classical old one. An overpriced muffin shop, and a debunked travel agent, both hidden in plain sight for lack of interest. Lifeless. Like Cal.

He peered inside the classical coffee shop, his old haunt. The one he frequented when his vices weren’t so debilitating. Before interacting with other humans wasn’t so overwhelming. Before the anxiety. Before the grog.

He knew why he was looking in there.

It wasn’t to see if the artwork hanging inside for the last decade had finally sold, or to see the flavour of today's savoury muffin.

It was to see if she was working. Of course she was.

I wish I knew her name.

He didn’t know her name. Everyone just called her G.

He tried not to wonder what would’ve happened if he did things differently. Or if they met at a time when he wasn’t so fucked up. But he couldn’t help it, so he replayed the memory in his head:

One morning, a morning that seemed like an eternity ago, G was extra spritely at the sight of him. The type of spritely that coffee alone can’t achieve. She liked him.

“Cal! You’re late!” G beamed from behind the counter. Knowing he often came in prior to ten in the morning. It was past twelve.

“Hey, yeah. Ah, big night,” he said, begrudgingly removing his shades, trying not to seem rude. G saw the hungover streaks of red in his eyes.

“Again?” she asked, slightly concerned, but too excited to show it.

“Yeah, I had a work function,” Cal lied.

He had just been let off from work.

“Work”, was polishing off the dregs of the empties from the night before, and heading to the bottle shop to stock back up. Yet, “work” was always Cal’s go-to. People seemed to respect his excuses if they were passed off as work.

G saw right through it, but it didn’t change her interest in him,

“I was waiting for you to come in so I could share some good news!” she said, flashing a symmetrical grin.

“What is it?” Cal murmured, quietly taking in the symmetry of her smile. Like he was appreciating a meticulously trimmed hedge, or the crema on the perfect espresso martini.

“I got a gig! I’m playing this Friday at the Egyptian!” her excitement was palpable, she tapped atop the countertop as if her piano was in front of her right now... as if she wanted to play for Cal right then and there.

“I’d love for you to come,” she said, her fingernails nervously peeling at the vinyl on the countertop between taps.

“I’ll be there, G.” he smiled,

“Can I get a long black on ice, please?”

Why didn’t I ask her for her name? He thought, as he looked at her through the glass window of the cafe, almost two years past the date of the gig.

Now he would only ever be on the outside looking in, watching her and her mannerisms. Which he knew well. And today, even from behind the glass- they seemed off.

Maybe it’s because I didn’t show up to the gig.

That was years ago now. Stop being so self-obsessed.

Bundy. Now.

Cal’s shoulders slumped. He took one last look. One last breath, at G- and continued his march to the bottle-o. Each step was a chore. The Brissy sun is enough to sap a healthy man, let alone a hungover, sad one. He finally found refuge in the air-con at Liquorland. The comforting warmth of the amber bottles helped. Rows upon rows of them.

Rows upon rows of escapism.

There it was, the crown jewel. Bundaberg rum.

The perfect equilibrium between easy drinking and reasonably inexpensive. He wondered if it was the marketing that got him; the big white bear, the sunshine scenery, the bottle... gold labeled and wedged in a picture-book esky, dripping in icicles only realistic in Photoshop.

Nah, it just bloody hits the spot.

Cal strangled a litre-something bottle of overproof bundy rum with a sweaty palm. Eighty-nine bucks!?

A bit more expensive than a short back and sides. Oh well.

He strolled through the checkout, and slapped a hundred dollar bill on the counter, knowing that Phil, his local, balding checkout dude would receive it. He let Phil keep the change if he didn’t talk to him.

Phil was so used to Cal’s visit that he didn’t even look up when he walked past.

Perfect.

It was always a quicker journey on the way home. The cafe’s, muffin-shops and travel-scammers didn’t seem to phase him. It was as if they didn’t exist. The only thing that mattered was keeping a firm grip on the bottle so it didn’t end up in a puddle of shards on the bitumen.

It was ten-thirty in the morning by the time he had a tumbler full of bundy and ice, the pedestal fan on full blast, and David Bowie’s Space Oddity blaring on his fathers turntable. The funeral was at midday.

Plenty of time.

Sip.

Grouuuund control to majoooorrrr Tom!!!

Sip.

Is wearing pluggers to a funeral acceptable?

Sip.

They’ll do.

Sip.

Cal was dressed to the nines. Well, his version at least; white t-shirt, an oversized CONNOR suit jacket, his largest pair of black shades, and denim jeans. Denim jeans with a (hopefully) unnoticeable sauce stain- brought to you by Four’n Twenty Pies.

Walking was easier when you were plastered. He was at the church at a canter. Cars of all colours and models lined the streets. Black Mercedes, all-white BMW’s, even the odd green Commodore. The cars were a lot more calm than the people, who wept like cysts.

Ha, wept like cysts.

Youngsters gathered in circles of four-foot solemnity, crying one after the other. The sight of the sunshine and grass not nearly enough to entice them to a game of hide-n-seek, not amongst this level of grief, anyway.

Sports teams united in huddles, all donning club emblems and embracing arm in arm. Comforting each other through the pain. They all wore sunnies like Cal, big and black. Shading red-eyes. Red eyes that stung like salt.

Who the hell was this person? People are in all sorts.

Calculated with his movements, and the placement of his oversized black shades, Cal was on the hunt for a funeral program without seeing anyone he knew. Brisbane is known as a big country town for a reason. Everyone bloody knows everyone. And showing up to a funeral without even knowing who was being buried was a new low- even for Cal.

Even for me, he thought, as he spotted the wooden box with the funeral programs at the entrance of the church. Bingo.

He was focusing on his stride, when he looked up to see a face. A pale, yet familiar face, with thick tears streaming down either side of marble cheek-bones.

Mum…? What the hell are you doing here?

An even more unwelcome surprise was the hand placed on her shoulder in comfort. His brother, Dane.

Mum? Dane? They haven’t seen each other since Dad passed away.

Cal ignored his attempts to be subtle, and bee-lined through the crowd. Past his family, past the black suited men and women in business casual. He phased through the crowd as if he didn’t exist. Now fearing that it might be someone close to him, he was desperate to find the program.

He wheezed for breath, finally arriving at the wooden box at the front of the church.

The bloody funeral program.

With two hands, he reached for it.

Thin, A4 paper crumbled in his grip. The person staring back at him from the front page was someone he knew better than anyone...

himself.

He looked up, and as if it all suddenly made sense, he saw her. G, handkerchief in hand. Weeping.

She looked toward Cal. But stared past him, through him, toward his mother.

“Are you Cal’s mother?” she asked,

“Y-yes,” his mother stammered,

Cal was standing between them. Trying to speak, but nothing would come out. His voice was lost. He was lost.

“I’m so sorry. Cal was so, so special,” G said,

His mother wept, “Thank you, dear.”

Her heart crumbled. Equal amounts of sadness and pride. Sad she lost her boy, proud he had a friend mourning him.

“It means so much to me that Cal had friends like you show up today. Please, may I have your name?” she asked,

“G… short for Georgia.”

Cal had lost his voice, and with the sound of G’s name, he lost his hearing, and drifted.

Skyward.

Into black comfort.