Real men drink, right?

He has a problem. He’s felt it for years now, but he refuses to face it. He doesn’t want to admit it, to himself or to the people around him. All his heroes were the same. He likes to recall the scene where James Bond sits in a dusty pub in Latin America, a glass of whiskey in hand, his gaze fixed on a scorpion crawling across the bar. When he first fell for literature, it was Post Office and Women, which he read over and over again. Without those cans of beer and bottles of cheap whiskey, Bukowski’s work wouldn’t have been so raw, so honest. Even Vaclav Havel spent most of his nights in Prague bars; without that, he wouldn’t have been who he was. Those were the real men.

He wanted to be a real man too.

Growing up in Prague, it didn't take long for him and the horned one, Azazel, to meet for the first time. It was his father who made the introduction. “You’re practically an adult already,” he said, and as he fixed his drink, he poured him a shot of golden whiskey as well. It was like swallowing fire, slowly burning its way down his throat into his stomach. I have to endure this. I’m not some weakling, he always told himself, until he got used to the heat, and even began to enjoy it. Over time, he danced with the horned one more and more often. Eventually, he no longer needed social events or special occasions for it; he started to enjoy it alone, in the quiet of his solitude.

He was in his mid-20s when he first began to notice. Out of nowhere, the thought flashed through his mind: You’re starting to have a problem, and you need to do something about it. After weeks of inner bargaining, he found within himself an unshakable motivation to fix it. And so, symbolically, to the sound of fireworks exploding outside the windows, as the clock struck midnight, he swallowed the last drop of champagne and, with a loud sigh, said his farewell, convinced it was forever.

Months passed smoothly, January, February, March, and he continued going out with friends to restaurants and pubs, or visiting his parents at their vacation house. Places where, for most people, alcohol was the main, often the only, form of entertainment, an inseparable part of free time. At every gathering, golden or bloody red liquid shimmered in glasses while he sat with an iced tea, lacking nothing. He had just as much fun as they did, brushing off the aggressive questions: “Come on, you’ll at least have a beer, right?”, with light excuses: “No, I’m not in the mood today.” When that didn’t hold, he’d smile and add, “I’m taking a short break; it’s been a bit much lately,” earning nods and conspiratorial smiles.

The devil let him enjoy this period, gave him a blissful hope that he’d escaped his grip. He waited patiently on his shoulder for his moment, and then came June, and with it, his cousin Henry's wedding. Henry had moved a few years earlier to the northern city of Gothenburg, and the whole family was going to travel there to witness the big event. Uncles, aunts, cousins, and his family, too.

He heard the cheerful news at the end of March, when he and his brother were visiting their parents. They announced it with overwhelming joy. “Just imagine, Henry’s getting married!” his mother said. “And that calls for a drink!” his father added, roaring with his authentic rumbling laughter. In the shadow of that shared excitement, he managed only a fumbled “That’s great,” forcing a stiff smile onto his face. Suddenly, it was as if the air in the room had thickened, cold drops of sweat slowly running down his back. He shook his head when he saw his father eagerly handing him a glass. His mother scoffed. “You’re not drinking again? But you’ll have something at the wedding, at least a toast, right?” At that moment, he couldn’t get a word out. He just stood there, staring at her sadly, searching for understanding, for support. “For God’s sake, then don’t go if you don’t want to be there! You ruin everything!” she said and slowly paced away from the room.

The silence that followed was painful. Neither his father nor his brother said a word, but he felt their quiet agreement with her.

Whenever he thought about it, his chest tightened, as if a herd of horses were dancing on it. The closer it got, the worse it became. He knew he had to go there. And as the days passed, the whispers from the one sitting on his shoulder got louder. Their arguments stretched late into the night. He tried to resist, but the initial you can handle it, they won’t notice, and they’ll leave you alone like before. Henry doesn’t drink much either; it won’t offend him. He shifted slowly into You’ll just have the toast, you won’t drink much, at least not hard stuff. On the day of departure, the two of them struck a deal: You won’t deal with it this week. You’ll take a break and drink a little. When you fly back home, you’ll be back on track. Convinced he could manage it. After all, he wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t sick.

And so when the time to leave for Sweden came, he arrived at the airport confident and relaxed, sheltered by the devil’s agreement. He was off the hook for a week, and so right there at the airport, he had one for the road with others. At first, it seemed he was right, and everything would be fine. The first evening, at a family gathering in a wooden seaside villa like those lining the Swedish coast, he didn’t give in. There were relatives of the bride from Ireland and Sweden. He resisted, refused the unspoken duel of who could drink more. The following days, filled with seaside trips and walks through the city, often ending with a cold beer, he handled it with surprising ease. He felt more self-assured. Only the wedding day remained, and Azazel was patiently waiting for his chance.

After the ceremony in the seaside hotel with beautiful scenery came the final dinner. Trout and a glass of wine, nothing he couldn’t handle. One speech followed by another. His glass was empty. All the glasses were empty. One of the people at the table couldn’t stand it any longer and went to get a beer, automatically ordering one for him too. Swept up in the atmosphere, he didn’t resist. Slowly, it came time to dance, and in that instance, someone asked the group at the table, “Do you drink Jägermeister?” A strange euphoria flooded him, and he answered immediately, without hesitation, “Of course, let’s do it!” In that moment, he loosened the reins, and Azazel seized them without hesitation, his smile bursting into loud laughter. He knew he had won. As the evening went on, both the Irish and the Swedes slowly realized that the Czechs truly couldn’t be matched when it came to drinking. He ended up bent over the edge of the pier, with his arm around his brother’s shoulders.

A few years have passed since that trip, and he’s still dancing with the devil by moonlight. He tries to resist the seductive whisper as he pours another glass. He loses. He dances and, in tears, hopes the music will stop one day, and he’ll be free. His strength for the fight is slowly gone; every time he thought he’d win this time, he was dragged back again. Every morning, he wakes with the same question: Why did you do it again? He wakes up regretful, sometimes in tears, sometimes without the strength even for those.

It was today, in the frosty morning. The sun is nowhere in sight. After once again telling himself he’d stop drinking, he got into the car the night before and drove to buy bottles of whiskey, just one or two shots before bed, he promised. When the white light that accompanies winter months pierced through the closed blinds and woke him into another painful day, with a dry mouth and stabbing headache, for the first time, he exposed himself and said out loud what he feared for all those years: “I am an alcoholic.”

As he squinted into the morning light, he saw the judging face beneath the window, on that old cross his brother had once given him. Trembling, he couldn’t hold it in anymore, and tears began to stream down his face. In a muffled voice, curled into his own embrace, he repeated, “I’m sorry.” He promised that this time he’d manage it, that he’d ask for help and finally stop dancing. He promised, and in the kitchen, poured a splash of whiskey from a half-empty bottle left from the previous morning into his hot coffee. I’ll start tomorrow, he thought, as the sharp taste spread through his mouth. Somewhere in the background, the familiar music begins to play, and Azazel is already stretching out his dance step.