Blue Smoke

wasn’t his fault that his downstairs neighbor’s party had been at full blast when he got home from dropping off Mandy. Stopping in had been polite, and an entertaining way to spend the rest of his Saturday night.
    And since he’d only had to walk up the stairs to his own place, he hadn’t seen the harm in drinking a couple of beers.
    But it was his fault, and he was willing to admit it once his head stopped screaming, that he’d hung out until after two in the morning and sucked down a six-pack.
    But it wasn’t completely his fault, because the beer had been there, along with the nachos. And what were you supposed to do when you were eating nachos but wash them down with beer?
    Oceans of beer.
    He had aspirin. Probably. Somewhere. Oh, if only there was a merciful God who would remind him where the hell he’d stashed the bottle of Advil. He’d crawl to it himself, if only he knew where to drag his poor, abused body.

    And why hadn’t he pulled the shades? Why couldn’t that merciful God turn down the sunlight so it wasn’t blasting like a red furnace against his aching eyes?
    Because he’d worshipped the god of beer, that’s why. He’d broken a commandment and worshipped the false and foamy god of beer. And now he was being punished.
    He thought the aspirin, which now took on the weight of his salvation, was most likely in the kitchen. He prayed it was as he covered his eyes with one hand, eased himself out of bed. His moan was heartfelt, and turned into something more like a scream when he tripped over his shoes and fell flat on his face.
    He barely had the strength to whimper, much less swear.
    He made it to his hands and knees, balanced there, prayed there until he got most of his breath back. Never again. He swore it. If he’d had a knife he’d have drawn his own blood and used it to write the vow on the floor. He managed to get to his feet, while his banging head spun and his stomach churned. His last hope was that he wouldn’t puke on his own toes. He’d rather have the pain than the puking.
    Fortunately, his apartment was about the size of a minivan, and the kitchen only a few short steps from the pull-out sofa. Something in the kitchen smelled like dead rat, and wasn’t that just perfect? He ignored the sink full of dishes, the counter junked with boxes of takeout he’d yet to throw away, and fumbled through his cabinets.
    Crap wood, he thought as he always did. Next thing to plastic. Inside were open boxes of Life, Frosted Mini Wheats, Froot Loops and Cheerios. A bag of sour cream and onion potato chips, four boxes of macaroni and cheese, Ring-Dings, assorted cans of soup and a box of raspberry and cheese coffee cake.
    And there, there between Life and Cheerios, was the Advil. Thank you, Jesus.
    Since he’d already tossed the cap after his last hangover, all he had to do was dump three little pills in his clammy hand. He shoved them in his mouth, turned on the faucet and, since there was no room for his headamong the dishes, scooped running water into his palm and sucked it in to down the pills.
    He choked when one stuck in his throat, stumbled to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Gatorade. He drank, leaning weakly against the counter.
    He wove his way through the pile of clothes, the shoes, his stupid keys and whatever else had hit the floor, into the bathroom.
    Bracing his hands on the sink, he gathered his courage. And lifted his head to look at himself in the mirror.
    His hair looked like the dead rat in his kitchen had danced through it overnight. His face was pasty. His eyes were so full of blood he wondered if there was any left in the rest of him.
    “Okay, Goodnight, you stupid son of a bitch, this is it. Your ass is going to straighten up.”
    He turned on the shower, stepped under the stingy piss trickle. And casting his eyes to the ceiling, dragged off his boxers and the single sock he still wore. He leaned forward so the water that dribbled out of the showerhead dribbled on his hair.
    He was getting out of this dump, first chance. Meanwhile he was going to clean it up. It was one thing to save money living in a piece of shit apartment, and another to let it become a freaking cesspool because he didn’t bother to take care of it.
    It was no way to live, and he was tired of himself for settling. Tired of busting his hump all week, then blowing off the steam with too much beer so he suffered on Sunday mornings.
    It was time to make a move.
    It took him an hour to shower,