Sobering Up
a small wooden pub with a beer tap on every table;
four beers in, I was already feeling the effects.
I pictured Emily sitting across from me, instead of the friends
I’d gone out with for a couple of beers; how we’d have broken all
the pub’s records
(they had a screen on the wall, the all-time record was 35L
by a group who knows how large),
how we’d have loved the ability not to chase down
bartenders more willing to flirt (or drink themselves to a stupor)
than do their fucking job.
few beers in, and my liver began protesting; growing soft,
losing my former championship shape. am I still
a pro, as a few bartenders used to tell me?
do I still have it?
the answer’s probably no, it hurts.
no more chasing the perpetual drunk while able
to function amidst the cloud of inebriation.
I sit sober now, too, recalling the hangover mornings
of pro wrestling and vodka-and-orange juice,
barely able to breathe, let alone walk,
and yet, I’d always find myself back to the bars come afternoon.
I needed the drink; I still need it, I just don’t have it anymore.
speeding towards the age of 28, just a couple of months to join
the CLUB, despite my being no musician, nor exceptionally talented.
I smell bourbon; the bar across the street, a fancy establishment
for Lamborghini-driving motherfuckers, is about to open.
I should go talk to the bartender about the possibility of replacing him.
could I work in a bar, without drinking myself to oblivion every night?
once, I just drank bars dry. oh, the irony, having to be the sober
man serving drinks to carefree drunks and rich assholes.
the coffee’s strong, I’ve nothing to do but dream of other nights and days,
early afternoons of tequila, late nights of bourbon.
I might be going out tonight too, with friends once more. and after a few beers in,
I’ll be ready to be tucked in and soundly sleeping. no more
aimless wandering through the dark streets, drunk, ready to fuck and punch.
lighting a cigarette, in the blue smoke once more I see
Emily’s eyes. almost sense her lips on mine. tasting cheap bourbon
and even cheaper cocaine.
love, I failed you; doing the one thing I promised I’d never do
the night before we went to the abortion clinic and lost it all.
I’m growing up, getting old as fuck; paying the price
of years-long stupors and failed love affairs that’d never replace
what we had.
it’s alright; I’ll just drink my coffee for now, try to make it
in the sex-novel business. soon, and certainly long before I make it to 30,
I’ll either be next to you in the Devil-dealing poker table,
or, in a rundown strip joint, drinking pimps under the table
and comforting dancers that are just too sick of cheap assholes.
©2024 George Gad Economou All rights reserved.
Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press) and Reeling Off the Barstool (Dumpster Fire Press). His words have also appeared, amongst other places, in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.
