I have never been very good at math because there is no way to con yourself through a math equation. Art and Literature, on the other hand, are a con job that just gets easier discussing a painting over a disposable cup of cheap wine, or a few pints of beer nestled shoulder to shoulder like comrades, planning a literary uprising. These are the glamorous depictions of a healthy artistic drinking habit, swilling a boxed burgundy around the bottom of a clear plastic cup while saying things like: “It shows an excellent sense of negative capability”.
I didn’t drink like that.
Fireball was my latest thing, not because I liked the cloying sweetness of the cinnamon flavored syrup, but because I needed the respite of the cheap corn whiskey. The grocery store service counter sold the little bangers for ninety-nine cents a pop, plus applicable taxes. The sin tax.
Generally levied against activities that are considered morally questionable, the sin tax is applied to alcohol, tobacco, sugary sodas, or pornography. It’s easier to raise the local sin tax than it is to raise other taxes because it mostly affects degenerates like drunks, junkies, fatties, perverts, etc.
A few years back they raised the sin tax as a temporary measure to help with downtown infrastructure projects. They never bothered to lower it. It’s easier to make the drunks and smokers pay than it is to make Bezos and his Amazombies pony up for their fair share of the transportation budget. As a drinker and a smoker, I paid a helluva lot of sin tax, but what was I going to do, quit?
I couldn’t get straight until I had the first one, my hands rattled pouring hot water into my instant coffee crystals. I retched quietly when I brushed my teeth, looking up into my own sunken, sallow, bloodshot eyes. I rushed out the front door every morning feigning that I had a bus to catch, when in fact I just needed to rush across the street for my eye-opener. I generally picked up at least half a dozen of the bangers just to start my day and get me through my shift. The first one went down before I lit my first cigarette, ironically, to settle my stomach.
The first bunch found their way into trashcans, crumpled into paper towels at a hand washing, or slugged back in the walk-in while retrieving a tray of burger patties. I liked the bottles because they laid flat in my pockets and the cinnamon smelled better when wearing a mask all day. It was like stealth drinking.
Somewhere in my whiskey vague brain, I assumed that everyone at work thought I had particularly fresh breath, not understanding that alcohol evaporates faster than water and standing over the grill I probably smelled like a distillery, sweating straight forty proof.
I grabbed a tall boy “walking beer” on the stroll home from work. Most days it was a Mike’s hard liquor or some other fruity fortified malt beverage. Anybody driving by would just assume that it was an energy drink of some sort. I strolled home with an open container because Hell, I paid my sin taxes. It went down quick and easy and again, I figured nobody would smell it. Apparently, as a smoker and drunk, I didn’t have a lot of faith in most people’s olfactory acuity.
I drank because I didn’t drive. I didn’t drive because every vehicle I own needs a few minor repairs. I couldn’t justify buying parts because I didn’t make enough money. All the money I did make went into buying liquor or cigarettes. I drank because I didn’t have the money to fix my vehicles, and I didn’t have money to fix my vehicles because I drank. Meanwhile, I spent a thirty percent tax on every tiny bottle that I purchased, anonymously paying a paving company to lay fresh asphalt.
I built roads that I couldn’t ride and I drank my motorcycle parts away one single banger shot at a time.
Andrew Tomacelli 