The Drink by Huey Boyd

“Be careful in the shed.” Mother said to him. The man slotted his plate next to the other dirty dishes, still covered with leftover chunks of chewed beef and sludgy brown carrots. The remaining liquid slid off the sheet-white dishes like mud off a cow’s backside. They piled up together in a row, forming a perfectly neat array of unclean crockery. The man turned to Mother; her spectacles fixated on the plate she held in her hand. “Are Dad’s bikes still there?” He asked gently. She turned to face him. Yet, her eyes immediately darted down to the bottom of the floor. The man looked down at her, her platinum curly hair frizzled in front of him.  “Mum?” He asked. She lifted her head. “Yes, they are. Just be careful when you  go in.” The man nodded. He knew that Mother had been meaning to clear out the shed for a while now. Those once chrome-black and metallic silver Harleys were now covered with the cancer that consumes every vehicle when its time comes for disarray.  

The man thought of when he had first entered the shed. Father had brought him down there. 3 in the afternoon, the warm sun was slowly setting towards the hour.  Both trudged their way up the hill, the long, thick grass practically penetrating their beige boots. “Come now, son.” Father had said. He had reached the door  before his son, opening it with a small struggle. The man remembered vividly  what caught his eye. The sharp piercing of the silver on the wheel, practically  blinding him with its impressiveness. Chrome black, adorned with years of prized  possessions welded onto the sides, slanted to the side like a casual introduction  at a bar. Father turned to his son. The man, nothing but a young boy back then,  looked up at Father like a dog waiting for dinner. “A man is always defined by two  things, son. The woman he marries, and the vehicle he mounts himself to. This,  my son, is mine.” He grabbed the handlebar leaning to the right, looking down at  his son and smiling. “I raised you the exact same way my father raised me. Yet, I  can only teach you so much. It’s up to you what kind of vehicle defines you.”  Those words hit the young boy like spiders with daggers for legs. And he stared at  that wonder for many more hours.  

The man snapped out of his musings and stared back at Mother. Those days were  long gone now. It was just him and Mother. A simple, quiet life. “I love you, Mum. I  hope you know that.” Planting a kiss on Mother’s head, the man embarked on his  

small journey towards the back sliding door. The sun was as low as it had been  the day that Father had first taken him to the shed. The man closed the door  tightly, locking it with ferocity. He turned around to face the hill, the very same hill 

that he had hoped he’d never see again in adulthood. Yet here he was, facing it  like he had all those years ago. He sighed, the weight pummelling down on his  shoulders. With that, he made his way up the hill. As he expected, it was just as  difficult as he anticipated. As he remembered. His middle-age certainly didn’t  help, and his beautifully crafted leather jacket was of certain not appropriate for  the conditions of the afternoon sun. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck,  running down to his back and making him tingle with nervousness. He reached  behind his thick, bushy hair and wiped the sweat from his neck, flicking it to the  grass.  

The sun beamed down heavily, practically compromising the man’s journey. He  turned around and sighed. His house, now the size of a notebook. He nodded his  head, turning back around. The shed was calling now. The man wasted no time,  rushing to the door and opening it with the greatest of ease. The sun faded away,  and the man locked the door with intention. It was almost as if he was now  sealed off from the outside world. Just the way he liked it. The man turned  around, catching the full glory of the shed. The rusted brown Harley lay in the  same position as it had done for decades: slanted to one side, about to fall over  at any moment. To the right of the expired dump, a small, neatly organized mini  bar sat patiently, lined with clear glasses of the solution to life’s problems. To the  left of the Harley, nothing but tools and drills remained. A shell of what they used  to be. Adorned with choice, the man made his way to the right of the shed.  

The man stepped behind the bar, grabbing a large bottle. He didn’t even bother  grabbing a shot glass. Not after everything else. All he needed was a bar and a  beer. Nothing else. The glass froze his hand, a pleasant change from the hot  summer heat. The small droplets of gorgeous condensation ran down the man’s  hands like cool sweat. Expecting to cut himself as he opened the bottle, the man  tossed the small cap aside. He made his way to the front of the bar, sitting alone  as he began to consume his beer. Immediately, he felt the intensity of the first  sip. The liquid burned its way down his throat, melting his insides as it made its  way down to his stomach. It boiled as it entered, the man was disturbed at first.  He looked at the label. “Huh.” He said out loud. “Exactly what I need.” And with  that, he downed another sip.  

But the man’s head began to race. It began to bubble, bubble, boil and brew. His  memories plagued his vision as he closed his eyes. He shook his head, downing  another sip. Trying to push it away. Trying to forget. His hand slammed down on  the table, popping up like a cranberry tart. His mind raced back to Sister. Oh, how  he had tried to forget that day. What he had seen. What he wasn’t meant to see.  The man lifted the bottle again, taking another and forcing it down his throat. But  it wasn’t working like he thought. Sister was still there, her flowing black hair, her 

light and pure smile. She grabbed at his brain viciously, the memory clouding his  sense of worth. The man still remembered that day. He remembered hearing the  running of the water, the screeching of the bathroom taps. He recalled the  opening of the door, and the horror that befell him as he laid eyes upon Sister.  The last time he ever saw her. It wasn’t long before the memory played out as  Mother entered the bathroom as well, cradling poor Sister. The man shook his  head again, hoping this next sip would save him. But it didn’t. Mother’s cries  echoed throughout his head, Sister’s light grey eyes forever closed as the water  vomited red. Mother cradled Sister, her sobs becoming loud enough to wake the  dead.  

The man drank more, more than he wanted. But he needed more. He couldn’t  bare to remember Sister like that. If only he could’ve helped her. If only he had  intervened. His father’s words repeated to him, about his future. About himself.  About what being a man in this world meant. “A man always prioritises his family,  son.” Father had said. “No matter what else enters his life, a man’s duty is to his  family.” The man couldn’t bare to think of it now. He drank more, finishing the  bottle just as Sister faded from his mind. The man chucked the bottle away,  burying his head in his hands. His breaths became heavier, like the pounding of  his heart would make him burst at any moment. He raced up and grabbed  another bottle, opening it with no difficulty. The man didn’t even bother going  back to the table. The floor was the only option. Not the table. The table  triggered. And that was not what he wanted.  

The man plunked himself down on the floor, drinking the beer and leaning against  the table. He still needed to hold himself up. The man cradled his arm, taking sip  after sip. This was not what he needed right now. He needed nothing. He just  needed nothing. He stared with anxious disappointment at the beer, beginning to  think that his actions were in vein. Yet, he took another sip. He breathed softly,  the sips becoming easier to swallow. The man’s head raced down memory lane  yet again.  

The papers came at him head on; he had no way to expect it. After all those  years, all that time, all that work. It had all broken. For nothing. It was all in vein.  Before the man knew it, he was sleeping in alleyways, the bottle being his only  source of comfort. Begging for scraps like a rat, becoming scragglier and more  worthless as the days went on. The work of it, moving from town to town and  house to house. It was like slow burning calories one by one with a magnifying  glass. Wiped out. No sleep. And heavy breaths consuming your words. Even  when he thought he had found hope, he knew it was too good to be true the  second he opened the door. Christmas ain’t easy when you can’t pay the rent. 

Circumstances shrouded the man’s mind as he continued to drink. The beer was  not enough anymore. Sister kept coming back, Landlord laying every single  punishment his twisted mind could think of. The man had no choice but to get  back to his feet. He stared at the fridge, begging him over. It whispered silently.  The man’s thoughts had faded. His mind was gone. His thoughts were numb. All  that mattered to him now… was that bar.  

The night waned on. Minutes became hours, and hours became… well, more  hours. Bottle after bottle, wife after wife, death after death. It all came crashing  down on the man like a tsunami wave. Everything in his life had centred itself  right here in this very shed. Father was with the Lord now, stripped of his  gorgeous existence too soon. Sister now an angel, as she always had been in life.  The man’s head soon became clouded. He drank, more and more and more. He  didn’t even bother to check. Each time the man got up; his footing became  disoriented. A deep cut ran down his temples, quite an astonishing gift from the  edge of the table. The man was a walking zombie. His eyes glazed over with the  fragility of his thinking. His hair wired, frizzy like Mother’s. His beard, unkempt  and split. Dizziness consumed his brain. The man was just in the middle of  another bottle when the others came out of him. The man’s noises were  sickening, even more than Father’s as he lay in the car, broken and bloodied with  shards of glass protruding from his retinas. The man’s previous drinks fell out of  his mouth, thick with blood and screaming with appeal. The man continued,  raising the end of the bottle to his lips. His eyes shut as the liquid entered his  stomach yet again. It no longer burned his throat. It comforted his hopelessness.  

A single bottle lay on the small table next to the bar. The shrieking sounds of the  man’s nails pierced the air as he crawled across the floor. His shoes scraped  against the concrete; his hair covered in his own vomit. The man desperately  reached for the bottle, missing it a total of five times. His vision fading in an out of  existence, he managed to grab the bottle. His eyes rolled over and crossed, his  head becoming harder and harder to hold up. The man’s mouth couldn’t even  function anymore. Raising the bottle, he wrapped his lips round the edge like had  all night. With all his strength, he took one more sip. This one pushed the man  down on the ground with the same ferocity he had used to lock the door. The man  lay on the floor, more of his other drinks shooting out of his already pale lips.  Sliming all over his face, his head rolled side to side with no sense of direction.  He tried, desperately, to make a thought enter his mind. Mother. He thought. He  was livid, yet his stupor didn’t let him show it. His head began to fade, and his 

eyes began to close. The man knew he would end up like this one day. All those  papers, all those apartments, all those Sisters and Fathers and Wives and  Landlords. All had amounted to this very moment. This was destiny. This was  meant to be. Mother would probably see him like this, but he wasn’t worried  about her anymore. He wasn’t worried about anything anymore. He was finished.  He was free.  

The bottle exploded as the shards plummeted to the ground, the man’s head still  rolling side to side dizzily. His chunky vomit covered his mouth. The man reached  up to get rid of it, but he felt his arm fall flat. His head began to slow down, his  mind now a little calmer. His body. It was slow. It was… peaceful. He lay silently,  the broken bottle still in his hand. He sighed heavily, his breath escaping his body  easily. He thought of Father, how he had brought him into this shed all those  years ago. How he had longed to share many memories on this gorgeous farm  with him. But of course, he never got that chance. He thought of Sister. How she  had such a future ahead of her. How she was ready for the mundanity but  excitement that is life. Or maybe that was what he thought. He had, after all,  underestimated her greatly.  

And he thought of Mother. How she had been there for him through it all. How she  had always been able to console him, make him feel as if he was worth  something. A shame it was, really, that her efforts had been for nothing. The  man’s heart yearned for Mother but was slowly fading from earshot. The man  sighed again, peacefully waiting for everything to leave. And with a sigh, he felt it.  His fingers stopped, his head lay still, and everything went black.