text: The yellow palm-tree-topped swizzle stick rests against the rim of the glass. Taking the nauseatingly cheerful ornament between my fingers, I give the liquid a swirl and curse the excessive number of mint leaves. I ordered a drink, not a salad. The bartender, noticing my crinkled muzzle, tries to slip by to evade my foreseeable complaint, but I flag her down before she can escape. “Think you can manage a whiskey on the rocks, sweetheart? Whatever kind’s cheapest.” She nods her head without attempting a smile and scoots away to the bar. I watch as she whispers behind a menu with the other blonde who works weeknights. Fuckin bitch. My blue fingertips patter anxiously against the wooden table, and I notice the dirt crusted beneath my nails. I haven’t had a proper shower today, and though I can’t smell it, I know I’m wearing the odor of the previous night. With no watch on my wrist, I estimate the time to be early afternoon, and yet the place is crowded. That’s part of the reason I chose to move down here. Not the only reason, but one of them. The bars serve early and stay open until even earlier, only closing their doors when the sunlight overtakes the shadows. The repetitive reggaetón collides with the Spanish spoken across the room. Despite the noise, my lack of comprehension allows my mind to drown out the sound. My own thoughts push outward, and I am suddenly aware of my ever-present headache. A couple of white guys in cargo shorts push through the front entrance. Their too-sharp buzz cuts mark them as military, eliciting memories of my own time in the service. ... “Texy Baby, you’re gonna win us some money tonight!” “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” I take a hefty swig of my crown and coke. “Slow down, will ya? See that guy over there, the real scary looking son-of-a-bitch?” “Yeah, I see ‘em.” “I bet him and his whole gang that you’d outdrink him. Shot for shot. A hundred dollars--I said slow down! I already put my money down on you, dammit, Tex, slow down!” “Don’t need to.” “That’s the spirit, now!” He slaps me on the back, and I lower my empty glass to the counter. “Last time, Bucko. I’m not doin’ this every port call, now. Hell, I’m basically payin’ your bills--” “Yeah, yeah, I know, Tex. Last time just like last time,” he says and winks at me as he guides me out of my chair by the shoulders. ... The guys used to get the biggest kick out of buying me drinks all night and using the breathalyzer from the boarding kit to check my blood alcohol content. “A point three-eight! Unfuckingbelievable, this guy!” “Tex, look at the tip of this pen--“ “His pupils aren’t even dilated!” “He’s not even fuckin’ drunk!” Superhuman, they’d call me. I haven’t seen Bucko, or any of my old Coast Guard buddies for that matter, in decades. I only did eight years before I got discharged. It wasn’t the alcohol that got me in trouble, believe it or not. I got booted after I decided to solve an argument onboard with my fists, and that was that. “Your whiskey on ice.” “Another one, please,” I say as I empty the glass in one swallow. The bartender looks at me with astonishment and revulsion and hurries off again. I stare at the familiar mural painted on the wall, hoping for a slight blurring of the lines, but the colors remain as sharp as ever. I used to be able to feel tipsy, but I haven’t been able to feel anything for several years. Not since before I moved down here. By the time I returned to the civilian world, word had gotten around and videos had been shared online about my extraordinary alcohol tolerance. World Records contacted me and requested to document my record-breaking “skill.” They later called me back to inform me that they couldn’t move forward with the record. They said that they didn’t want to be responsible for condoning alcoholism. At any rate, I had become quite famous, and several liquor brands offered to sponsor me. I made good money doing interviews and appearances. ... A tourist couple settles at the table next to me, and the woman looks familiar. Those hazel eyes framed by laugh lines and that frizzy brown hair pulled up into a bun remind me of Laura, and I have to look away. I stare back at the mural, urging it to swirl, but it refuses. Little moments of Laura start spilling into my skull, and I’m immediately pissed that I don’t yet have a drink in front of me. I snap at the bartender to hurry up, and she ignores me from a safe distance. I push past the painful image of meeting Laura, a pretty girl, irritated and covered in tire grime, trying to fix her own flat on the side of the road. My too-sober brain recaps our marriage. ... Our little yellow house was quaint. Even though I had enough money to fund her dream home, she refused to live in anything “too over the top.” It sat at the edge of town, next to the Caravan Woods. From the dining table, I’d tell her fantastical tales of adventurers, psychics, or heroes as she prepared supper. She loved my stories most of all. Laura was the only person on earth who could be captivated by a make-believe magical character, while not being the slightest bit impressed by my real-life superpower. But Laura did not celebrate my drinking habit along with the rest of the country. Though it paid the bills, she thought it unnecessary. At first, she hadn’t condemned my work openly, but over time, I watched her frustration grow. The final straw came when a group of local teenagers died in a car accident after a bout of underage drinking. The driver, a 17-year-old boy, had been a fan of mine, as it turned out. The parents of the victims called for my arrest. They wanted to see me held responsible. But there is no law against being a bad example for young people, so the local police ignored their petitions. ... My drink is deposited in front of me. I let the recognizable burn splash down my throat. ... The heat from the flames warmed my entire body like the liquor that had birthed the fire as I watched from the road. The destruction spread to the woods as I waited for help from the Fire Department that never came. ... Another intoxicated vacationer stumbles away from the bar and staggers over to my table. “This seat taken?” “No.” “They really pour ‘em strong here, don’t they?” he asks as he leans closer to my face. With his jolly demeanor and red cheeks, he looks like a fucked up Santa Claus. “Sure.” “Cheers to getting drunk as lords tonight!” He offers his glass, and I raise mine in return. “There's no other way.”