The house was old but not impressive by anyone's standards. It needed a coat of paint and some boards on the porch replaced, all things he said he'd get done, but never did. The inside wasn't much better with overflowing ashtrays and dishes left unwashed in the sink. A round table with burn spots from a discarded cigarette, and a block of wood under one leg to level it, along with another empty promise to fix it. It was a gathering place for anyone who happened by, as long as they came with a six-pack in hand.
Time had taken over as the once beautiful, blond, and handsome man drank themselves to addiction with no desire to stop, their good looks replaced with the looks of someone who didn't care anymore as long as the glass was full and a carton of Lucky Strikes was always within reach.
He had a knack for making things out of other things, like coffee cans painted different colors that he'd run through with strings of lights and hanging them on the porch. He made windchimes out of kitchen utensils and ashtrays out of hubcaps.
She was a small woman who, on most days, never got dressed but instead chose to wear pajamas in children's sizes and dirty, fuzzy slippers. It was her dad who started her drinking at the age of thirteen, and she never had a desire to stop. They met in a bar, like many did back in the day. He was funny and smart, not to mention his handsome looks, which won her over at first sight. They danced the night away with dozens of dead soldiers on the bar and a final last call for alcohol as they drank up and left the bar to head home.
She married her handsome man and gave birth to a son who followed closely in their footsteps, starting to drink at the kitchen table and occasionally bringing home a six-pack to their delight. He was fourteen years of age.
Music was a big part of their lives, with singers like Nat King Cole and Johnny Mathis, and for the kid, Elvis was king. He taught himself to play the guitar and became very good at it, telling his parents someday soon he'd drop out of school and put together a band that he hoped would lead him to stardom. Those dreams were shattered on a cold and slippery night when he and his buddies were all killed in a horrific crash.
They drank even more after that, never letting a glass become empty or running out of Lucky Strikes. Both claiming sobriety would kill them if they had to relive their tragedy sober, so they drank and lived with the never-ending pain of two broken hearts.
He couldn't hold down a job for very long, as his breath reeked of booze more often than not, so he jumped from one place to another, eventually landing a job as a used car salesman in a low-budget car lot. He had the gift of gab, and people liked him, especially his boss, who kept a bottle of whiskey in a desk drawer, where, after closing, they would have a few snorts together. He was making enough money to keep his wife in smokes and beer and to do some of the things he'd been putting off for time unknown. But he didn't.
He eventually met someone who, surprisingly, bore a striking resemblance to his wife. She was twenty years younger, but that didn't matter to him. He started coming home in the early morning hours, sometimes later, as she sat at the table, pouring the first of many drinks and waiting for him to return, but he never did.
Some say she moved a few counties away to live with her sister, and he found a small house to rent where he and his girl would live. He moved his belongings and took the kitchen table, which had burn spots, and a block of wood to level it. People stopped by bringing a six-pack and maybe some cigarettes they could snuff out in the giant ashtray he had made all those years ago. Life was good until his drinking finally killed him, but he claimed he had a wild ride and he'd never change one thing about it. Isn't life grand?
Mike 2025
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