I lay in bed that night, a first-time drunkard at seven years of age, pondering the punishment I knew would arrive on callused palms. In the forest, as if sensing my plight, wolves howled nocturnal laments. The magnificent lunar lullabies of my lupine brethren wooed me into a deep and cleansing sleep.
Texting and phone calls, fireworks, blends, café au lait, and music. Yesterday's television. Work and beer. The neighbor's dog, or those strange flowers, the way it smells at Maisen. Those ordinary things I talk about with you. With you... I want to talk about love with you.
Sex parties, alcohol and drugs lost their appeal to Sven after a while. Music never did, in his continual search for that sober connection--intimacy with one person over a long period of time, as opposed to periods of intimacy with a bunch of random faces.
The God gene, the God particle – the human predisposition to believe and the makeup of the universe finally discovered, all that is now needed is a complementary coping mechanism to spark the seraphic neuron – God gin. When the time is right the last prophet – a humble basement-brewer inspired with the perfect bathtub – will arise to distribute the good message in his bottles and have us continually singing His praises in the karaoke bar. With the harshness of ethanol, the burning ones will envelop the crowd with ‘holies’ of love, zeal, and surround sound.
Mr Cobb was my escort. Such a nice escort, Mr Cobb. So attentive. You should see him sober. I should see him sober. Somebody should see him sober. I mean, just for the record. So it could become a part of history, that brief flashing moment, soon buried in time, but never forgotten - when Larry Cobb was sober.
Did Ida never look for him?" Dieter asks.
"She didn't believe in spirits."
"And what became of Henry?"
"Oh. From time to time you can still hear him calling. My father heard his voice himself."
"Every Saturday night when he came home drunk," Frieda says.
Need 'nether whiskey. Whiskey chaser. Gotta get two men drunk.'
Mr. Cohan placed both hands on the bar. 'Mr. Walsh,' he said severely, 'in Gavagan's we will serve a man a drink to wet his whistle, or even because his old woman has pasted him with a dornick, but a drink to get drunk with I do not sell. Now I'm telling you you've had enough for tonight, and in the morning you'll be thanking me...' ("My Brother's Keeper")