LatinosUSA

I open the refrigerator door and peek
inside. My beer is there. Good. I feel
a sense of relief, as if a balance has
been achieved. I have to keep at least
three 24-ounce Bud Lights on hand
for each evening. But I cheated this
time, substituting a 32-ounce Miller
Lite for one of the Buds. More beer
that way, an additional margin of
safety. And it’s low-calorie, too, so it’s
all good.

I grab a huge pork steak out of the
meat tray and slap it into the big
skillet, turn on the flame and wait.
In a few minutes, it is sizzling. In
deference to a balanced diet, so-
called, I empty a can of whole kernel
corn into the skillet once the steak
is nearly done, drizzle Worcestershire
sauce over the food and stir.

After supper, I grab a Bud and head
upstairs to my bedroom. The
mattress, nine years old, is ripped
in places and tilts precipitously,
having lost some of its slats over the
last decade. I sit on the bed, facing
my PC, which is sitting on a wobbly
card table. I rip open the beer and
take a long, cold drink.

Taking up the old cigar box, I peer
inside, take out the small soapstone
pipe, and check the Baggie containing
the pot. Not much left, so I decide to
save it for when Melanie comes over
tonight. Very big of me, I think.

I flip on the computer and play Grand
Theft Auto V for an hour. Then Mel shows
up. We talk, kid around a little, smoke
up the reefer, and toot her half gram of
blow. Then–as my mother might say–
we fornicate about as enthusiastically as
two stoned middle-aged people can.
Which is to say, not so much. I’m getting
old, I think.

After Mel leaves–she never stays over,
saying “That’s for when we’re married” —
I take a hot shower, feel the scalding
water wash away the day’s residue.
Next, I vigorously towel off, thinking how
much nicer it would be if my girlfriend
would only stay the night. I sigh, shake
my head.

Pulling open the medicine cabinet, I
reach in and extract a half-filled bottle
of Nyquil and drain the bottle. Any more,
and the cold medicine would have the
opposite effect and keep me up all night.
And I can’t have that.

Finally, I grab the 32-ounce can of Miller
Lite and pull the tab. It hisses sibilantly.
I lie back in my empty bed, turn on the
local PBS station, and watch old reruns of
Doctor Who. And I wonder, have I peaked
at forty?

Previously published in “Children, Churches and Daddies.”