Whiskey Sour

Whiskey Sour

By

Matt McGuire

It all came to a head one Friday night after prom.

Flack and I were cruising the strip late, the remaining night before us not too bright with possibilities save a fifth of Jack and a bottle of Sun Drop we kept passing back and forth in the sporadic strobe glow from the clipping streetlights. We pulled into a Superette for a piss and some gas, planning on finishing up the night chipping golf balls into the Christmas trees around Flack's house and telling lies.

I poured myself out the side of Flack's Toyota and towards the station, headed to the toilet when I saw Liz Scott's Subaru in my periphery parked beneath a busted Shell sign. I stood for a moment with the steel door of the store propped open and the air conditioning filtering out as the gray, falcon nosed attendant stared at me and my sideswiped Raiders hat with a look of,

Shit or get off the pot young man.

I let go the door and walked fake sober over to Liz's driver side and peered in. She lay unconscious through the fresh dew on the window
with what looked like a twelve pack of Busch Light cans strewn through the car and a large, nickel plated revolver resting in her lap.

I tapped the glass three times and she awakened, bleary, grasping the pistol and shoving open the door, knocking me back and towards the
station. She began waving the gun above her head and let loose a round into the sky before she levelled the barrel at me and said,

You...

I put up my hands, sober instantly and tried to make the words come but they wouldn't.

You...

Her eyes spelled murder and her fingers closed around the trigger, ever tighter, tears pouring from the sides of her face, and all I
could think was, just go ahead and fucking do it, I'm done, lights out, when she put the barrel to her temple and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Liz crumpled in a pile of peach top and jean skirt as I ran towards her, snatching the pistol away and tossing it into the
bushes. I carried her to Flack's truck and screamed GO as we jetted from the scene with blue lights and sirens beginning to appear over
the ridge.

I held Liz as she cried and tore at my shirt, my gold chain coming apart in her fingers as she fought my embrace and pleaded with me to
leave her, somewhere, anywhere but there, against her will, in my arms, doing 90 through the dark dodging the cops and taking the backroads to Flack's house.

We made it somehow and I carried Liz, asleep now, to Flack's bed and tucked her in before crashing on a couch in my clothes.

She was gone when I awakened. I prodded Flack on the sofa adjacent and he just kicked my hand away and went back to sleep.

I ran my fingers through my hair in the driveway, cursing, wondering, and shivering in a Crazy Horse tee in the cool morning before kneeling down and picking up a half-smoked Dunhill crushed out on the pavement. I tossed it off towards the trees with a sigh and went back inside, laid down on the couch, and closed my eyes till the phone rang.

I jumped up and snatched the receiver off the wall with a,

Yeah?

I'm sorry about last night.

What the fuck Liz? You could have killed me, or worse, you could have
killed you.

I know. *tears*

What is going on? Why? Liz, why??

Just don't tell anyone. It could ruin my father. Goodbye, Marko.

Click.

Two weeks to graduation. Two weeks. I chanted this as a mantra as I poured myself the last of the Jack Daniels in a Dixie Cup and bolted
it with my eyes shut, and her face, murderous and tear soaked, indelible, neon, and nickel plate glared back at me in the forefront of my weary mind.