I can remember still that first taste. The horrible, naseating, sip that caused me to leave the balcony and go in search of something to mix it with. I’m not sure if it was Jim Beam or Southern Comfort, but that taste is still stuck in the back of my throat. And now its echo sounds at the bottom of my glass.

I’ve been drinking whiskey lately. On the rocks or straight, it doesn’t seem to matter.

My glass is usually plastic. Most sips I enjoy…but some remind me of that first time. It was in my 15th year. I was working the spotlight for our summer theatre group’s production of Neil Simon’s _Star Spangled Girl_. At some point I stepped away from my appointed post and went looking. It was a small theatre that used to house the KKK’s meetings. All I found was a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

Tonight I’ve had two glasses so far. My head is heavy and sad.

That night I finished off the bottle and left with Frank and Billy to find some more. We ended up in Billy’s house in the wee hours of morning prying open the liquor cabinet. And then outside to prance and play. The policeman who found us didn’t seem to enjoy our fun. Frank told him that he would like to die.

I’m not so sure if I should have another drink or cut myself off. I don’t have much to explain right now, just memories and meanderings. Some of me is content, and some of me is numb.

That night ended in the jailhouse. In the morning I was released.

I’m keeping my fingers crossed.