I Drink Gin

I drink gin.  I also drink microbrews and red wine, PBR and tequila.  But when I mean business I drink gin.  When I put my shit-kickers one and accessorize with my don’t-fuck-with-me face, I drink gin.  Tanqueray.  It smells like Christmas.  And I like the green bottle with the red seal that looks a bit like my family crest. 

I am nursing a Tanqueray and tonic in a dying hole-in-the-wall on a rainy Monday night.  It could be anywhere but it’s here.  A jazz quartet is picking out Thelonious Monk’s ‘Round Midnight.  The warm, wet smell of summer rain slinks down the stairs.  A lady in a bottle green dress, sliding down the stairs to remind the dark drinkers that the world outside is alive. 

The drummer looks like he’s about to fall asleep.  Or pass out.  Or kick the bucket.  I’m uncertain which.  The redhead down the bar sits up straight and stares ahead.  She’s calculated and self-conscious.  She’s picking the ice out of her highball glass and crunching it uncertainly.  They say that’s bad for your teeth.  She seems normal enough but she’s got that crazy rider look in her green eyes.  She’s dark.

Dark-complexioned, a man sitting in the corner is smokes a Parliament.  “Drug addict cigarettes,” I remember.  His lids are half closed doors with children eyes peaking around the corner watching the parent’s party.  The smoke unfurls around him like a burlesque dancer in a cabaret show.  She reaches around the two-day stubble on his neck and traces a line from ears to chin. 

The redhead gets up and leaves.  Parliament follows.  I drink gin.