Page 8 - By Any Other Name Fall 2017 Lit Mag

Page 7 By Any Other Name

Thoughts from the Bottom of a shot, but the bad you’d find in someone who drinks beers
to sober up, much to the dismay of those I call friends and
Glass family, I might add.
Believe me when I say that I’m well-knowledgeable
By Alex Stewart, Grade 11 about the fine establishments around town. The ones that
have rotted planks for counters and the occasional week’s
Since the time God purged the world with the wa- worth of grime in the top-shelf gin. The place I go to is some
ters of redemption, people have drunk themselves stupid tiny, run-down dive near downtown, at least that’s what I
to get away from the realities of the world. The brews have thought. Turns out, the inside of this place stretches for-
changed radically enough, but it’s always been the same ever. I haven’t seen the back wall in all my time here, but I
concept; some choose to drink alone, and others pretend still remember the days when I went so far back, I couldn’t
to drink as a social activity. In any case the effect is the see the light of day from the windows. But I’m getting ahead
same. You can’t think straight, can’t see straight, can’t walk of myself—you’ll want to hear this from the beginning.
straight— soon enough you’re not anything anymore. From It was the same day I’d lived for years when I’d sat
then on, all you can do is pray that you haven’t gone too down that afternoon. Nondescript brew in my hand, empty
far, that you won’t collide with anything else, that you won’t feeling in my gut, followed by a not-quite-as-empty feel-
screw up your life in a single night— that eventually you’ll ing as I found myself with an empty glass in hand, and the
wake up. bartender needed no instructions—the glasses fill too fast
As for me, I’d like to think of myself as a social pub to ever be without a drink. The same people were always
dweller, talking more than I drank, and only drinking in pubs, here, always intoxicated, and always bottled up when their
never in private. Truth is, most nights I did both, and by now bottles were up, not that I tried talking to them either— I
my liver was so burnt-out you could serve it in some fancy was usually my own company, and a party of one is easy to
French restaurant next to a glass of house red. At least I’d entertain.
built up some self-control over the years; on a good day, I
can even walk myself out the door. It wasn’t all that long Thoughts from the Bottom of a Glass,
ago that I was even worse. Much worse. It was bad—not Continued on Page 8...
the bad you’d find in some college-aged, big-mouthed hot

(Above) The Monument of Our Existence, Natalie Soto, Grade 12, Charcoal and digital media.