Although he had never been an addict, Robert finally knew what it means to get ‘the shakes.” Not like the shakes he’d get when the drug store hangover remedy start to kick in and force scrub the toxins out of his blood. No there was something more. It just wasn’t the alcohol, though. It was the fear. The fear of failure that people get when they look at that unopened bottle tempting them from their resting places. To fall back into that terrible warm comfort. That burning desire for that cooling fire to calm the flame of nerves and unleash the furnace of the mind. The fear of not being able to resist. For Robert, it was only a temporary halt to his drinking patterns, but the struggle still roared at him. At that moment he had not been drinking for years.
It amazed Robert how much his hands shook. He stared at them as they hovered outstretched in front of his work table. The white, oversized canvas looked down at them as well, blankly. Yep, it seemed to think, your hands are shaking. The artist turned them over, one at a time, and watched them shake in growing horror. The four other canvases did not have much to say. They lie dead, tossed into their corner like a pile of mangled corpses. The liquid of their life leaking into the floor. Splattered on the wall. Their bones broken. Their bodies in a heap.
At first, Robert had been frustrated. Then angry. Furious. The realization set in, that though his commission had been easy, he would not be able to accomplish it as he had promised. He wrung his hands in an attempt to steady, but the emotions kept coming through them.
I need a drink.
His head was cloudy. He wasn’t even aware if he merely thought it, said it aloud, or both. The artist rose from his table and easel. Hugging his hands under his armpits, he slowly turned and left his studio. He did not make an immediate trip to his wine store. Instead, he made a lazy lap around to the living room. He brushed a hand across the costly, but largely neglected, Bose sound system. After wiping the dust off his hand, he switched it on. Prince began singing about his father being too bold and his mother never satisfied.
This is it. This is where I throw in the towel.
Again, he could not recall whether it was said, thought, or both simultaneously. He moved from the living room, through the open dining room, and into the kitchen. In the fridge was the leftover steak and blooming onion he had from Outback several nights ago. He set the containers on the cooking island. Reaching up into one of his cabinets, he pulled down a large plate and a wine goblet.
The artist arranged the steak and fried onions on the plate. He placed the meal in the microwave. A push of the button and the meal would be reheated to sensor-detected perfection. While the plate rotated under the radiation, Robert made his way to the wine store. Or “Library” as he called it. His Liquor Library.
I could lie, he thought. I could have a few drinks and finish the work. It is not due for another couple days, and I could dry up by then. Wine would not do. I need something that will get me loose, but not lose focus.
Doddson selected a bottle of Grey Goose Ducasse from the shelves and brought it back to the kitchen. The plate was still rotating noiselessly inside the futuristic oven when he set the vodka next to the goblet. He watched the dinner, leaning back against the island with the liquor sitting just behind him. In three short minutes, he will be going back to his regular grind of making garbage for decently good money.
His cellphone beat the microwave in the race to beep first. Robert stared at it blankly for a moment. The miniature computer chirped a few more times. Who the hell could be texting me, he thought. Only my last ex-girlfriend had ever sent me this many texts.
Robert walked over to where the device rested on its wireless charger. Professor Eldwyn had blown up his phone in the last few seconds. Robert glanced briefly at his slowly preparing feast before looking back at the phone. He then looked back at his studio and its one remaining blank canvas peaking back at him through the doorframe.
Doddson looked back to the phone. He was suddenly acutely aware that Bon Jovi was singing about Tommy’s job at the docks. The microwave announced that his dinner was ready. Robert quickly unlocked his cellphone and scanned the texts from his former mentor. The posts were pictures rather than actual text. Each one a page of handwritten notes regarding the purging he had “researched.” Somehow, it gave the images more substance than simple print. The handwriting adding a weird level of mystique to the communication.
Robert looked back to the bottle. A moment ago there had been a siren song, but it had quieted to a murmur. For too long had he relied on the tried and reliable method for getting his job done. Right now, he wanted…no wished to create work that was not driven by alcohol. It sparked a wild thought within him.
“I have a few days…” Robert said to himself.
He scanned through the scrawl of handwriting as he walked to the kitchen. From a drawer in the island, he produced a notepad and pencil. The photographed notes were easy to read, but he would need addresses for some of the places. Taking the plate of food into the dining room, he left the bottle and glass sitting on the island.
James C Gilliam 