Love on the Rocks

After my first bite, I knew the food had spoiled during the two days it had sat in the hot sun. I should have known, really; the thin plastic container was no match for the blazing heat of the tropics. But my stomach was beginning to digest itself, and I didn't see any other way to stop it. I peeled the sheet of plastic away and groaned. I wasn't exactly sure what the food was before me, bobbing up and down in a mixture of brown juice and sea water, but I guessed it to be some form of chicken. Planes always seemed to have chicken for dinner.1

I forced it into my mouth and nearly choked as the mass slid down the back of my throat leaving a taste similar to the one that sticks to the roof of your mouth after a night of hugging the toilet.2

I rummaged through the other food containers, looking for something to get the horrid taste out of my mouth. Water was another necessity, and I licked my cracked lips at the thought of a cool drink. After several minutes I found a pack of saltine crackers and a small bottle of vodka. The crackers I inhaled with ease, but the alcohol I set on a large rock just out of reach of the waves.3

A large piece of metal covered a pile of food containers and I strained against its weight. As I lifted it off the water, a foul smell rushed upward with a blast of hot air and what I saw made me sick. I turned and vomited into the water; making note of the fact that the mystery food I had eaten earlier looked very similar the second time.4

The return of my previous meal cured my appetite and made the bottle of vodka look more enticing than ever. It sat on the rock, glistening in the sun like a 24 karat diamond. My hand reached for it, but I quickly withdrew. I had promised my wife. I told her I was done drinking. On the other hand, this was a unique situation; surely she would understand.5

I collapsed to the sand, exasperated and wishing there was some way to please my conscience and my thirst. After several minutes of agonizing self-restraint, I sat up and snatched the cool, refreshing bottle. With shaking hands, I opened the lid and the smell brought back memories of college parties and one night stands. The shaking spread to my feet as I raised the bottle, but before it reached my lips my legs gave out and I fell to the ground. My head slammed into the rock with a resounding crack. Everything went black.6

I awoke to the noise of my alarm. My head throbbed as I opened my eyes to the glare of the clock's fluorescent lights that burned my retinas and followed the nerves to my brain where they exploded like a Fourth of July parade. I threw up my arm to shut off the noise, and as I did my hand knocked over a bottle that sat on the table. The glass shattered as it hit the floor, and the clear liquid seeped into the cracked hardwood. 7

The smell of alcohol filled the room and I looked down at the broken bottle of vodka. I shook my head and collapsed onto my pillow that smelled like a soured microwave chicken meal. With a shout I turned on the lamp and cursed when I saw the familiar stain of vomit on my pillowcase. I hurled the pillow across the room, collapsed onto the empty bed, and stared at the ceiling.8

She was gone. The best thing that ever happened to me was on the first flight out of the city. All because I couldn't leave the bottle. My old man said it would be the end of me. Guess I should have listened. Somewhere in the distance sirens wailed and as I fell asleep I could hear the sound of waves crashing against a rocky shoreline.