"Whiskey"

About two months ago in class, we did a 'Gunkholing' exercise--basically, each of us picked a word out of a jar, and we had to write a story about whatever came to mind. Most of the people who picked words related to alcohol had hilarious tales to tell about unwanted hangovers, ridiculous behavior, and total I-really-did-NOT-do-that moments. 


Needless to say, I picked the word "Whiskey"--however, I went an entirely different route than my classmates did:

I'm discarded, forgotten, sitting atop a high shelf in the dining room. Twins, a boy and a girl, crawl along the carpet, hands playing with anything in their path, weird gurgling sounds coming from the small openings of their mouths. I watch them, through the glass of my prison, thinking ruefully that their parents won't touch or drink me for weeks. I blame the kids entirely.

I'm half-empty, waiting for a purpose, waiting to soothe a depression, burn a sore throat, or complete a celebration. My buddy, Captain Morgan, sits next to me, tall and strong, watching the babies with contempt as well. We are both equally ignored, equally placed out of reach; the empty shot glasses grate annoyingly against my side, a reminder of good days past.

The teenager in the living room gets up, tiptoeing around the twins, eyeballing the clock and the front door nervously. What is he doing? He reaches up and grabs my neck and I swoosh, swoosh inside my container. Excited by the attention, I look up at the Captain with triumph.

Triumph is cut short when I'm poured into a juice cup, however. A juice cup?! No respect, I think grudgingly. This kid has no idea what he's doing. He looks around as if someone is at home watching him, and quickly takes a sip.

I burn his tongue and throat and he spits me out all over the kitchen sink, while coughing up a lung. The babies start crying from the dining room, as a part of me that I'll never get back lies glistening in a million fragments in the stainless steel sink. The teenager hacks some more, drinks some water, and quickly goes to attend to the babies, red-faced.

Please put me back on the shelf, I plead silently. I'm a game for grown-ups, a tosser for the experienced, a shot for the daring--not for a teenaged moron who's supposed to be babysitting. Five minutes later, I'm back on the shelf, my label now facing the wall, not seeing anything but the cheap flowered wallpaper in front of me.

I sigh. The only sound I hear is the Captain having the last laugh.