a glass of whisky
By Baker Street
The man sat in the shade on the porch and looked out over the ranch. It was pleasant day, but hot, not mild. He sat and looked out over the tall yellow grass interspersed with clumps of trees. There were some doves roosting high up in the sycamore trees nearby. They coo-ed, and chirped, and sang softly high above on their perch. Their song was pleasant tune carried on the fresh wind to the man where he sat on the porch.
He was enjoying a glass of Jack Daniels Whiskey, with a cigarette. He sipped it neat in a tumbler full of ice. He lit up a cigarette, while the sounds of Johnny Cash’s singing came crackling over the radio from somewhere in the house. It was Sunday, everyone had gone to town for the morning service, and he was left alone out on the ranch. On mornings like these he was left free to do whatever he liked, and this was one way he enjoyed spending his time while alone.
As the time slipped by he sat and enjoyed another glass of whiskey. Then another. The sounds of country music came from the radio while he drank and listened. It was getting warmer as the morning progressed and the sun climbed higher in the sky. His old pick-up truck stood broken down underneath the car-port, with parts strewn around it, as he was still attempting to get the thing fixed.
Kris Kristofferson was singing ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down’, as he started to feel a bit tipsy from the whiskey. Down at the bend of the river a flock of geese flew up and crossed the fields in their flight. They made a huge noise as they flapped off out of sight in the distance. Their clacking-crying sound echoed and faded as they flew. Then the land and the sky were left silent again, apart from the singing coming from the radio, and the tinkling of ice in the man’s glass.
It was now late in the morning, and soon the folk would be returning from town. He could already see the approaching station-wagon in the distance putting up a puff of dust as it travelled down the dirt road. He went and put the bottle in the drawer in his room where he kept it. The glass he rinsed in the kitchen and left to dry in the sink. He quickly packed the ice back into the refrigerator.
Then he stepped outside and went to work on his pick-up. He was cursing and battling with tools and parts around the vehicle and the car-port, as his wife and children pulled into the driveway with the station-wagon. He went on working as if he had been at it all morning. The children made a racket as they went up the stairs and into the house, and his wife said something about “spaghetti’, or something…
He just ignored them all and went on working...