A Cocktail Tale

A Cocktail Tale

From his position in the centre of the kitchen, Jed scanned the squalor
around him with a single short sweep of his head. His head was the only
thing to ever sweep the kitchen. At one time in his life, Jed has tried
brief but effective experiments in domestic hygiene. His cupboards were
crammed with a stock of half empty (definitely half empty) bottles of
cleaning products equal to that of your average supermarket.
Jed rose from his chair and walked across to the sink. Greeting him was
a pyre of rancid crockery and filthy glasses containing liquids of
questionable origins.
He opened the draw beneath the sink and rummaged beneath the unpaid
bills and broken tools. After a minute or two of searching Jed pulled
forth the two items he'd been seeking; a roll of plain, white address
labels and an old, lightly chewed, black marker pen.
He returned to the table and sat once more. Jed unrolled a length of
about ten labels, removed the pen lid and placed it between his
teeth.
"Gin." said Jed firmly, and wrote 'GIN' on the first label. He thought
for a moment.
"Vodka." he stated, and wrote 'VODKA' on the second.
Jed thought for another moment or two, and chewed the pen lid.
"I know, Scotch, gotta have Scotch." he decided eventually, and, in
block capitals, Jed wrote 'SCOTCH' upon the third label.
And so Jed's task continued until, laid before him on the table, were
the names of a selection of drinks, liqueurs and mixers neatly written
in thick black letters on clean, white labels.
"Bottles." said Jed. He then rose, with considerable labour, and ambled
to the cupboard beneath the sink.
With a magician's flourish he threw open the doors. While one of them
worked as intended and opened smoothly on it's hinge, it's broken
counterpart fell from the hinge onto Jed's toe, provoking a torrent of
expletives.
"Fucking bastard door, fuck it, ow, fuck." he shouted.
The sky outside darkened, as did Jed's mood.
He took the various bottles of bleach, floor cleaners and polish from
the cupboard and placed them carefully behind him on the table. Jed's
plan grew in his mind like an anonymous seed striving to the surface of
a neglected and damp plant pot at the back of an equally dank
shed.
With the cupboard empty apart from a handful of stiffened cloths, Jed
stood and gazed upon the rows of colourful bottles that stood upon his
table. He reached beneath the various dishes and plates in the sink and
withdrew a filthy glass. He added it's nameless contents to the pool of
cloudy liquid festering in the bowl and then repeated the operation
until he had five empty glasses. He took them to the table and again
sat.
The first part of Jed's plan involved re-labelling the cleaning
products with the stickers he'd earlier produced. Using no particular
scheme or order he peeled a label from the roll and affixed it to the
first bottle he laid his hand upon, then repeated the operation. Bleach
became Whisky. Disinfectant became Gin. A bottle of Turpentine became
Vodka. And so on, until all the trademarks were obscured with Jed's
crude labels. A cocktail cabinet for a thirsty man.
Jed was thirsty.
Some years ago, when Jed had money, self-respect and healthy attitude
towards personal hygiene, he had taken a keen interest in the art of
cocktail making. Jed was intrigued by their esoteric names and bizarre
contents. He had bought books filled with wild recipes and kept an
enviable stock of spirits, liqueurs and mixers.
The bottles were long ago emptied and consigned to the dustbin and the
books with them, but the recipes still lived in his mind.
Jed had five glasses and needed five cocktail recipes. He had memorised
at least a hundred, but the choice could not be random.
He selected a glass and placed it carefully in front of him and intoned
the words, "Blue Monday." The recipe scrolled in his mind as Jed chose
the appropriate bottles from the table and poured the various liquids
into the glass.
1 ounce of Vodka / Turpentine, ? ounce of Triple Sec / Lemon Jif (they
didn't make orange Jif), ? ounce of Blue Curacoa / Flash.
The mixture gave off a potent chemical smell as Jed stirred the drink
with the marker pen. He put the cocktail to one side and selected
another glass.
"Mmm, a Stinger next I think." said Jed and commenced his second
blend.
2 ounces Brandy / varnish, ? ounce Cr?me De Menthe / paint
stripper.
Jed again stirred the strange coloured liquid with the pen and lifted
the glass to the window as if admiring its clarity. He put it down next
to the first and continued.
After a minutes thought a dim flicker appeared in Jed's eyes, as the
name of his next trick issued from his cracked lips.
"Rolls Royce, oh yes, a Rolls Royce."
2 ounces Gin / disinfectant, 1 ounce Sweet Vermouth / Brasso, 1 ounce
Dry Vermouth / Silvo, 1 teaspoon Benedictine / shoe polish.
This drink had the most pungent odour yet. Jed's nostrils twitched as
he took a fervent sniff of the bitter mixture.
"I hope these taste better than they smell," said Jed, knowing they
wouldn't.
He stared at the yellow ceiling searching for inspiration, and finding
only mould.
Then it came to him and he spoke it's name proudly.
"Borrowed Time."
2 ounces Canadian Whisky / bleach, 1 ounce Ruby Port / drain cleaner, 1
Egg Yolk (Jed spat phlegm into the glass), 1 teaspoon Grenadine / shoe
polish again.
Jed was looking forward to drinking his Borrowed Time.
With one glass remaining, Jed knew that the final drink should be
special. He rested his elbows on the table and made a tent with
fingers. His pose was reminiscent of a chess player contemplating the
move that would destroy his opponent. A look of determination and
resolve was carved into Jed's features. A fly crossed the window.
"Got it," he said finally, "Kamikaze."
1? ounce of Vodka / Turpentine, 1 ounce Triple Sec / Lemon Jif, 1 ounce
lime juice / Fairy Liquid
In front of Jed stood a poisonous parade of five glasses, each filled
with a noxious blend of household chemicals that their bottles say
NEVER to mix. He looked around him at the filthy kitchen and saw it as
a perfect tangible representation of what his life had descended to.
Cluttered. Dirty. In need of a clean.
Jed picked up the first glass, the Blue Monday, and tentatively raised
it to his lips. He knew it would taste vile, he knew it would probably
do him incredible internal damage. But that didn't really matter now
anyway; Jed was cleaning up.
"Bottoms up," he said, his voice cracking nervously.
He upended the glass and poured its toxic contents down his throat. The
urge to vomit was instantaneous and irrepressible and Jed sprayed the
liquid onto the floor with a wrenching cough and splutter.
"What a fucking waste," he cursed, and reached for the Stinger.
He drank it down with equal enthusiasm to the first drink and when the
vomit again rose in his throat, Jed clamped his hand over his mouth and
swallowed the cocktail for the second time.
Jed knew he had to work quickly now as his stomach was contorting
against the torture it was enduring. His throat burned as if Jed had
been gargling broken glass, and his eyes streamed tears as if that
would help wash the poisons from his system.
He poured the Rolls Royce into the same glass as the Borrowed Time and
gulped the fatal mixture in one.
Jed's internal organs felt as if they were fighting each other for room
in an ever-decreasing space. His stomach contracted in an attempt to
force the substances upwards and outwards, but Jed's constricted throat
would let nothing past in either direction. One drink still remained,
but as Jed slipped from his seat onto the sticky floor, he knew he
couldn't finish the round.
As the back of his head made contact with the tiles and Jed's last
vestige of consciousness was thankfully ebbing away, a final thought
came to him.
"I forgot the ice, that Kamikaze would have been vile."

?2001