The Hair of the Dog

 Instinctively waking at dawn, Dusty felt his body starting to tremble, signaling it was time to administer the drug it needed to calm his nerves. Hand trembling, he grabbed the bottle of bourbon and a glass from the nightstand. Pouring himself a drink, his hand shook as he placed the glass to his lips. The burning liquid rushed through his body and began to satisfy his desperate need. With a great sense of relief, Dusty caressed the bottle as if it were an alluring woman.

Most mornings he would hurry to the hit house before the shakes came down on him full force, and praying that Mr. John was up and ready to do business. Today he could relax, because at least for this morning, he had enough booze to drown himself. He even had a box of KFC tied to the string attached to a lifeless bulb dangling from the ceiling. Dusty laughed loudly as he yelled, “I out-smarted you bastards this time!”

Yes! Once again, he had out-smarted the hungry rats that frequented his cell of a room. Bottle in hand, he rolled off the foul smelling mattress in search of a much-needed smoke. He kicked away the plaster, which constantly fell from the ceiling. There was just enough light coming through the cracks of the boarded up window for him to see clearly. Angry at his lack of success he mumbled, “Ah shit, where did I put those damn cigarettes? Fuck it!”

He flopped down on the bed and leaned against the wall while canvassing the room. Finally, resigning himself to his plight, he tried focusing on another day of surviving on the streets, but memories of the past came rushing back to haunt him.