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Thunder Sandwich #23 |
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Karl Koweski |
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opening up my name is Kelly and I'm an alcoholic he nods to the mumbled hellos and sporadic clapping my name is Kelly and I blew a .08 at a police checkpoint outside Morgan City alcoholism has nothing to do with anything Kelly sits with the twenty two men gathered in a loose circle wearing blue folding chairs the men trade their stories like dog-eared baseball cards the ruin of their lives reason enough to make alcoholics of anyone they take turns recounting all they've had and lost wives, children, homes pontoon boats and motorcycles alcoholic mothers, alcoholic fathers everyone an alcoholic aboard the same floundering ship inside the bottle Kelly, the only nonalcoholic in the room, has nothing to add and when its his turn to speak, he invents a tale about an alcoholic uncle who'd get liquored up and jag him in the ass with a twig the sympathetic pats on the back and the murmured confessions of sexual abuse elsewhere in the group keeps Kelly from the punchline shaken, he takes his seat thinking these people will never look at him the same the crushing irony being the two thousand dollars he's had to pay in fines and court costs is the closest he's come to ever taking one in the ass my wilted rose Rose sent me an email this morning saying that she might have exaggerated about her husband beating the shit out of her last night "he thinks because I like rough sex it's okay to slap my face and pull my hair until my scalp feels bruised" she explains and ends the note with "love" and "thinking of you" I pick up the phone, dial the florist and ask if it's too late to cancel the order of long stemmed roses |