A Cup for Tomorrow Your alarm beeps.

It shoots intermittent throbs of pain that hiss from atop a cracked, plastic shelf. A nightstand of bowing cheapness that rumbles with each alarm hum. Everything reminds you that today will be worse than yesterday. Hope for tomorrow is an empty promise choked away by self-remorse. You roll over, press snooze, and pray for five minutes. Last night fogs your head. When did you fall asleep? How did you find bed? Did you sleep with Susan from apartment 4B? Or were you limp, drunk on displeasure, a poor soul tired from life and too many shots that melt your pain into pleasure before hurting all over again. The other side of the bed is cool, absent rumples left by Susans body or your own lifeless form. You must have slept face down, body pressed to the mattress on one side without moving until the alarm sounded. That damn alarm. The snooze ends, 7:35 AM. You peel your face from a pillow flattened by its life, smashed and sweat-stained yellow-brown. The sheets smell, or maybe its you. Probably both. You blink, for just a second, and try to open your eyes. The morning sun pierces windows missing blinds and overwhelms your eyes. It hurts. You blink again, this time keeping your eyes shut much longer. Comfort reigns in the darknessno bills, no family, no lossa perfection possible only in escape. Your eyes open. Golden flashes strike blood-red orbs. A carpenter thumps your skull with his hammer. Bile clings to your scratched throat. Pain persists everywhere. Escaping impossible. Last nights rain flew in from the opened bedroom window. A slight puddle reflects light from the chipped, dust smeared cream radiator. You run your swollen right hand through thick brown hair and stretch the strands towards the sky. Maybe this will make the drumbeat stop. But you know nothing helps. Except time, and that thought makes last nights poison collect

nauseous in your stomach. Coarse patches of orange stubbles have collected on your chin. Did you swallow sandpaper last night or does it just feel that way? The bare, hardwood floor feels smooth on the bottom of your bare feet. You lurch forward wearing a grimace on your face that reflects a mere portion of the pain prowling on the inside. One foot at a time drags, slowly, feet flipping to the bathroom where a single bulb already glows. A gold, metal chain sashays left and right underneath the light. The wind gusting in from another open window blows it to the side it desires. You step on a scale purchased from the Salvation Army. Spit shoots out your mouth onto the scales display. A direct hit then smeared with your big toe to clear the grime enough to decipher the final reading. You settle your feet. The red hand tilts, first past 140 pounds, then past 150. It stops between the 150 and 155, closer to 155, two pounds heavier than last week. Progress comes in all shapes and sizes. Not that it matters. Not that anything matters. The metal shower handle turns right from the twist of your wrist. You adjust brownish white knobs that read hot and cold until a warm stream squirts in all directions from the four working spouts on the showerhead. Its trying to make a difference, you think, and let the water crash against your head. You arch your neck backwards. Warm sprinkles massage the skin under your chin. They soothe your wiry neck. Droplets slide past protruding bones on your chest. The rust water splashes near your feet. You bend your head to watch the water run to the drain. Away, everything moves away. In the corner rests a thin yellow bar of soap. It will split soon. Maybe during this wash. Maybe tomorrow. When it does, youll press the two pieces together, form a dial sandwich, and return to scrubbing. A broken cleaning tool appropriate for your broken being. The emaciated bar

slips from your hands, and not from the texture, but because your hands couldnt even squeeze a tit right now. Not until drink number three. You think. You emptied the shampoo yesterday, you remember, when nothing drips from the bottle. Cracked porcelain tiles cover the showers wall. Long, chipped slits mock what youve become. Tiny openings full of judgment over who you are. The dirt-lined shower curtain needs replaced. Something uplifting, with a Disney duck or a superhero would be nice. You wonder if you could buy such a thing in a liquor store. A blue towel, washed sometime last football season, stinks in the sink. You dry with it. Its coarse fibers scratch your skin. A smile creases your face for the first time. Sometimes feeling a little pain is the only way to some delight. You pry a new red toothbrush from its packet. Your hands fumble with the plastic casing. The scrubbing lasts for sixty seconds. It cleans all corners of your mouth. Floss comes next, then a bath of scope for your teeth. Only junkies and prostitutes sleep with men missing teeth. And you dont have the money for either addiction. Bar tramps at least say yes. Sometimes. Desperation might be the worst of all addictions, though. Naked, you put on a pot of Maxwell House and open the freezer door. Two plastic bottles of White Wolf Vodka chill inside. You grab one from the freezer, unscrew the lid, and swallow. Twice. On the second, a welcome burn navigates your body. A minute later, the closed bottle rests on your wasted bed pillow. You dress for work. Another slug, your brain wakes, and the reflexes return. You slip on yesterdays boxer shorts. Your white undershirt smells of stale scented Febreze. Navy Dockers pants, a white button-down shirt, white socks, and brown dress shoes with frayed shoelaces from Kmart complete the ensemble. Nine hours of data entry for

your favorite medical supply manufacturer is a fifteen-minute bus ride away. Happiness must be hidden somewhere in the distance. You rinse your plastic thermos in the sink. Breakfast is equal parts coffee and vodka poured with care into the thermos. Canfield Street is two blocks south of your apartment. The bus will arrive there in ten minutes. The driver will smile. So will you. Then youll sit in the back, eyes closed, wishing you could ride and drink the day away. Days pass, time never stops, and the bus stays on course. Life just happensfor better and for worse. Heavy metal doors of the entrance to your apartment complex open at your push. Leftover glass shards from a shattered Budweiser bottle scatter on the concrete sidewalk. You step over the jagged scraps, kick at a plastic grocery bag. It wraps around your foot. A step, then a second, and it blows away. Aprils air is crisp. The morning smells of rain, last night and today. An attendant who stands in a booth in the vacant parking lot across the street smiles. She waves and says good morning. Yes, you too, you say. But know that nothing about this morning feels good. Life has deserted the street except for Aces Lock and Hardware shop. Ace opens at 8 AM. He chain-smokes cigarettes. Almost half past the hour, hes probably had three or four already. Two minutes elapse at the bus stop. An empty female face with sunken eyes stares at your shoes while you enjoy breakfast. Where ya headed, she asks. To work, and hell, you say. She smiles. Been to both before, she adds. The bus is empty save for the driver and a wrinklefaced man in the second seat. He has no teeth, the poor sap, a blue sweat suit, and Velcro shoes. You walk with your head down to a window seat in the rear of the bus and steal another sip from the thermos. Breakfast is served. Work passes, a miserable set of hours spent hiding. You hide your breath from the overweight mother in the cubicle facing yours. She curses at or about one of her two kids most of

the day. Mothers who love. Drunks who drink. You say things like this to yourself and tilt the thermos back until the coffee infused vodka stings your throat. Blotchy redness coats the whites of your eyes. You hide them from the arrogant prick who calls himself your boss. He weighs 130 pounds, 23 and a half less than you. He wears shortsleeve button down shirts that accent his pale, bony arms. Black hair mats against his head and he forgot a belt this morning. Slob, you think, as he walks past your area shooting an imaginary gun in your direction. Pain in the fucking ass slob. Your senses dull as the day drags. The caffeinated alcohol buzz fades. You empty the flask hidden under a stack of letters in your bottom drawer into the thermos. Just a few shots more, one to maintain, another to survive. Three cigarettes pose as lunch. The afternoon evaporates. Are you supposed to be somewhere tonight? Probably not. Three years ago, you were the funny brother in your family, the one who carried summer barbecues into the night with humor and spirits. A year later, you turned into the family project, the charismatic nephew with promise whom everyone felt sorry for but who needed a kick in the ass to straighten out. You became the family charity case twelve months ago. Small envelopes of cash arrived in your mailbox. Offers of home-cooked dinners arrived in voicemails and text messages. Now, you are nothing. You drank away their gifts wishing they would use their middle-class guilt to bless someone more deserving. Occasionally, you visit on birthdays and holidays. Sarah left 27 months and nine days ago. Your nightmares started soon after. The pain is worse in the daytime, too.

You want to stop, pick up the pieces, or so they say. You want to stand before your family at Christmas. Brown reindeer will glide across your red sweater, a glowing gift of holiday laughter. Youll sip from a bottle of water and hand out presents. Green corduroys with raised Christmas trees that make your nieces and nephews chuckle cling to your legs. Theyll huddle in corners in the basement and talk next to a rumbling dishwasher. Everyone questions your sincerity, your path, yet everyone still laughs at your sense of humor. Your family wont forget your wasted years. Theyll forgive and understand after what you went through. A family has to forgive. Redemption costs. Numbness must be traded for pain. Twisted nights of self-regret replaced by responsibilities. You want another sip, another taste of a life not worth caring about. Most of all, you just want to forget. Forget the world. Forget your family. Forget yourself. Forget the rain that slicked a road whose curves wound too tight. Forget the car that turned too fast. Emily left 27 months and seven days ago. On that day, your heart stopped. You can picture her when you close your eyes and think. You try to do neither. Alcohol makes them each tolerable. The day ends. You board the bus home. Its seventeen minutes past six. The only people you spoke with today barely know you exist. If they know at all. The booze dried out two hours earlier. Your body misses the one thing it connected with today. The bus wheezes. Five bodies, three black and two white sit at Canfield and Moore. You immediately cross the street. The old wooden building on the corners lacks signs. You pull the vertical metal handle and step inside. Your presence disrupts a room of smoke. Three patrons twist on their stools, their bodies now turned from the U-shaped bar. Eyes look up and down, then return to bottles of Budweiser. A heavyset bartender sets a Bud for you at an empty seat. Sweat slides across his

forehead between creases of concentration. Or depression. From below the sunk wooden bar, he grabs two dust covered shot glasses. A torn rag cleans them. You share a drink of Jameson, brothers for three ounces but nothing more. The bartender wipes a chubby hand across his grey beard. You receive another shot of Jameson. He turns his back and leaves. You sip half the Budweiser before pulling the bottle from your lips. The second shot of Jameson disappears, followed by the remainder of the beer. You picture a family. They sit together around a dinner table with three chairs and three settings. A mother serves baked chicken. Green beans and mac and cheese fill the plates. A daughter will fall asleep in a few hours, after she finishes her homework. Husband and wife will laugh together in bed. In two separate rooms, three people will sleep. Smiles will cling to their faces. You can picture this family. The imperfect imitations of its perfection form in your mind. Tears swell, but you dont cry. A lump forms in your throat, part booze and part remorse. Youre drunk, but not really. But you dont want any more to drink. Thoughts of what was and is gone overwhelm you. Even while drinking it has become hard to forget. You place a ten-dollar bill below the empty Budweiser bottle. The barstool wobbles and you push off it. Untied shoelaces drag through tiny puddles on the sidewalk. A light rain drops pellets onto your shoulders. The wind blows storefront locks. They rattle against metal gates and interrupt a silent street. Your walk home is empty. The White Wolf bottles rest inside your freezer. You remove the cap. A slug from each slithers down your throat. You turn to face the sink and empty the remains. Vodka collects in the half-clogged drain. The weight of the bottles in your hands disappears. They are empty and drop from your hands into the black plastic trashcan in the corner of your kitchen.

You start the coffee maker. A chair next to the card table that you sometimes eat dinner on waits for your tired, sorry ass to sit in it. You oblige and watch the glass pot fill with the thick, black liquid. Thoughts of the past stream down your cheeks. You grimace, fight a losing battle against an onslaught of tears. You shake your head, no more, please no more tears. They surge anyways. One drops for Sarah, the girl you loved since high school. Another falls for Emily, the young daughter you cradled in a pink blanket with her initials stitched into the side. You clutched her in your arms, holding her close to your chest, on the first night she spent at home. Heavy tears arrive like the large drops of rain that coated the road the night everything changed. The car flipped and rolled into a guardrail. Your family left without saying goodbye. Coffee drips into the pot. Todays pain sinks into yesterdays demons. You pour a mug. It exhales steam into the musty kitchen. You take a sip and hope for change. The coffee tastes terrible, but it warms your insides. You have another swallow, smile, and think about tomorrow.