Zander
Dublin Core
Title
Subject
Description
This artifact is a free-write for a novel idea written by the submitter.
The submitter provided the following about the artifact's history:
This is one of two short free writes I have done as work towards an idea for a novel I've had for a while, all of which I keep in my Notes app on my computer. The approximate date of composition is November of 2017.
The submitter provided the following about the artifact's history:
This is one of two short free writes I have done as work towards an idea for a novel I've had for a while, all of which I keep in my Notes app on my computer. The approximate date of composition is November of 2017.
Creator
Katherine Doyle
Source
Katherine Doyle
Publisher
Unpublished
Date
Language
English
Coverage
2000-2024
Imaginative Writing Item Type Metadata
Genre
Short Story
Material
Digital
Circulation
None
Linguistic Text
Zander slung his heavy arm over my shoulder and slurred, “Mush, bitch” to the amusement of the inebriated crowd of people around us. I sighed, wanting nothing more than to drop his degenerate ass, but I also didn’t want to start anything more. I was already exhausted from the shitstorm of shenanigans at this party, and I didn’t need more of it to deal with. So I dragged him along, and it didn’t take long to figure out that he was a lot heavier than I had initially thought. Lean muscle, yeesh. We made our way to his junky car, and thankfully he was able to get himself in. I clambered into the driver’s seat, cursing my luck, and got us out of there amidst the howls of girls as they ran outside to yell goodbye to him. Zander slumped up against the window, eyes closed, and I silently thanked whatever gods there were for blessing me with a silent car ride. But just as we passed through the intersection next to the house, he sat right up, brushed off his shirt, and said in perfectly articulate English, “Ok driver, take me to the football field.”
I didn’t know how to react. Did he have some crazy high tolerance? Was he Irish? I didn’t know enough about alcohol to be able to come to my own conclusion. What the fuck is going on?
“What the fuck is going on?” I asked.
He laughed. “I actually wasn’t. I haven’t had a drop,” he smiled.
We reached another red light and I turned to him, not amused.
“So what, you were just pulling my leg?”
“Sure was. I don’t drink.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like it. And I don’t like what comes with it, either. Practically everyone I know, except for you of course, does it. They complain about their lives and how shitty everything is, from school to work to their hookups and how they don’t want to “adult”, or whatever the fuck they complain about. Instead of doing anything about the shit in their lives, they drink the pain away. They throw away hundreds of dollars to retreat into the bottom of bottle after bottle after bottle. They do anything they can to forget the day-to-day. But you know what? Reality ALWAYS comes back. They’ll wake up the next morning with a hangover, and it’s back to square one. Nothing was accomplished. Nothing gets solved. It’s pathetic. That’s why I don’t do that shit.”
David would’ve never really expected such words to come from Zander’s mouth, especially since only a few minutes ago, Zander could barely walk on his own and was relying on David’s own puny body for transport. But it was still profound. David could tell that Zander had spent a hot minute thinking about this stuff, and he wondered what else went on inside his friend’s mind.
“How long have you been teetotaling?” David asked.
“What?” Zander looked over.
“Teetotaling. It’s the official name for abstaining from alcohol.”
“Psssssh, nerd,” Zander chuckled. Then he heaved a heavy sigh, and a loaded one at that.
“I stopped at the end of my sophomore year.”
“That early?”
“Dude, I was fucking drinking in middle school. I’m sure I pickled my liver over a few times by that point,” he mused.
I didn’t know how to react. Did he have some crazy high tolerance? Was he Irish? I didn’t know enough about alcohol to be able to come to my own conclusion. What the fuck is going on?
“What the fuck is going on?” I asked.
He laughed. “I actually wasn’t. I haven’t had a drop,” he smiled.
We reached another red light and I turned to him, not amused.
“So what, you were just pulling my leg?”
“Sure was. I don’t drink.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like it. And I don’t like what comes with it, either. Practically everyone I know, except for you of course, does it. They complain about their lives and how shitty everything is, from school to work to their hookups and how they don’t want to “adult”, or whatever the fuck they complain about. Instead of doing anything about the shit in their lives, they drink the pain away. They throw away hundreds of dollars to retreat into the bottom of bottle after bottle after bottle. They do anything they can to forget the day-to-day. But you know what? Reality ALWAYS comes back. They’ll wake up the next morning with a hangover, and it’s back to square one. Nothing was accomplished. Nothing gets solved. It’s pathetic. That’s why I don’t do that shit.”
David would’ve never really expected such words to come from Zander’s mouth, especially since only a few minutes ago, Zander could barely walk on his own and was relying on David’s own puny body for transport. But it was still profound. David could tell that Zander had spent a hot minute thinking about this stuff, and he wondered what else went on inside his friend’s mind.
“How long have you been teetotaling?” David asked.
“What?” Zander looked over.
“Teetotaling. It’s the official name for abstaining from alcohol.”
“Psssssh, nerd,” Zander chuckled. Then he heaved a heavy sigh, and a loaded one at that.
“I stopped at the end of my sophomore year.”
“That early?”
“Dude, I was fucking drinking in middle school. I’m sure I pickled my liver over a few times by that point,” he mused.
Uploaded
04/13/18
Files
Citation
Katherine Doyle, “Zander,” Museum of Everyday Writing, accessed May 9, 2024, https://museumofeverydaywriting.omeka.net/items/show/778.