This is a short story I wrote around September of 1996 for my high school 11th-grade English class. I turned it in almost a month late for a "C" grade. Something I'd forgotten when I turned it in was that these assignments would be reviewed by the English teachers and then sent to the University of California at Santa Barbara for a high school student literary competition where it won first place. go fig.

He swallowed and it burned its way to his stomach, searing his throat and mouth until he swallowed again, just saliva this time. Odd. Some people's throats and mouths had become desensitized from the taste after drinking alcohol for so many years. His hasn't.

He put the glass down gingerly on the bar and inhaled sharply through his teeth. It was almost as sharp as the first few times he'd drank liquor, maybe a little less sweeter. But one thing that had been desensitized was his body's response to the alcohol. It took more drinking now to get drunk - or even tipsy - than it had many years ago. That was your downfall - you drank to get buzzed, and your body gets used to it. Like anyone, you like getting buzzed, and you like getting drunk. Sure, it may not be fun all the time, but it's fun. And if you don't stop - after all the frat parties and dinner parties and beer bashes and Saint Patrick's days and Super Bowl Sundays and New Years and pub crawls and lonely nights alone with nothing but a cable TV and a six-pack of the cheapest beer - you were an alcoholic. He knew he was an alcoholic. Most of the other people in the bar were alcoholics; most knew that they were. Some joked about it ("an alcohol 'deficiency'"), some would rather not talk about it. He didn't care. If someone asked, he'd say yes. What did they think? He really didn't give a shit. He usually didn't care about what people thought of him - he didn't have a reason to. He was an alcoholic - he knew it, the bartender knew it, the people in the bar and Tommy's whores and Tommy and the beat cops knew what he was.

His eyes watered as he inhaled. Strong whiskey. With a cheap bar napkin he wiped his eyes and coughed. The bartender automatically poured him another and moved on - he never ordered anything different than when he first sits down for the night. If his first drink is beer, the rest will be beer. If his first drink is whiskey, the rest will be whiskey. Sometimes he chatted with the bartender - menial smalltalk about sports or women or politics. No deep conversation. All it was was making pathetic chatter to fool themselves into believing he didn't go there just to drink. The 'tender was alright - a nice guy, he guessed. Sometimes he yelled to get rowdy patrons out - guys getting fresh with the prostitutes when Tommy wasn't around, or a couple of guys getting into an argument over why the other guy's team sucks.

The 'tender was a black guy in his fifties, graying a little, but tough. Nobody really messed with him, though. If someone wanted some trouble or wanted to rob him, he had a cheap Saturday night special, a .38 with a bit of duct tape on the handle to keep one side of the plastic grip on. It was old - from some pawn shop years ago - but the bartender could shoot with it. He'd once seen some guy come into the bar one night looking to get some money. There were about four people in there, one of Tommy's, some guy, him, and the bartender. The guy came in and pulls out a big knife - he was twitchy and loud, probably a cokehead or heroin addict in withdraw who needed a score bad. He started screaming about how he was gonna hack 'em up 'cause he needed it bad and was gonna die 'cause he didn't know what was wrong and he hadn't had some in a week. The 'tender was careful because there was this desperate fucker that comes into his bar with a knife so big, it might as well be a machete, and is demanding money when there are three customers who sure as hell don't want to be cut up. The guy with the knife is about seven or eight feet away from one of the customers, and he takes a step toward him slowly. The customer just stands and doesn't know what to do, because he's stuck there at this small table in the corner of the bar. The guy with the knife isn't much bigger than the customer, but he's got a big knife and is crazy with withdraw. So he just stands there scared shitless, and the druggie takes another step and keeps babbling about he's hungry but he can't eat and he's thirsty but he can't drink and he hurts inside but Cruz wouldn't give him any more without money because he already owes him some money so he needs more. The 'tender pulls out his .38 Saturday night special with the bit of duct tape on the grips from under the bar, and points it in the direction of the druggie and says to leave because he doesn't want any customers hurt in his place. The druggie just looks a little pale and says that he dosen't care, he just needs his score. So he takes another step towards the customer in the corner, and says that the gun isn't really loaded, and if it was, he wouldn't really shoot it. The bartender is cool through this, 'cause he's got the gun, and says to step away and leave, this gun is loaded, and it is pointed at him. The druggie takes another step, and now he's about four feet away from the customer in the corner, and the customer starts blubbering about how he dosen't wanna die and he only had a couple bucks and he could have it all because he just wanted a drink. Then the girl of Tommy's panics and jumps up from her place at the bar and tries to run for the door. The druggie turns toward her and starts for the door to block her. The 'tender aims the .38 and fires and a half empty beer glass on a table by the druggie explodes, spraying beer and glass everywhere. The druggie stops for a second and blinks, then he drops the knife and bolts for the door. The 'tender shoves the gun in his pocket and starts yelling at the prostitute because there was no fucking way she could've made it and that guy woulda cut her down 'cause he didn't care - he just wanted his fix. He grabs a broom and dustpan from under the bar and goes to clean up the glass, mumbling that the stupid whore was gonna get them all killed, running like that when she should've known she waouldn't have made it. He chuckled at the memory - he'd seen the whole thing from the bar.