There’s nothing more terrifying than blank space, Maryanne thought. The freedom was unbearable, suffocating, even. Everything can go wrong with blank space. Everything can be perfect with blank space. It was the not knowing what could happen; the finiteness of possibilities.
She wasn’t used to it. Her life couldn’t be less like blank space. In fact, it was a lot like one of those crazy paintings, what is that artist’s name again? Pollock, she said out loud, smiling at herself, oozing with pride.
It was the third of the month. To most, it meant that it was two days after the first of the month. Probably the day that the rent check goes through. To Maryanne, it meant that it was her official scotch tasting day. Scotch was banned in her town because of some absurd event years ago involving Molotov cocktails, prostitutes, and a church. It was all so unclear, and this upset Maryanne because she didn’t like limitations created by other people’s stupidities. In fact, before the ban, Maryanne hadn’t ever tried scotch. Macallan was merely a charming Scottish last name. Once she got word of the ban she went straight to a town just two miles north and tried her very first scotch. “I’ll haaaavvvve the second best Scotch you have.” The bartender examined, drenched with uncertainty, “on a tight budget I see.” “Nope! I just want to make sure I’m trying the best for my first.” “Would you like it in a shot glass?” “Shot. Definitely a shot glass. Please. Did I say that at first? I meant to. Anyway, how about that scotch?” The shot glass appeared and suddenly she was in a showdown with scotch. I’ll either love you or hate you, $30 shot. And with that thought the liquor was sliding down her throat, burning, it and making the stubbly hairs on her shaven arms stand on end. She loved it. She loved the burn, the chills, and the way it made her eyeballs want to secrete fluids.
Maryanne was so elated at this first tasting experience that she committed to trying a new brand of scotch every third day of the month. No excuses. She was so committed to this idea that she even visited a bar the second day into a stomach flu. But because she was so self aware she brought in her own shot glass and said, “I’m not weird, I’m just flu-ey.” The bartender, familiar with her already…just shook his head and poured.
After looking at the blank space for a while Maryanne decided it would be less scary if she had her scotch tasting first. She went to her cupboard and opened up a whole new bottle of Laphroaig 12 Year Islay Malt, poured a three finger drink into her crystal tumbler and as she brought the glass to her mouth she sneezed right into it. Deeming the drink useless she poured its contents in into Ben, her new fern. “Drink up, Ben…this is your lucky day.” On her second try Maryanne sipped ever so slowly as she realized this scotch might change her life. It made her feel like she was taking a bite out of the forest. She smiled as she poured just a smidge more. She walked to her living room, sat down on a herd of dust bunnies, and stared at the blank space–a concrete, urban wall rife with nothingness. Pollock she said to herself. Perfect.
Rusty lay next to her riding out the buzz he acquired from Ben’s alcoholic soil.
She smiled as she envisioned chaos staring right back at her.
girl walks into a bar... 