Weak Wood by Jennifer Benningfield

The handful of young men and women invited to the house on Liberty
Street united in a common goal: decompression.
        Scott wished for a larger turnout, but for the reality of geometry,
which itself had to respect the reality of solvency. Six was six since
seven couldn't comfortably fit into what was essentially a pricey
shoebox. Things felt cramped even after Kelly and Keith relocated to
the pittance of a backyard for reasons uninteresting to the others.
        Each attendee qualified as a good friend to Scott. He knew the
preferred poison of each, and stocked accordingly. He navigated rooms
with professorial ease, waiting until everyone had gathered in the
living area before he retreated to the kitchen, where he grabbed a
green and silver bottle from underneath the sink. Rather than return
to the party, Scott padded over to the counter for a peek at whatever
remained of the pizzas (cheese and double cheese). Briefly, he
considered snatching a slice, before remembering the bottle in his
hand, which certainly did not need competition.
        A frown sent his face even further down than usual once he re-entered
the living room and noticed a table-side lamp doing all the
light-work. After a quick detour to flick a switch, Scott reassumed
his seat on the sofa, nearly touching thighs with the overdressed
blonde seated to his left. He barely noticed her; the lounge chair
three feet away, though, proved riveting.
        Or rather, the man and woman squeezed into that chair. Without
them--no, him--the host's grand reveal would flop. The couple were
lazily chatting and pretending to be blind. The host sighed; normally,
he would find their mutual absorption amusing.
        "Attention, attention," he announced, hoping his voice did not sound
as pompous as it felt. "I have a surprise to spring. I've invited
another guest."
        "Amanda?"
        "Everyone," Scott continued, calmly ignoring the snicker from the
side, "make room for…" He held the green bottle up, one hand around
the neck, the other underneath the base.
        "Absinthe?"
        Scott's eyes brightened at his friend's audible astonishment.
"Indeed. An exotic beverage with a rich and degenerate history. Who
here has ever partaken? Other than Pete, I mean. No one? Thought not.
Pete, you know how to make a Sazarac, correct?"
        "Are you recruiting me?" With a pat and a wink for the fidgety woman
by his side, he rose from the chair. (Pete didn't mind working off the
clock, as his wedding guests could attest.)
        Scott had already returned with four rocks glasses and a plastic bag
by the time Pete relocated to the sofa. Without a sound, he handed the
bag to his buddy and set the glasses on the table.
        Pete hooted as he pulled out the goodies. "You did your homework, my friend."
        "You know I did." Scott realized his grin must be approaching "naked
unicycling"
levels of goofiness, and thought perhaps he should enroll in night
classes to improve his compliment-handling, but the night was
unfolding so wonderfully. Just the sight of his friend, perched on a
cushion, crushing sugar cubes and peeling lemons, surpassed his
highest hopes for the evening.
        "You guys can say stuff, you know. I'm preparing drinks, not
performing surgery."
        Scott took his words as an order, offering up a condensed history
lesson to the ladies, concluding with a passionate breakdown of the
myths and truths regarding the green fairy.
        "What got the bug up your butt?" Pete asked.
        Scott blushed. "I saw a program on, I want to say Food Network? No,
Travel Channel. They were talking about the history of absinthe, the
myths and the truths, and at the end, the narrator mentions it's now
sold in the U.S. Which I didn't know."
        "I did."
        "You're in the business, of course you'd know that." Scott leaned
over to wink at the blonde, whose curiosity had begun to reverse the
aging process.
        "So I indirectly consulted some complete strangers, who guided me in
the right direction. At least I think they did."
        "They did. This is good stuff. All right, here we go." Pete pushed
each glass towards expectant hands. "Remember to keep your
expectations realistic."
        "Meaning what?"
        "Meaning, absinthe has a quite unique taste. Imagine a sweet and spicy whisky."
        The blonde perked up. "Ooh, I think I'll like this."
        Scott thought he detected a shakiness in her voice. Although he
couldn't dismiss the possibility of auditory hallucination.
        "Okay, everyone. Drinks up. Pinkies in the air."
        "Make sure you sip," Pete advised. "It's the only way to truly enjoy absinthe."
        "If you say so," Scott shrugged, giggling.
        Reactions varied. The men stared into space for several seconds,
twisting their lips and vocalizing their thought processes.
        The women, meanwhile, couldn't reach for their beers fast enough.

                                        ######

"You should fix that back porch. It's seriously about to collapse."
        "No it isn't. You're just tipsy."
        "Yes, but that porch needs a makeover. You can afford wormwood, you
can afford actual wood."
        "Wow, that was clever. I wouldn't be paying for it, though, the
landlord would. Tonight is not about calling my landlord. Tonight is
about...cheap thrills and expensive booze. Relatively speaking."
        Back porch, smack scorch. Scott was determined to ride the ebullient
wave until it died out. Fretting over whether or not the people in his
immediate sphere were properly enjoying themselves could take the
entire night off.
        "Hey Scotty."
        The well-perfumed woman was certainly enjoying herself.
        "That absinthe is something else, right? How's dinner?"
        "I've never eaten a pizza with nothing but cheese on it before."
        "Ever?"
        "Never!"
        "Do you like it?"
        "Yeah!"
        "Well this is just a night of firsts, isn't it?"
        She excused herself before Scott could add to the list.
        The refrigerator door escaped punishment only when the pair of crab
magnets reminded Scott of the two castaways. Should he brighten their
business with his patronage? The longer he rocked on his heels, the
better the idea seemed. It also provided the opportunity to test out
those allegedly shaky wooden planks of the back porch.
        He hopped--once, twice--in a space barely wider than his own closet.
A pleasant buoyancy, hardly hazardous. He chuckled and sent more beer
down his throat.
        So silly, his friends.
        Scott smashed his nose against the glass of the back door and peered
at the artificially-lit bodies of the two deserters, Keith and Kelly,
who'd helped themselves to the patio chairs gifted Scott by his aunt,
despite the properties distinct lack of patio. (Scott couldn't bear to
part with them, though, deciding they could serve as "motivational
furniture.")
        He stepped back and finished the beer, irritated to discover that not
even swishing killed the bitter absinthe aftertaste. He wondered how
long it would take to polish off that big green bottle. Pete hadn't
poured much; if Scott refilled with water, and used especially pretty
wrapping paper…
        Laughter in the night swung his attention back to the present, to
face the latest pressing question of the evening--visit his friends or
dispose of the empty bottle in his clutch?
        Kill two spiders with one shoe, obviously.
        Scott frowned when the creak of the back door sent several bats
darting from the neighbor's tree. One guano giver cast a short-lived
shadow on the concrete, and there but for the iron grip did not go the
beer bottle.
        But not for long.
        Whether inadequate lighting, comprised reaction time, or a brutally
unlucky combination of the two, Scott's slipped on the final step. He
landed on the concrete pathway, less than a foot in front of the
stunned couple.
        He uttered only the first syllable of an expletive before his vocal
cords stopped obeying commands. Keith's brooked no such recalcitrance.
His shouts split the air as he leaped to his feet, face aghast. Kelly,
gray and still, qualified as "statuesque."
        Another first tonight.
        Scott tried to laugh. Then he smelled the blood.

Jennifer Benningfield's stories have appeared in several publications, including Black Dandy, The Sonder Review, Fiction On the Web, and Maryland Literary Review. A lifelong Marylander who has been in the (mostly) benevolent thrall of words since receiving "Green Eggs and Ham" as a birthday present, her writings can also be found online at www.trapperjennmd.blogspot.com.