The Drink

I recently submitted a few pieces of writing to be considered for an event called “Word and Image,” held by the Hoffman Center for the Arts every other year. Authors (of both poetry and prose) are selected, then paired with visual artists to create new works as partners. The visual artist creates a piece in response to writing; the author writes a piece in response to art. The result is a month-long installation at the art center.

The essays I submitted were experiments for me. In them, I played with adopting another person's mindset and used bits and pieces of information I knew to create short essays. (The submissions can be no longer than 325 words!) They became, in effect, historical fiction. They’re historic in that they are based on real events and people. They’re fictional, as my artistic take on what I believe others did or thought in and about those events.

I like them… and hope the Hoffman Center judges do, too! I’ll share one of them here with you. It’s called “The Drink.” I hope you like it and would love to hear your thoughts!

Here it is:

My father taught me how to drink.

I was eight or nine. By then, I’d learned to detach from the physical me and send my soul hovering against the ceiling above us, a wispy cobweb of consciousness. It looked on, no matter how desperately I urged my curious soul to avert its gaze. The soul watched; the soul knew.

I guess Dad could tell we had an eavesdropper, as we practiced our secret, special game. Because one night, when he crept into my bedroom long after everyone else had fallen asleep, he brought The Drink.

The Drink, he explained, would help me relax and feel better. With The Drink, he promised, the game would be more fun. Ever the obedient eldest child, role model, and protector of others, I took a tentative drink.

I nearly vomited.

Choking, I peered up at him through watering eyes. “What do I do?” they asked. He smiled, amused, even as he hissed at me to be quiet. Then, coached me to take smaller sips, assuring me I’d get used to the taste, the burn.

He was right.

He didn’t tell me The Drink would also chase away my nosy soul. But, once The Drink “kicked in” (as Dad would say), my soul evaporated right off the speckled surface of the bedroom ceiling, its airy form seeping out through tiny window cracks.

My soul, it seemed, was gone…and I was glad to see it go.

I can’t say The Drink fulfilled Dad’s promise of making the game more “fun,” but once The Drink wore off and my soul returned, it hadn’t seen, so it didn’t know. My body, instead, bore the weighty truth of our game, shuttling that truth off to whatever organs and tissues would accommodate it.

Over time, I forgot all about our game, even as I played it. The soul’s ignorance, it seems, somehow became my own.

But I’ve always remembered The Drink.