Alexander Lang is a young 20-something college student "writer" that doesn't quite feel comfortable with being called such. Slightly misanthropic but wholly Pittsburgh at heart, he was born and raised in the Steel City. In his spare time he enjoys 4 a.m. Dunkin Donuts coffee, longboarding, Bukowski poems, and cheap whiskey. He also enjoys some street slumming and general exploration. His friends describe him as an honest asshole, but what do they know. This is his first time being published, so please forgive him.

Drowning (March 20, 2009. Issue 15. The DirtyDirty.)

Harry walked into the dingy bedroom, stumbling across miscellaneous shit on his way to bed. It was another one of those long, mind-numbingly painful days at "work", sitting in that god damned swivel chair with the busted right wheel, so the whole god damned swivel chair wouldn't even swivel, but merely shifted to one side or the other any time he sat down or even moved for that matter. Then the receptionist, Eva or Evanne or Rebecca (something like that, he was never any good at remembering the names of women) laughing at the most inane of jokes with that high pitched squeal of a laugh. Harry had no use for her or her grunting. Saggy tits, thighs that shimmered in sweat during the summer. Nothing too pleasant to look at. Enough to make a man go mad, but Harry was mad long before that god damned swivel chair or the cackling receptionist.

Harry Poloszcky climbed into bed without a shower (what was the point in washing away the stink of failure when it would just permeate through him again tomorrow) groping around for a glass in the dark. He managed to find one and, with the lights still out, blew into it to get the invisible layer of dust and other particles out of the bottom. As he did so, Harry instinctually reached over the edge of the mattress to find the bottom of cheap whiskey he had picked up with his meager pay. That was their trick, he thought. Pay the working man enough to drink himself into a stupor every night, but don't pay him enough to get out of the cycle and get away from the god damned swivel chair or cackling receptionist.

Pouring himself about four fingers of $8 whiskey, Harry laid back and swirled the drink in his hand before taking a rather large gulp and, with his other hand, began fondling himself. He needed a woman for this. This and the small things, the things that can drive a man mad. It'd be grand to find a nice young thing that won't nag about his drinking, even cook, have a glass of whiskey ready (four fingers, no shit in it) and a good steak on the table every day. But even the best steak, the best whiskey, fuck, even the best fuck, they all get stale after a while. He called up emily. Neither very sexually appealing nor particularly young, but occasionaly she did cook a decent meal, could drink him glass for glass, and enjoyed a good railing. The way he saw it, his life had been fucking him hard for 34 years now, maybe it was finally his turn to get some tail.

"Hello?" Raspy voice. She'd probably been asleep, but harry persisted.

"Em, its Harry. How's about we get a drink?" He hated the dance. Why couldn't he just say he couldn't sleep and wanted a good blowjob. But every now and then, it is nice to just drink with someone else. You don't feel quite as lonely when you're with someone else.

"It's the same every week Har, lets just skip the niceties". Harry liked that, the honesty. It was a nice change.

"Fair enough. I'm awfully lonely Em, why don't you come over and keep me company?"

"Give me twenty" and then, without another word, dial tone.

Harry knew he should get ready, but the whiskey had started to take its toll and, in all reality, he didn't care much to get ready any way. He took a stale cigarette off the night stand and lit up in the dark, leaning back against the yellow stained pillow. The flame from the bic danced against the ceiling, and in his inebriated state he could swear he saw something in the flame, dancing dancing dancing. He hated the dance. He went to take another gulb from the glass, but it was just so slightly out of his reach. Instead he grabbed the bottle of now warm whiskey off the night stand, took down one last gulp, and hurled it at the wall, where it shattered into a million glittering pieces against the moonlight streaming in through ever-drawn shades. He didn't know if he'd survive another 17 minutes.