“Drinking As Religion” (short story)
They say he was born without fingernails. After six months of drinking a stool away from him, vodka and curiosity got the better of me.
“Buy me a drink,” he spoke to the empty mug in front of him.
I bought him that drink and the tale began. When he was sixteen, Bill’s grades were good. He was a happy, good looking kid, nothing like the grizzled, worn, middle aged man in front of me. Now he wore flannel and worked at a paper mill. His best friend back then had been Skippy Peterson. The two were inseparable until Skippy started getting into drugs.
“Shit, I forgot to mention the old man. I can’t go on without introducing the old man.” He was still speaking to the mug.
Bill’s old man worked at a meat packing plant and drank heavily. The two of them got on well during the day, but after dinner, the old man got mean from drink. One time he caught Bill’s older brother, Karl, sneaking a cheese sandwich after eleven.
“You little faggot! You buy that bread? That your cheese?” The old man grabbed Karl by the shirt and tried his hardest to knock the scavenging teeth out of his head. He succeeded in beating four of them out.
“We knew to be careful. I always was. I’d be home well before curfew. I wouldn’t even leave my room after ten, in case he saw me in the hall. If I had to piss, I’d use a cup or bottle. Tough luck if I had to shit.”
One night while Bill was sleeping, Skippy came by. No one locked their doors back then. Skippy just walked right in. He opened the door to Bills’ room and watched him sleep. Skippy’d just taken three hits of acid and was in a very off state of mind.
“I slept naked back then. It was some stupid phase I was going through…”
After a few minutes of watching Bill, Skippy realized that he wasn’t acting normal. Bill was acting normal. Emulating Bill, Skippy took off his clothes. Then he climbed into bed with him. The acid was scaring him, he needed an anchor. Needless to say, Bill woke immediately.
“I must have screamed. I didn’t know what the hell was going on.”
John, Bill’s father, came storming into the room, ready to pound some respect into his son. He was furious the boy had awoke him.
“The old man just lost it. He saw me first, naked, standing. Then he saw Skippy in the bed. Skippy just stared.”
John dragged Bill, naked, to the garage. He threw him to the concrete floor. He tore a pair of pliers from the wall and marched to Bill, terrified and cowering on the floor. John grabbed Bill by the wrist.
“I should have run when he went to the tools. I was scared, he was a vicious man and I was terrified. He never said a thing to me, before, or after. He wouldn’t even look me in the eyes. He just started pulling. It took a few tries in the beginning; pliers don’t take to fingernails too well. Then he got the hang of it.” Bill looked worn out, like he’d told this tale a few times and it was wearing on him. I signaled to the bartender for another couple of shots. We got those out of the way before he finished.
“I screamed. I begged. The pain was horrible,” Bill looked to his smooth fingertips. “The feeling of something ripping out of your skin, feeling it slide underneath on its way out. The old man finished and left me alone, naked and sobbing on the floor of the garage. We didn’t talk much after that.”
Story by Jason Schueppert.