Drunk Dialed

When the clock chimes two a.m. on a Friday night in unison with the vibrations of my cell phone and the distant, “Hello,” is barely audible over clinking glass voices, I know that the choices you are making have gone from birthday party celebrations to temptation filled cups. I can hear it in the tone of your voice that the red plastic is overflowing with gold foam. You always told me you wanted to taste gold, and now I know your dream has come true because somewhere through your speeding train slurs, I make out a few words that sound familiar. My name, spun from fabric unraveled by unsteady hands. You demand that I hear a joke, tell me it is the best one you know of. And when you are finished dispelling some phrase that I am unable to make out except for the sonic boom ending of , “Dis dick!” your Vesuvius stomach explodes, luckily with laughter instead of debris from a night you won’t remember in the morning. There will be no stories for your crowning glories. There will be no way to know how you got that scab, scar, tattoo of a gold medal on your heart. It’s true what they say, that before gold burns it turns into gasoline and that if you’re not careful its flames will eat you alive. So when the time comes for you to choose between birthday candles or stand up comedy routines done on Coca Cola and Whiskey, I want you to realize that burns are only sexy if their accidental and gold is only sweet when you mix it with reality.