Waiting for the Lion

A Story by ZackOfBridge

Jungle juice on a bench

She was smoking on the bench at night. I walked to her from the dumpster

“I’ve lost my taste for stoges.” I said, eyeing the ember tip of her cigarette alit.
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, I guess it is, they're a nice thing to fall onto, but…I don’t know. The smell, you know? On your hands?”
“You quit because of your hands?” Said the girl.
“I guess not."
She reached into the polo jacket that hung around her like a blanket. From the inside pocket she pulled a flask, furred with pink cheetah pattern. With her index finger she began a motion, much like the gesture --“Come here"--with the flask top. She swayed it in her hand for the assurance of a splash and she tipped it into her mouth, her lips superimposed against the opening. She chased her drink with a dainty lift and drag of her cigarette.
“Nice flask--what’re you drinking?” I said, my hands empty at my lap and my mouth clear, even with a lingering taste of toothpaste stowed away in brushed-over crevices.
“You like it? Its cute, huh? I got it because I used to drink from a water bottle, and that seemed more like an alcoholic thing.” She said, the flask hovered over my lap, she left the top open for two.
“Thanks--Its a step up from a dark bottle in a brown paper bag, right?” I took the flask in a sweep to my nostril. It smelled like pink lemonade and sloppy trouble.
“Yeah, guess it is. ‘cept its jungle juice. Guess I’m alcoholic enough for jungle juice.”
“Jungle Juice?”
“Well, take a drink if you’re so curious. I drink it while I wait for the Lion--No better way to face the lion.”
I put the flask to my face and angled it to pour onto my tongue and down my throat. It was a sweet pinch on my tongue, and made me breathe through a lens of alcohol.The air in my lungs fermented. My stomach burned a nice heat. “Goddamn--thats not bad!”
My voice left the bench and called back in an echo, I noted how happy the echo sounded.
“Not bad right? Well--awful--but it tastes good,” She said and nodded her head in the smoke, the smoke coupled with her breath on the cold air. “Have another if you want--and then pass it here--I gotta get ready for the lion.”
“The Lion?” I said and flicked the cheetah flask with my wrist. The jungle juice roared in my heart, “Ahhhh!--Got damn!-- what’stha lion?”
“To truly see the lion you gotta sit on this bench with a belly full of jungle juice for tha’night -- you wanna wait it out with me--you’re welcome--anyone is good company with a flask between them.” She said and flicked the butt of her stumped cigarette into the street.
“Another swig of this and I don’t think I’d be getting up off this bench anyhow" sure--thanks--(the alcohol began its warm bind on my brain and tongue)--never seen a lion ‘fore.” I said, and my head turned heavy to face her. She flicked her fingers on the pack of cigarettes. “Can I get one of those--I think my taste is back.”
I took another flip of the flask, pushed the cesspool down and then disappeared in place.

Black Curtain

My arms extended on the length of the bench’s backing, and head wobbled on a neck that supported it even in the most drunken times. I had reappeared in my mind, like I had walked into an empty movie theater and was probably going to exit soon again. I knew the flask was empty and my stomach was full. My tongue needed a smoke, “Can I get another of your smokes?”
“I told you a million times, I’m out.”
“No s**t.”
“I’ve got papers.”
“No s**t.”

Black Curtain

I’m kneeled on the ground, the street light above the bench a spotlight on my dire task. My hand is clamped closed. There are cigarette butts in it. My other hand is struggling to pinch a stomped butt from the sidewalk slab.
“I think you’ve got enough--you fiend.” The girl said. “Let me roll it--you’ve got me fiending now.”
“There’s a term for people who pick up cigarette butts, I read it in a book once, Grapes of Wrath--Steinbeck--saw the play couple months--“
“Hey guy, give me those butts so I can roll ‘em up.”
“Oh. Yeah. Alright.”

Black Curtain

A light turns up from away. Its the headlight from a golf cart.
“D****t--security--shh shh.” She said
She tried to hush me, but I was just telling her about the pivotal ending scene in the novel I was going to write. The tongue in my mouth moved like a slug with salt on its back and the words flap with different pronunciations--but still--this is the best part of the book I’m going to write. “So and then the old woman is like a child and she sees the pet store and she’s gotta go in because she’s a kid and you know when you’re a kid you just gotta go in the pet store. You remember being a kid and--“
“Excuse me, you are both obviously intoxicated and you--“ The cart b***h stopped and said from the middle of the road.
“Excuse me--excuse me-- I’m trying to, to-- tell my friend a story--So excuse you--sir.”
“Yeah, alright. Just keep it down would you.” The big--little--b***h said and drove off.
“So you’ve been to a pet store--Okay, yeah--So, she goes into the pet store and--“

Black Curtain

I’m sitting on the bench, she is sitting next to me, dozing. Lips on my face are cracked. Tongue is stuffed in mouth like a sock. The black night is gone and their is the light blue, airy color of the sky.
“Are you ready? For the Lion?” She said, but my head ached her words into the dirt.
And the Lion climbed from the back sides of the mountains at a our distance. Its mane amber and earth yellow rose into the morning clouds. With pride the Lion roared loud and ever. The call of its roar warmed my face; my eyes closed. “Oh--the sun--I get it now.”
And then I puked my guts out like a sick animal.