close eyes to exit

to amuse himself, he exaggerated the unbalanced sway of his body, as if he were ready to topple over.

The motor rumbles. The lights on the dashboard have long ago stopped working, so Zepp has no idea whether there’s something wrong with the truck or if the hangover pressing against his temples is making the sound more troublesome. None of my business, they think, clutching the steering wheel, inhaling sharply.

It’s ugly work. Honourable, maybe, in some kind of sense: reminiscent of body collector’s in times of plague, history repeating itself in a twisted way. But it’s ugly work, the kind that weighs heavy on ones spirit. The kind that requires a stiff drink. Right now, though, he’s sober. Cold-shivers sober, shaking-fingers, bags-under-eyes. Not sure if he’s slept or if he just passed out and called it that. Sober, but on the edge of former intoxication. Maybe he shouldn’t be driving. In the back of the car, there’s Felix, fresh-faced, new to this place. In the back of the car, there’s Raymond, a bloody corpse, a stark reminder of the fist that ruled them all. Zeppelin was familiar with this kind of violence, this form of ruling, but even so they’d drunk themselves into oblivion the night before. 

Alexei allows them to live in a zone of relative safety, with relative comfort and relative ease. Zeppelin allows themselves to destroy his consciousness whenever they see fit. And that’s how he survives. He’s ripped from his thoughts ( which is to say: no thoughts at all, just the thrum of the head ache and the half-focus on the road ) by the voice of the soldier in the back of the truck. Something about potholes? He’s not sure. “Right, sure, bud, the fuckin’ infrastructure is a nightmare here, the rain’s got the roads all fucked, can’t help it.” He can. There’s an art in avoiding the bumps in the roads. He’s just not bothering to care. He looks at Felix through the rearview mirror. “You good?” Zepp’s not sure where he came from, not sure what kind of shit he’s seen. Through the rearview mirror, he catches sight of the car of Ray’s family. He looks ahead again. “Always hated funerals.”

“Let’s give it up for the,” he slurs, glass raised, potato speared on fork, “The motherfucking potato.” There’s a moment of bemusement at his full hands, the liquid potato in left hand, the boiled one in another. He opts for the liquid form, downing his umpteenth shot of potato vodka before stuffing his mouth, too, just for good measure.

They lap up the goodness around them, getting their fill of it, letting themselves grow completely comfortable and used to this sensation of joy. He’s not the only one drinking tonight, not the only one giving into the impulses that so many others seem to ignore so easily. There’s reverie, camaraderie, pure chaos. He thinks of the parties his father had described to him, from the times before: the ones he’d been too young to attend. He hopes this matches up.

He swallows his potato, searches for a liquor bottle so he can go for a refill. “I mean, fuckin’ easy to grow, versatile as all heck. I love this baby in all its form, y’know? Fried, boiled, baked, distilled.” He’s still looking. “Speaking off, any idea where I can get any more of the last one?”