The shoe, the thimble, the man on the horse.

It was three years ago and I was a shit.
Well, not that I'm not anymore in my own right
but I'm talking a different breed of degenerate;
not someone who calls out of work to read novels
or catch up on his documentation, someone
who calls out of work because he was in the hospital
for some reason that could've been avoided
whether it be a beer bottle across the nose
or an ex-girlfriend's misinterpretation of the Word.
Regardless, it was a time in my life when
I'd stir the pot by taking spur of the moment trips.

A few of these times landed me in Cortland
visiting a friend in college.
It was a nice place to escape to, a college town
tucked away in the sprawling hills and
friendly accent of western New York.
He lived in a house with a few other students
though I rarely saw any of them during the day
since they were off participating in extra-curriculars.

At night it was a different story.
We'd drink. Beer, in mass quantities.
And none of the cheap shit for me, Jack.
I've always managed to acquire respectable booze
even when my wallet suggested otherwise
due to warehouse jobs or credit card bills.
I was going to get blackout drunk
in a town where no one would ever see me again.
And the time that I ran out of an alley
to hurl a garbage bag full of tap water
while screaming obscenities
at an innocent passerby with a hideous goatee
stumbling home from a frat party somehow
seemed like a rational idea in the heat of the moment.
But I digress.

I'd wake up the next morning after going from
house to house, party to party, staggering down
suburban streets well accustomed to the routine.
The sun would stab through the curtains
and sting my eyes as the cotton balls in my mouth
drove me to desperation. My buddy would still
be asleep and there would be nothing to quench
my thirst in the refrigerator. (Non-alcoholic, of course;
though I may over-indulge from time to time
I've never been one for the hair of the dog that bit me.)

For some reason we couldn't drink the water in his house
and the moldy filtration pitcher in the fridge looked contagious.
There was no orange juice left over from Screwdrivers
no flat soda from the Jacks-and-Cokes
not even some ice cubes to suck on.
But I did find an unopened jar of apple sauce
way in the back corner behind some half-empty beer cans
and did not feel the least bit guilty for swiping it.
I brought the whole container into the room where
I had slept, twisted the lid off, and drank it right down
like a fruity milkshake. I instantly felt my insides
being watered back to life and the sour taste of beer
was replaced with the sweet tang of the official state fruit.
When there was no apple sauce left I hid the evidence in
the back of a closet, well aware that it didn't matter.
I rummaged through my duffle bag for a book to read.
My friend woke up an hour later and we said our goodbyes
shortly after going to the local greasy spoon for breakfast
where I ordered a large glass of orange juice before sitting down.

Tonight as I got ready for bed I had a craving for apple sauce
so I went downstairs to the cupboard to get some.
It didn't bring me back to innocent times from my childhood
with my mother spooning it into my mouth, or Thanksgiving
Dinner or pork chops or cider houses or orchards along 87.
It made me think of the time in Cortland when a jar of apple sauce
saved me from a hangover worthy of equally severe debauchery
and how even then, three years ago, when I was still a shit
of the worst degree, I was able to make due with what I had
or better yet, what someone else had, and that, my friend
is how to put those little red hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place.