Alcomists

We were too young to drink
legally and the gas stations
that sold beer to us
were way on the other side of town
so when the bottle of Jack
an older friend had supplied for us
ran out that snowy night
in the downstairs of his parents split-level
he was far from hesitant
to hit up the liquor cabinet
of the recently deceased.

"Here," he said. "Try it."
He handed me a small porcelain cup
full of a dark brown liquid
that seemed more like a baking ingredient
than a merry-making agent.
I sucked it down and tried not to vomit
my face a twisted expression of
gastric discontent.

"That's not bad," my altered voice lied.

"It's vermouth," he replied, taking
a big swig of his own
right from the bottle.
His post-swallow face was more impressive.
I was new to the game we were playing.

We were too young to care
whether it was the dry or sweet type
and too naive to know the difference
being years away from martini culture;
we'd barely graduated from forties of malt liquor.

The record played on to our senses
too dull to notice the ache anymore.
At his parents next party someone
would go to make a cocktail and notice
the bottle had been opened
but neither of us cared.

It was the price of Big-League living.
We were on the verge of something huge.

He may have found it since then
but I bet he played his cards wrong, too.