6797. IT'S REYNOLDS, WITH THE BOTTLE

IT'S REYNOLD'S, 

WITH THE BOTTLE

What is this? We're out in the woods somewhere

and it's the longest day of the year? Which means, I

suppose, as well, the shortest night of the year; and

Reynolds still has that bottle. He's always been a 

swallowing drunk. He's always reminded me of 

some staggering goon from Deliverance. Down

below there, that gurgling mess is the river  -  right

now shallow, swank, and sunken. In other words,

good for nothing until some upriver rain gets us

going again. What are we going to do? Start a

fire, make camp, heat some food. Reynolds

still has the damned bottle. He's also got the

keys to the truck with the riverbed trailer.

So watch him as careful as can be. Don't

let the fool loose, running.

-

I didn't come here to go home a mystery, a story

about a never-returned, or a loose shaggy body in 

a soaking bag. It's a good turn for you I didn't bring 

my dog, I'd have already had him sig your ass  -  and

Reynolds, you'll note, still has the bottle. It's all your

fault. You should have never let him get started.

-

Do you know how some men are? Sots. Alcoholics, for

the most part, just plain and eventual drunks  - drinking in 

the daylight hours to fear the fog, and drinking in the same 

damned fog to bring the daylight back. That's some pretty 

whiny, circular logic, and it's stuff I don't want to hear  - 

and this guy still has the bottle. Drinking steadily like the

rain we await. Telling about his Irish mother's wake, and

his granddad's old farmhouse. Shit, he might as well just

talk about Old Grandad; it wouldn't make no difference 

now. And Reynolds still has the bottle.