I’m drinking Wild Turkey out of the bottle tonight.  The “Kickin’ Chicken”.  I haven’t had it in a long time.  Wild Turkey has cost me a lot of memories, sometimes for the better.  Wild Turkey is that kind of liquor.

It is has a special place in my heart.

You can’t fault the drink for it.  You can’t buy a bottle of Wild Turkey thinking “This will end well. ”

Everyone has a friend like that – the Wild Turkey friend.  The moment you hear their voice on the phone you know you’re calling in to work on Monday . . . and it’s only Wednesday.  For me that friend is Willy Pete.

We had been drinking heavily before we left the apartment.  We made it half-way through a bottle of Wild Turkey before we decided to take our show on the road.

Willy Pete and I were working overnights for the same company at the time.  The hours were long, the pay was low, and by the time Friday rolled around we were angry, miserable and intolerant.

I woke up that day on about 4 hours’ sleep.  I trained and showered and rushed to keep an appointment with my tattoo artist.  Having your ribs tattoo’d feels something like having asphalt scraped out of your skin after dumping a motorcycle.

Fast forward to nightfall.  I was punch drunk from lack of sleep as I wedged myself into a parking spot in front of Willy Pete’s apartment.  Rattling loose a handful of pills from a bottle in my glove box, I uncorked the bottle of Wild Turkey behind my seat and washed them down.  My stomach was empty.  I knew I had half an hour before the over-the-counter cocktail of truck stop speed and bronchiodilators hit.

We drank shots for a while at his apartment before we had worked up the nerve to empty our paychecks from the ATM.  We were going to hit every bar in the neighborhood – a proud feat – and we needed every penny.

We had done this before.  Successfully, even.  The challenge was to drink a shot in each of a dozen establishments or so within walking distance of Willy Pete’s apartment.  Alternately, we would drink three shots in each of a small handful of places, skipping restaurants or bars that (for whatever reason) we were not allowed into.

By 3 AM we were near the finish line.  Crowds were thinning and several bars were closing early.  We were running low on money, having ponied up for extra rounds.

Willy Pete paused outside the last bar to bum a cigarette.  There were half a dozen people blocking the stairs, a few more lingered on the sidewalk.  During random smoke-talk, Willy Pete discovered that the guy he’d bummed a smoke from had gone to the same high school.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets and rolled my eyes.  Next to the tall smoker was a squirrelly looking tweaker – clearly too shit faced to be served.  He joined in the conversation as well, nervous and animated.  I lost my stomach for them completely and turned to stare blankly at anything else.

I caught bits of what they said.  The twitchy guy said he had been out of town for several years.  Eventually he asked Willy Pete where he could score some coke.

Willy Pete denied him several times and he grew agitated.  I took a few steps back from the conversation.  I was day-dreaming about sleep but the chemical swirl in my head was keeping me upright.  I was burning out.

Then things went south.

Tweak: “Are you guys fags!?“

Willy Pete shook his head.  His face torqued in frustration.

Tweak: “Are you sure you guys don’t know where I can get any coke?  Fags always have blow . . . ”

Willy Pete: “No man, we’re not . . . “

Tweak: “Are you guys fags!?“

Willy Pete: “I swear to God, motherfucker,  if you call me a fag one more time . . . “

I heard the tone in Willy Pete’s voice change.  I knew what was coming next.  I turned to look, but it was too late.

Tweak: “Man, you don’t even fuckin’ KNOW me!”

Tweak leaned forward and shoved Willy Pete.  Willy Pete cocked his arm back and cracked Tweak in the mouth.

I grabbed the tweaker around the neck and pulled him into a choke hold.  Tightening my grip, I bore my weight down on him.  He collapsed on the sidewalk in a heap with me on his back.

Willy Pete had seen me pull this trick before.  He picked up one of the tweaker’s arms and let it fall to the sidewalk.

“He’s out!” Willy Pete shouted.

I got up robotically, looking around at all the witnesses.  The tweaker’s friend looked at us, then pointed at the unconscious lump on the ground.

“I don’t really know that dude.  He was being a fuckin’ douchebag anyway.  You guys better get the fuck out of here before the cops come . . . “

We took one look at each other and bolted.

I remember looking down at the tweaker.  Blood was pooling from his mouth where Willy Pete had hit him.  He lay unconscious at my feet, twitching.  His face looked funny, cheek pressed into the filthy sidewalk, sprawled out and helpless.

I was glad not to be him.

I didn’t feel sorry.