Ballantine's and a nudie dip

Nothing that a bottle of whisky and a nudie dip can't cure. - I need this one. Countergirl at the liquor store smile at me. I hand her the Ballantine's. - 299, thank you. Have a nice evening.

Car parked. Shoes tossed away. Trousers over the sofa. Shirt goes the same way.

- Nothing that Ballantines can't cure. Crack says the cap. Sissle says the good stuff. Sprinkled over the ice.

Sweat dripple down. Through my beard. On my tummy. Stops at the elastic. Panties wet with sweat. I cherish the sun. Naked at my veranda. A Tuesday afternoon.

- Nothing that a nudie dip can't cure. Half way through the bottle. Wrap a towel around the tray. Pack down two glass. My cellular goes the same way.

I nod at the barbecue party, on top of their garage veranda. Next to the beach. This is what they see:

To sandals. Blue cooling bag. Glass of whisky. Pantied man.

Staring down in the light blue sea. I will have a heart attack. Heart will stop beating, reaching the Atlantic.

Snapping for air. Cold water dripping through my hair. Were doing fine. Old buddy. Not in too good a shape. Still standing for a cold dip.

Swim towards the rocks. Making sure I will not drown. The cold won't take me. Turn around and head for an islet.

Warm kelp. Hot stones. I watch the garage party. They watch me. There's some activity in their neighbors house. I see someone at the window. Window goes up and down. Up and down in the red house. House wife gone mad. Cleaning out the heat.

Reaching for ice. I beat the tray against the rocks. Fill my glass with ice. Sprinkle more Ballantine's over it. Heavy glass. Nice glass. Bought it for survival times - like this.

A friend comes by. - There was an ambulance up at the red house. A woman fainted. They took her away.

- Maybe she saw something she couldn't handle, I reply.

Bollocksing our way through the bottle. Gnat bites. Sun colling down. We head back to his place. There will be some cognac on he table. I know.

Wake up fine at 7am. Can't find my panties. But then again. I'm probably not the first to wake up after a round of scotch, not knowing where the panties are.

At work. Same old stuff. Writing. Talking. Talking. Writing. Then it hits me with full force. I cling to the keyboard. Knowing that I some day will meet my creator. Not only some day - but this very moment.

I need something else to think of. Grab my camera bag. Drive down the main street. Out of the city center. A quarter later my mind is set on other things.