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Cowboy Caleb recommends 
Flavours Of The Weak And Other Pleasures
After getting home at around 9.30pm, I took a shower and dried my hair. I looked out the window and wondered what was this feeling, of pure uneasiness. Something’s just not right. Had a brief chat with Ngader, and I mentioned that after reading about her frequent sojourns, I felt like I was living my life all wrong.
I ruffled my hair, put on a white t-shirt, a checked blue shirt (tucked out) and a comfortable pair of blue denim jeans and called a cab. Damn, I’m thirsty for a drink.
On the way to Nathan’s in the belly of the city, the taxi sped and the lights fled by like little rods of molten steel. The sky was full of clouds and it would probably rain later in the night. Which was good, because I planned to drink alone tonight.
A good bartender does not ask questions, he simply knows. It was my personal belief that Nathan was mildly psychic, his mind attuned to the alcohol-laden sponges inside his customers’ heads. I handed him my credit card, and told him to hold on to it because it was going to be a long night.
“You’ve been away for awhile. I was told you are in mourning. My condolences” he said as he wiped a decanter recently drained and washed. While he said this, the expression on his face did not change. The same old same old wry look that said that he knew exactly how I felt and probably more.
The bar was mostly empty of patrons. In a corner, a japanese couple swayed to the bossa nova music playing softly from the hidden speakers in the wall. At the end of the bar, a salaryman still dressed in his workclothes struggled to keep his greasy long fringe from covering his eyes. And then there was Nathan and myself.
Nathan asked “Would you be interested in something…special tonight? For your current condition, I have my own private collection that you may wish to partake of.”
He obviously wasn’t waiting for me to reply in the positive because his hands had already begun to reach under the bar counter. 3 strange glasses were then placed in front of me. Each was multicoloured, and slightly larger then the last one.
“You’re going to have to pay for this one first”, he said as he swiped my credit card and the machine beeped in pleasure. Then he brought out another 3 bottles. The bottles were unlabeled, and looked very old - prewar in fact. Nobody made glass bottles like that anymore.
“This is first drink is called Guilt. It is made from fermented fruit from Jerusalem. Nobody quite remembers how to distill it any longer. I bought it from a consignment in a private auction.”
And I drank it down with one gulp. It was bitter beyond belief and I choked. My face turned red as I screamed at Nathan for a glass of water.
But he would give me no water.
“Wait! Now you will have your second drink - the Africans call it Regret. It contains fermented blood and the tears of a woman” said Nathan.
My throat was on fire, and I drank it all down immediately. Immediately the bitterness went away but now it was replaced by a foul taste and no wonder because it was made of vile and disgusting ingredients. I also tasted urea - the damned drink must contain cow’s urine as well.
“And now for your final drink of the night” said Nathan with no expression at all, “From the rice plains of Northern China, grows wild rice that once fermented becomes a drink so potent and delicious they had to name it Sweet Oblivion.”
I drank slowly this time. The taste of oblivion was amazing - sweet, thick and syrupy. As I drank it, my head became heavier and heavier. The sweet fumes from the wine rose into my nostrils and into my head. Then came the sensation of floating… of becoming lighter then a feather.
My memory dimly recalls sliding off the chair onto the cold hard floor, being lifted, helped into a cab and deposited onto my bed.
And it only cost me 70 bucks
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