THE FLICKER IN
The BOTTLE
If my family had any royal blood our crest would be a crossed cigarette and bottle—as far back as either of my parents can remember alcoholism and nicotine have run through our blood purer than any pedigree. My dad's side of the family particularly loved both: in the few short generations they've lived in rural central Texas the Gerziks cemented their progeny's prestige as town drunks. The patriarch, my great-grandfather Joe, cobbled for the small town they lived in. Everyone knew much better than to visit him on a Friday because that was his drinking day and you'd catch a shoe to the forehead and a Czech curse word or two for bothering him. Also Saturday for his mean hangover, and Sunday since it's the day of the Lord.
One Friday, Joe had a bit too much to drink—as per usual—and decided he needed to make some extra money. So, that night, wife and children in bed, he put out his cigarette in the curtains and went for a walk. Everyone got away unscathed, and somehow, the insurance company paid him. Joe, full of gusto and good whisky, saw another glimmer o light in his bottle: he burned down his barely framed up house just a week or two later. However, this time, he couldn't stumble his way out in time. He burned to death with that house and his wife went about halfway with him.
She lived normally with the burns until old age. As her mind followed her body out, she only spoke when she saw someone in the family smoking. And boy did she speak. My dad said he had never seen anyone with as much fire in their throat as my great grandmother, that she'd curse out a barbecue pit if she wasn't looking hard enough. Every time she saw a Gerzik light a cigarette, all she could see was Joe in their face and the shadows behind them. She only wanted to outrun that old drunk, and with every flickering lighter or match he laughed at her from their shadows. Eventually, she too passed in near peace, the last wisp of smoke creaking out of that old house, her ashes spreading in every tray from Bryan to Snook.