Airborne by Rina Palumbo

     ​Andrew Seaman CC



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Airborne

He's a heavy social drinker, so whenever one or too many people come over, he brings out the rye, beer, and homemade wine, and they ask that's all you got? Kids go downstairs and grab more bottles, a dollar to whoever brings up the most. 

He's a heavy social drinker, so he leaves behind so many messes and stains; clothes, glasses, cups, tabletops, floors, there are so many many stains, shades of red and yellow and burgundy and amber, but the names of the colors don't matter because you need to clean it all up, wash and scrub and wash and scrub and let dry all the things removed from their stains. 

He's a heavy social drinker, so when we go out to eat, the glasses get refilled, and the bottles keep coming, and bottles and glasses go out to other people at other tables. The bartenders and servers get tips of whatever bills he pulls out of his front pocket; keep it, you earned it, he says as he throws money down on the table or the bar or the tray or wads it up and stuffs it into an apron. 

He's a heavy social drinker, so it's okay, it's fine really, speeding on the highway in the small morning hours, speeding on that highway next to the river, going faster and faster so that, when you reach the arched bridge over the factory train spur, you are airborne, maybe only for a second or three but you are so scared you pee your pants. At the same time, he defies gravity. He continues laughing at the memory of that feeling, even after you land on the asphalt with a rubbery bounce and even after when he finds your gravel driveway and turns the ignition off. You're one who made the mess now and has to scrub, and clean and have the recurring nightmares, airborne, not landing with a bounce, but into the river, but you always wake up before you hit the water, so it's okay, it's fine really because you only peed that one time.

He's a heavy social drinker; you listen to your friends' parents say things about him and call him other things, a functional alcoholic, a drunk, or just a good time Charlie, except they stop when they notice you. 

He's a heavy social drinker, so when you move out, move away and return less and less for shorter and shorter periods, checking in less and less and paying shorter and shorter attention, you still remember all their words and all their silences.
 
He's a heavy social drinker, so the last time, the very last time you see him, you are outside looking in. He sits, tired and empty, at the window, bottles, and glasses on the table, mouth open in a  loose smile,  eyes looking ahead, a coarse laugh sometimes erupting, all airborne now.

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Rina Palumbo (she/her/hers) has a Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins and is working on a novel and two nonfiction long-form writing projects alongside short-form fiction and creative nonfiction. Her work is forthcoming or appears in Milk Candy, Bright Flash, Survivor Lit,  Stonecoast,  Amethyst, and AutoFocus et al.
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