“A poor companion without a cocktail, I became a very good companion with one.” – Jack London
Fall 1997 ~ Alone in Boston, I am feeling a sense of peace and solitary contentment, even as I want someone with whom to share the euphoria. Still, I’ve never minded drinking alone. Fall has unleashed its cool nights on the city – a welcome, refreshing jolt after sludging through a thick, humid, sticky summer, and the schizophrenic push and pull of October. By November the chill has stuck – even the subway has cooled off. The leaves no longer soft or fiery of color, they are brown and brittle and dry, crunching and crackling beneath the feet. The life of summer has been extinguished for another season, and I turn inside to gather myself for the coming winter.
The walls of the living room are deep red, mottled by my own hands and aided by my Uncle – the hardwood floors are a light golden amber – it’s an Inferno of a room, as is my very first martini. I find a recipe for the classic drink in Mr. Boston’s bartending guide. For that first one, I pour in the gin and just the smallest dribble of dry vermouth – foregoing the olives completely – initiation by fire. Even chilled, it burns the tongue and throat, but by the last sip it’s going down smoothly. The bite is gone, and I’m deliriously up in flames.
I will come to adore that burn – the first flush of the cheeks – the sting – the way the heat begins in the stomach, and how I can actually feel it moving outwards, emanating from within and bringing me to flushed relief – thousands of tiny tongues of flame, lapping away at my bloodstream and dotting it with sweet, hot forgetfulness.
{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}
[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans
Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY
Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco
and Scene 4: Boston & Provincetown.]
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