Tonight's Poet Corner: 21 Shots

21 Shots
by Belinda Roddie

First time drinking, and I'm already
seeing stars. My buddies Bronco and Hyde
are waiting for me in the trunk. Don't even bother
to help me buckle my seatbelt. My fingers feel like
fat hot dogs being grilled on the fourth of July.

Bronco's sober, but she's driving too close to
the right. Just like all the other cars, actually. I'm
sweating like I'm in a tropics, but it's Hyde who smells
like he's been baking in the sun like an overripe
fruit, rotten down to its soggy pit.

"If we drive fast enough, we'll be back at the hotel
in no time," he grunts, as Bronco lets her black boot
work the pedal like the lips of her last lover. "Hang
in there, buddy, all right?" Hyde's worried I'm gonna
roll over toward the window and stain the already
spotted glass with my own vomit. But I don't feel sick.

This road.
I've been on it before. The asphalt
splits in familiar cracks. For a moment, I think
I see my dad's face peering up from the gashes.
Judging me. Wondering when I'll be home
for my nightly belting. 3.9 GPA when
he wanted a 4.0. A 4.0.
A 4.0.

That was four
fucking
years ago.

We hear the sirens behind us.
"Shit." Bronco swerves
into a naked spot on the side of the freeway.
The police car just roars by. Has better places
to go. Better people to pull over, people
who aren't amateurishly drunk
on their twenty-first birthday.

"You could've handled it better." I'm about to snap
at Hyde for insinuating that, but he hasn't said
anything. He's falling asleep in the passenger's
seat. I think that might have been my father
reprimanding me. But he's not here. Hasn't been
here for two years. Not here.