In the morning

Larry drove towards downtown on Lyndale Avenue. His head was pounding and all the thoughts within that head were fuzzy. As he drove slowly and cautiously, the façade of the CC Club shone in the corner of his eye.

Larry decided it made more sense to go there now than go home, sleep on the couch, and suffer the demons of hangover. It was 9:41am according to the digital display on the car radio.

The CC did not open until 10:00am.

He found a parking spot on a street behind the bar. As he parallel parked, he may or may not have passed out momentarily. He stumbled out of the car, stepped in a puddle of melted snow, and broke through a thin pudding skin of ice on the top.

The cold morning air attacked his nostrils and mouth and suddenly Larry did not feel stable. He tried to run behind an abandoned building, but he could not make it. He stood knee deep in the front yard of a run down duplex. His hands were on his knees as a steady stream of vomit and mucus exited his facial orifices. The hot vomit melted the snow and formed a perfect spray pattern. It also turned the blinding blue-white snow to a putrid shade of yellow-green-brown filth. Larry had not remembered the last time he ate, but apparently, corn was involved.

He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his flannel and walked around the corner and up the block to the door of the CC Club, which had just been unlocked.