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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “I wrote this in the dark” Down in the Dirt, v207 (5/23)  Order the paperback book: 
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Peaked
Bill Tope
I open the refrigerator door and peep
inside. My beer is there. Good. I feel
a sense of relief, as if a balance has
been achieved. I have to keep at least
three 24-ounce Bud Lights on hand
for each evening; but I cheated this
time, substituting a 32-ounce Miller
Lite for one of the Buds. More beer
that way, an additional margin of
safety. And it’s low-calorie, too so it’s
all good.
I grab a huge pork steak out of the
meat tray and slap it into the big
skillet, turn on the flame and wait.
In a few minutes it is sizzling. In
deference to a balanced diet, so-
called, I empty a can of whole kernel
corn into the skillet once the steak
is nearly done, drizzle Worchester
sauce over the food and stir.
After supper I grab a Bud and head
upstairs to my bedroom. The
mattress, nine years old, is ripped
in places and tilts precipitously,
having lost some of its slats over the
last decade. I sit on the bed, facing
my PC, which is siting atop a wobbly
card table. I rip open the beer and
take a long, cold drink.
Taking up the old cigar box, I peer
inside, take out the small soapstone
pipe and check the Baggie containing
the pot. Not much left, so I decide to
save it for when Melanie comes over
tonight. Very big of me, I think.
I flip on the computer and play Grand
Theft Auto V for an hour; then Mel shows
up. We talk, kid around a little, smoke
up the reefer and toot her half gram of
blow. Then—as my mother might say—
we fornicate about as enthusiastically as
two stoned middle aged people can.
Which is to say, not so much. I’m getting
old, I think.
After Mel leaves—she never stays over,
saying “That’s for when we’re married”—
I take a hot shower, feel the scalding
water wash away the day’s residue.
Next I vigorously towel off, thinking how
much nicer it would be if my girlfriend
would only stay the night. I sigh, shake
my head.
Pulling open the medicine cabinet, I
reach in and extract a half-filled bottle
of Nyquil and drain the bottle. Any more
and the cold medicine would have the
opposite effect and keep me up all night.
And i can’t have that.
Finally, I grab the 32-ounce can of Miller
Lite and pull the tab. It hisses sibilantly.
I lay back in my empty bed and turn on the
local PBS station and watch old re-runs of
Doctor Who. And I wonder, have I peaked
at forty?
