BATHTUB GIN

The long sotted soak started with the trial by fire at the local Steak & Ale. Burnt hands and arms and shattered back, aching knees and visibly throbbing feet. Boiling bath and hair of the dog that bit you. Maybe something morose sobbing from a thriftstore radio.

I rekindled the affair after 12 hour shifts at a "gastropub" that shall remain nameless. More burnt hands, arms. Back and knees and feet much older and frailer. Pains that screamed for whisky and Melville. I'd slide into boiling bathwater and resume my spot with Starbuck, Queequeeg and the lot. A sip. A sigh. Turn the hot to a trickle. Ahab's angst. The endless cetological digressions. More sips. The pain warped, bloomed. A bloodred throb of broken ache. The whisky spilled into its cracks, smoothed them as clay. There was no room for music.

Two weeks ago we found ourselves showerless. The tub, still functioning, beckoned after a long day of moving things "around" and general cosmetic chicanery. I felt like I'd worked sautee for 12 hours. Choreographed torture trot from oil to pan to stove to order to plate to mise-en-place to expiditer. Burns and cuts along the way! Runners in your grill with a cold skirt steak, a raw skate wing, a request for additional "spicy seasonings."

No wonder the kitchen manager huffed bug spray in the walk-in.

To the cupboard. A tall glass. Ice. I rolled a lime under my palm and halved it; ground the juice and pulp with the vaguely Sadean citrus reamer. Hendrick's remnants. Ah... A little tonic: A subliminal suggestion of effervesence. To the bath. James' Varities of Religious Experience must suffice with Melville on the shelf. To your good health!