february fifteenth 🖤 conor oberst

four

Summer

I'm roaming the aisles of Spirits and Things at 11:00 PM, picking up flavored liquor and miniature bottles of vodka, when Conor arrives.

He comes to stand beside me, much more nonchalant than I'd expected, hands jammed in his pockets.

"You're gonna need to get some whiskey," he tells me.

I turn around, offering him a smile. "Oh, will I?"

He nods, looking rather serious. "If you want it to be any kind of party, yeah, I'd recommend it."

"Alrighty then." I step back from the shelves. "Pick your poison."

He reaches for a thick bottle full of rich brown liquid. I pick up a bottle of raspberry vodka and beckon him to follow me towards the checkout counter.

After I pay fir our alcohol, we head out into the parking lot towards my car. Conor walks a shoulder's distance away from me, pulling his sweatshirt close to him. "Jesus," he mutters. "It's cold out here."

"That it is." I unlock the car and open the driver's door. Conor walks around and gets in from the passenger side, the bag of alcohol in his lap.

I turn the key, starting up the engine and radio. Warm air flows through the vents, cutting through the cool of the winter's night.

"So, Conor," I say as I back out of the parking space, "how's the first week of your twenty-first year been?"

I register his shrug out of the corner of my eye as I turn onto the freeway. "Nothing to write home about, really," he says. "I've been trying to write some music. Oh, and definitely drinking a lot."

It is at that moment that I hear the definite 'glug' sound of a drink pouring. I cast a cautious glance over to the passenger side, only to see Conor with his head tilted back, a silver flask pressed to his lips.

I resist the urge to slam on brakes as I realize exactly what's happening.

Half of me is livid that this little shit is drinking in my car, putting us both at risk of being arrested. The other half is impressed that he managed to pour whiskey in a moving vehicle without spilling it all over the damn place, because seriously, how did he do that?

However I feel about it, I find myself hissing at him through my teeth as I continue driving. "Conor!"

He looks over to me, wide-eyed and demure, as if he's completely unaware of anything that he might be doing wrong. He pulls the flask away from his lips, shrugging after wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Sorry," he mumbles, not sounding very sorry at all.

I roll my eyes, focusing on keeping my driving as legal as possible now that I know exactly what kind of passenger he is.

As soon as he seems to figure out that I'm not going to kick him out of the car, he reaches over to fiddle with the radio.

I cut my eyes at him again. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"Finding music," he replies, turning the dial further. "I'm not gonna listen to this place's shitty excuse for an alternative station."

Soon enough. MavRadio is blaring from the speakers. Conor leans back in his seat, taking another swig from his flask.

"Better," he announces, a quiet triumph.

"Wow," I say. "You seem sort of... cocky tonight. What's gotten into you, - liquid courage?"

"Only the best."

"Yeah, I can tell. You'll have to give me some when I'm not driving."

It is only then that I consider something rather important. If he's already this relaxed, then that probably means he had been drinking before he left home. Which means he might have...