There’s a reason whiskey exists and why the songs that we love stick. Stopped for a turtle once. It was in the middle of the road. Near railroad tracks. I got out, walked toward it and noticed a few things. Walking toward it was a bad idea. Didn’t like me at all, though I was trying to save its life. Turtle didn’t care. I drove away smelling the summer air knowing I’d never forget.
-M. Taggart
In 2013 I got drunk and wrote a short story concerning my cousin. Before 2013 I had ignored writing as though it was a waste of time.
The story is raw and at times tough to read. Descriptive in nature. The story is not fully edited and full of ridiculous errors I wouldn’t make now. However, it’s real. My wife, Megan, self published the book for me. I wrote the story hoping it would help my cousin. Though he loved the writing, I’m not sure that it helped in any way.
If you want to read a moving story about a man trying to handle his demons, loves dogs, but not himself enough, here –
I took the photo. Sugarloaf Mountain, South Dearfield, MA is on the right of the Connecticut river and Sunderland is on the left. This is where the story takes place.
This catapulted my mind back to where it belonged.
Cheers,
Matt
Gram! Don’t look at my balls!
I was drunk.
Just a few minutes before,
my drunk self took me to my
old bedroom to put on my gift.
Which was a cold water wetsuit for kayaking.
Fuckers are stretchy and real tight.
Once I had that bastard on, including the headgear,
I pranced toward the bar, where everyone was,
with their drinks and their cheer.
Gram! Don’t look at my balls!
It was snowing outside.
I remember laying in the snow, feeling nothing,
It was fucking good. To lay and feel nothing.
Eventually I came back inside.
My family accepted my balls as myself.
And Big Al wanted to have another shot.
And we did.
-M. Taggart
Yourself is you
until you aren’t.
I try and explain-
They don’t listen
and I’m fine with
that while listening
to them speak
about how much
they are, until finally
I say I know they aren’t.
-M. Taggart
We walked into a whiskey distillery in Winchester, NH
Inside was nicer than expected
Wood floors. Wood beams. Wood bar.
I stood near the wall, didn’t take a stool.
I like standing. It’s freeing for my heart.
To my left was the actual distillery
Whiskey barrels with grudge marks smiled at me
The owner is an amazing man
He’s been around the world and back
And talked to me as though I mattered
When we were ready to pay he asked
me if we could put it all on one
I looked at him, unmoving
I said, “My donkey is currently at the top of the hill.
I’m not sure which way he will go.”
He said to my brothers, “How long has he been like this?”
I liked this man as soon as we had walked into his distillery.
We talked about football, and basketball
at extent with a man sitting to our right
As soon as he told us his player was Barry Sanders I told him about Curtis Martin
and I wasn’t able to stop my mouth
about Jayson Tatum and his talent
His footwork
His intelligence
We walked from
this place
with a step
loving life
even though
we were the only
white boys
-M. Taggart
Real men drink whiskey and beer
They get on their hands and knees and
clean the toilet because it needs to be cleaned
just after changing their baby’s shit diaper
while cooing with love and watching
their child’s eyes light up
Real men sit in pubs reading Hemingway
They salute the old brilliant fool by smashing
a shot because they wanted too and because they just did
They come home and stay home for weeks because
they want nothing more than to be with their family
Real men wake up early to make breakfast for their wives
They find the fluffy Maine Coon cat that isn’t allowed to sleep
in the bedroom, and walk as silently as possible as not to wake
their sleeping beauty- place Mr. Fully cat just so, and leave the
room wearing a smile. Check on the baby, race downstairs,
start the coffee, place the eggs on the counter near the stove
along with the English muffins, one package of bacon, butter, And
a can of beer. Because drinking a can of beer while making an
early breakfast before the family is up is fucking amazing.
There is no such thing as a real man. There’s only one thing a man
can be and that’s himself. And when he does that well, he’s able
to love the ones around him fully, wholeheartedly, and life will be good.
-M. Taggart
Black Cat Syndrome
Fiction
Written by Matt Taggart
Black Cat Syndrome
It was late afternoon. The pub was busy. They had taken the last two seats. He sat with his elbow touching the wall. Pete was being crowded by an overweight man.
“Ever heard of the black cat syndrome?”
“No.”
“I was walking with Erin. Remember her? She was a good person. I wasn’t ready. Anyway, we were walking on the dirt road that splits the cornfield.”
Pete leaned closer to Eric. Not to hear him better, but because the overweight man laughed heavily and rolled his head back and crowded Pete even more.
The pub burst with noise as a new group of happy hour sympathizers opened the door and searched for their area of comfort. Eric noticed how everyone’s body language changed the moment new arrivals entered their space. He pressed closer to the wall. The wall wouldn’t change.
“Go on. I’m listening.” Pete said.
“We were walking toward the river. You could just make out the cliff face of Sugarloaf. I remember wanting to see how high the river was. As I looked toward the river a black cat walked out from the corn. It crossed the dirt road in front of us, and went back into the corn on the other side. I said to Erin, ‘You see the black cat?’ She smiled and nodded her head.”
Pete lurched in his chair. A portion of beer leaped from his pint glass and landed on his boots. Pete’s lips thinned as his head tilted. “Mother fucker” Pete murmured. The overweight man’s forearm had over taken Pete’s bar space.
“I’m sorry about that. I saw. I’ll get you another beer.” The bartender said.
“I’m fine. I have half left.”
“I’m still going to get you another beer. Be as fine as you want.” She smiled while walking back toward the taps.
“You’re always doing that. I see what you’re doing. You’re studying everyone.” Pete said.
“I don’t mean to. It just happens.” Even now Eric was looking passed Pete. The bar was dark oak. Half the patrons had food. Everyone had beer. Not one person had a whiskey. Someone needed to order a whiskey. It wasn’t right to not have a whiskey on this bar. A pub employee placed a hot plate of onion rings in front of a man. He could barely make out the scent of a woman’s perfume as the smell of onion rings filled the crowded air. And now the bartender was coming back with Pete’s beer, already smiling. The conversations filling the bar room were constant. Creating a noise with peaks and valleys, but it wasn’t random. It had somehow been designed with purpose.
“What the hell do you see?”
“I don’t know. Nothing really.”
“Here’s your beer, hun.” She smiled not the kind of smile demanding a good tip. And she lingered. Pete wasn’t very handsome. He was rugged, beautifully rustic, and sincere.
“Can I have a whiskey? Actually, a Manhattan. Not in a foo-foo glass either. I want it in a rocks glass. And I want the dirty rocks in another rocks glass, please.” Eric asked the bartender.
“You can, and will.” She didn’t look at him. She was watching Pete. Pete hadn’t noticed.
“Are you lost in the story?” asked Pete.
“Nope. So, we walked through the corn field, through the cemetery, and then to the river bank. The river wasn’t high. I thought it would be, but the storm didn’t bring it up hardly at all. I’m standing on the river bank, with Erin, and we’re taking in the view of the cliff face. For some reason I think of that damn black cat. I ask Erin, ‘Wasn’t it odd to see that cat walk out of the corn?’ I had thought it was odd because of its age. It was a young cat. Not a kitten, but not much older than one. And the farm was a long way off.” Eric said while watching the bartender make his drink. He wanted to see if she would spin the long spoon in the alcohol or shake it in a shaker. If she shook it, the drink would be spoiled. If it was spoiled he’d need to order a second Manhattan or else he wouldn’t let himself be comfortable. And the oak bar still wouldn’t be right.
“So that’s it. You saw a black cat on a walk?”
“No. It wasn’t that. It was Erin’s answer. She said, “What black cat? There wasn’t any black cat.”
“Why the hell would she say that? She just saw it with you. You said she nodded her head.”
“I don’t know. That’s why it’s the black cat syndrome. I’ve seen it everywhere since that moment. People have their eyes open and see about a third of what’s happening around them. Maybe less. I said to Erin, ‘You’re joking. You just saw the cat minutes ago. It crossed the road in front of us.’ But my flaw was that I was now talking with passion. Erin says, ‘Why are you yelling at me. There was no cat. Who cares anyways? Why do you always have to be like this?’ and now Erin’s upset and we’re on a brink of an argument and I can’t let it go because there WAS a black cat. If there weren’t a black cat I wouldn’t be passionate and it’s not even about the damn cat. It’s about her having seen it without locking it away as fact. And now I’m passionately digging through her mind to uncover this for her and it never works. It just never works.”
The bartender placed his Manhattan on the oak bar. He was afraid to taste it. “Why are you so fired up? You’re yelling.” she asked.
He wasn’t yelling, but that hardly mattered. “You’re right. I was remembering a time when someone wasn’t able to handle truth. And that pisses me off.”
“He’s not normal. He’ll talk to you, but he’s here and somewhere else too. Don’t mind him.” Pete said to the bartender.
Eric nodded in agreement. He slowly lifted the rocks glass filled with Manhattan. He brought the drink to his nose, smelled the tempting aroma of whiskey mixed with sweet vermouth, and tilted the glass. He wouldn’t need to order another. Unless he wanted to.
“You make a good drink. It’s exacting.” Eric said to the bartender. “Pete, take out your cell phone. You’re going to have her number.”
Pete had known Eric since childhood. He opened his new-contact screen in his cell and placed it on the bar.
She took Pete’s phone, entered her name, then number. She said nothing. She attempted a smile. She looked at Eric with something resembling anger. Beneath that was truth and that was all that mattered.
I play indoor baseball with Gavin
Gavin puts his binky on the T and hits it
He puts his stuffed owl on the T and hits that
He hits anything that’ll fit on the T
I don’t tell him only a ball can sit on the T
I don’t tell him it’s time to practice
I let Gavin tell me it’s time to play
Sometimes he puts the ball on the T
and hits the ball into the wall
I cheer!
It wasn’t long ago that I played indoor baseball
with ping pong balls and DVD cases
The impact makes a satisfying sound
There was beer and whiskey and friends
Two on Two, Three on Three
Stuffed into my bachelor aparment
Smashing away
We broke shit
We fixed what was broken
And played on
If you caught the ball in flight
Out
If you handled the ball cleanly
Out
If you smashed the ball into the
far back wall
Homerun
Swing and miss twice
Out
We kept stats
And had arguments
We played
I think if Gavin wants to play baseball
Later in life
It’ll be nice
If he doesn’t
That’ll be nice too
But I’m sure as hell not getting in the way
of his indoor baseball
-M. Taggart
Gavin is 2.5 and going at life like it ought to be gone after.
My brother called a month ago to ask if I’d like to be his best man. This will be the fourth time I will be the best man in a wedding. I’m not sure how this keeps happening.
My younger brother has always been my soft spot. He was my saving grace.
He asked if I would do an old-fashioned best man’s speech.
He said, “With how you are with your words I’d like to hear what you have to say. Just please include the memory when I threw the rock through your window at 3 AM because I locked my keys inside.” He was outside drunk. Alone. Happy.
While my brother was talking about the wedding I tried to stay in the moment. I’ll admit I did drift.
With everything that’s happened in the past few months, including nearly losing my wife due to an internal rupture, and internal bleeding, I drifted. I started to imagine myself at my brother’s wedding. Me going into the old systematic fold that I’ve always used when I’m around many people. No one knows. People will tell me it’s great to see me and I’ll think something along the lines of, ‘We gain too much knowledge and we die.’ I’ll shake their hand and observe how much time I think they might have left. Some people seem to have a harder time absorbing knowledge than others. They’ll ask me a direct question and I’ll answer them very quickly. And we’ll head to the bar.
-M. Taggart
Cheers
Should I Call Her
Short Story
Written by -M. Taggart
‘You’ve been sitting here for an hour thinking about calling her.’
The sun wouldn’t set for another two hours. He liked sitting on the deck and doing this. Watching. Thinking. Drinking beer. What would be the same if he did call?
‘Honestly. Tell me what you’re doing with this? It’s been three days.’
‘It’s a bit like holding onto sleep when you’ve first woken up. You know you’re awake. You want to get up because you know you should be up, but you don’t get up and instead you do nothing.’ Nick said feeling he’d described it as best as he could, but also feeling like he’d left something out.
‘I think you should. There’s your phone. Pick it up. Call. You said she’s interested. How do you know again?’
‘She told me she was. She walked up to me and told me to call her. She took my phone and put her number in the contacts. Smiled and walked away.’
‘And now it’s been three days and you’ve done nothing. Why? Want to sit on this deck forever and look at the sun go down?’
A Blue Jay was screaming. It had just landed in a bush, down below the deck, and now screamed. He wished he knew if the bird was male or female. He should know the difference, thought he had, but now wasn’t sure.
‘Do you have any more of that whiskey? The Whistle Pig whiskey?’
‘I do. Not sure that I want any. It’s where it always is.’ Nick said without looking at Chad. Chad walked into the apartment and came back with two glasses, ice in a dish, and the Whistle Pig whiskey.
‘You know, Nick, you not knowing if you want this whiskey is much like you not knowing if you want to call her. There’s no point in doing nothing other than wasting time. It’s either you do, or you don’t. Once you’ve made that decision, the rest happens. And, you can’t control it.’
A second Blue Jay landed near the first Blue Jay. They both sat on branches near one another and screamed. The sun had dipped. Chad poured two whiskey drinks, added one ice cube to each, and sat down.
‘I don’t like ice in mine.’ Nick said. He let the ice float. Watched as it diluted the whiskey.
‘Nick, she might not be interested anymore. Think of that? Maybe she’s found another guy to give interesting ideas about being interested. You taking three days to call her isn’t ideal. Not in my opinion. Maybe she doesn’t want to hear from you now. Better not call.’
The Blue Jays had stopped screaming. They sat and looked at whatever it is that Blue Jays look at. The sun had dipped slightly more.
‘Maybe she isn’t. Maybe I don’t care. Maybe this deck and this view are all I need.’ Nick knew what he said wasn’t true. He felt his lie inside him.
‘That’s fine. Let’s not talk about it more. Did you see the game last night? The Celtics picked up a good one. He’s 6ft 8 with a wing span of a 7 footer. I think he’s an MVP in the making.’
‘Yea. I guess.’ Nick picked up the whiskey drink. Watched as the ice cube floated to the back of the glass as he tipped it. He sipped the diluted drink. ‘Maybe I’ll call her right now.’
‘Good. What’s her name?’ Chad asked.
‘Jenny.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s O.K.’
‘I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t know.’
‘It’s O.K. I’m fine.’
‘I wish I had known, I wouldn’t have asked.’
The sun had dipped slightly more. Chad refilled the whiskey in his glass. ‘Do you want more?’
‘Yes.’ said Nick. ‘What do you suppose happens to the male Blue Jay if he loses her? Do you know? I thought I knew. But now I don’t remember.’
**
thanks for reading
ps, it’s my birthday. i’m thankful to have another with my wife. i didn’t mean to write this. it just happened.
Matt
mtaggartwriter 