I had to check the results several times to make sure I read them right. My Flash Fiction Challenge Round Two placed First in its category, receiving 15 points. What?! I looked, again and again, to be sure. Could I have this wrong? How did I come in first among all these writers? I doubted myself with this story as it's only the second work of fiction I’ve ever written. My group was assigned the genre of Comedy. I am not funny, how will I write anything suitable? Oh, this was a big challenge.
My high score pulled me up to 7th place overall in my group for both rounds, not enough to get me in the top five who move on to the final round. This is enough, I am satisfied.
2019 Flash Fiction Challenge Round Two Assignment
Maximum word count: 1,000
Category: Comedy
Place: A Hall of Fame
Object: A projector
The Drunken Spin
by Amy LaBossiere
A woman was obsessed with drinking and driving until one night a wrong turn changed everything.
I always loved to drink and drive. There’s a warm feeling in my head as I gripped the wheel with a good buzz. Three drinks started me off. The secret was not to get too messed up if I could help it. Many times, I failed. I know I’m a selfish asshole. Always have been. But I’m working on it.
It started when I was a teenager, one August before 11th grade. Mom asked me to go buy a coffee cake because Aunt Louise was coming over to play cards. I don’t know what compelled me as I walked past the bar in our living room to grab the vodka and start chugging. At least I was smart enough to fill the bottle with water afterward and neatly place it back in its dusty spot on the second shelf behind the Crème de Menthe. Oddly, it didn’t get me high; it made me feel what being normal probably felt like. I searched for that feeling again for a long time.
My parents barely drank and never knew that I emptied most of the bottles from that day forward, one by one, refilling them in artistic ways. For some of the colorful elixirs, I used iced tea or food dye to match the original color. I imagined my mom’s friends wincing as she presented them with a flavorless cocktail.
That summer kicked off my foolish, psycho adventures in drunk driving. I did it countless times for nearly two decades. Some nights I was so plastered, I held my hand over one eye so I could see the road. I called it pirate driving. Arrggh, it was fun, and I was okay.
One evening nearly two decades later, I was out for another drunken spin. I downed four shots of tequila and a Diet Coke. The caffeine provided motor skill enhancement. I cautiously navigated side streets, squinting my eyes to help me see better. As I entered the on-ramp, across the highway median, I saw a car on the exit ramp going the wrong way. I drove better wasted.
“Crash and burn asshole,” I muttered, as I watched the car accelerate toward the highway. It was then that I realized I was the one going the wrong way.
“Shit-shit-shit,” I slurred, cutting the wheel onto the grass, turning the car to get in the right direction. My heart pounded. I pulled into the nearest parking lot, opened the door, and puked. I felt some relief.
I heard a commotion coming from a nearby church with a bunch of people shuffling into a doorway. I stumbled across the parking lot toward the building. Adhered to the door was a weathered paper sign that read “Bill W. Hall Of Fame.”
A man opened the door. He was attractive, in his late 20s, wearing a flannel shirt, jeans, and a hat that said, “That’s a terrible idea. What time?”
“Welcome, I’m Gary,” he smiled, “smells like you’re in the right place.”
“Huh? Where’s the bathroom?” I asked.
Gary pointed inside, “Down on the left. There’s coffee too.”
I descended into the basement. Rummage sale items were piled up along the long hallway. I tripped over a slide projector and missed the beginning of the stairs.
“Watch those steps, they could save your life,” Gary called out.
“Jeezus,” I said, and looked up to see a framed portrait of Christ staring at me, judging my every move.
How did I end up crawling in here of all places? I found the bathroom and quickly relieved myself, then looked for a way out. I took another wrong turn.
Chattering voices quieted down, and then I heard, “Welcome to the Bill W. Hall of Fame meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. My name is Sally, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi Sally,” a group of folks responded in unison.
Sally droned on about fellowship and something about a desire to stop drinking. I paused. Maybe this was a sign. On a far wall, I saw a sign: Nothing Changes if Nothing Changes.
I sat in the back. A woman in a smart-looking business suit, around 40, approached. “Hi, I’m Eliza, welcome,” she whispered loudly.
“Oh hey, Eliza, I just needed the bathroom.” I didn’t want to tell her my name.
“Stay,” Eliza said, “We’re a fun bunch. It’s not called the Alcoholics’ Hall of Fame for nothing.”
Someone laughed. The room fell silent, and everyone looked at me.
“I’m not an alcoholic,” I mumbled. “Sometimes I drink too much, but I control it and can stop anytime I want.”
“You know how you can tell an alcoholic is lying?” Eliza snorted, “her lips are moving. When you’re ready to cut the shit, call me. I wrote my phone number in here.” She handed me a booklet of 2019 AA Meetings.
I never met sober alcoholics before. I thought AA meetings were full of derelicts, sitting slumped over in a circle, crying about their woes. These people looked happy. Part of me wanted what they had, but I was also disgusted with their upbeat personalities.
“I need a drink,” I said, not realizing I said it out loud. A few folks laughed.
“Just one?” Eliza said. “What’s the point?”
I took a deep breath, sipped my coffee, and looked out at the group. I smiled and shook off those early memories of my sober path. Seated at the front of the room, I was now in a different church basement, but the feeling of love and fellowship was the same. Yet I had changed.
“My name is Anne, and I’m an alcoholic,” I continued, “and that’s how I found my way here. I’m five years sober by the grace of God. Thanks, Gary for welcoming me at my very first meeting unbeknownst to me, and Eliza for your tough love. You are my lifeline. Thank you for letting me share.”