His Own Hands

Tonight Billy is home alone. He sits at the center of his old beat-up couch with his left hand curled around a glass of orange juice pondering his refrigerator full of emptiness. The television in front of him is dark; the only illumination offered comes feebly from the sulfur street lamps outside the window. Billy's shirt is a tad wrinkled. His legs are not restless.

Tonight Billy is staying on the couch instead of moving out into the night with friends and foes. He will not be driven to various venues mindlessly. He will not be asked, persuaded, cajoled, pressured, or fooled into taking yet another plunge. Billy is taking matters into his own hands tonight by not doing anything. Billy has taken matters into his own hands.

Tonight Billy is sipping oranges instead of sipping poison. Billy tastes sourness flowing down his throat instead of feeling a white-hot poker there. Billy stands firmly on his own two legs instead of staggering supported by the legs of another. Billy sees and understands that he is home and calm instead of seeing and understanding that he does not understand at all. Billy urinates once instead of five times. Billy has taken matters into his own hands.

Tonight Billy has chosen to sit soberly in his one-room apartment and think soberly about his future. He works in a warehouse for two McChickens and a large soda more than minimum wage. He has not spoken to his parents since the years began with 19. Billy washes his clothes once a month, but has only enough to last a week. His television shows black because otherwise it would be showing blue. Billy has taken matters into his own hands. And look where his hands took him.