However, Don Lazia would like to remind you that he is not responsible for your misfortunes. So if you wake up in an alley with a bad case of Chicago Amnesia or if you've been sleeping with the fishes (though I don't recommend you do that), or if you feel like you've been written off by the Chicago Typewriter, or your old lady is chewing your ear off . . . remember: the Don just wants you to have a good time and enjoy the fresh smooth rich sweet taste - like it's your sweetheart's kiss. And if all else fails: Forget about it. With the Don Lazia Distillery.
The Don Lazia Distillery. The only distillery still going since Prohibition. We are glad to say people are no longer eating lead. Or going blind for the rich smooth taste. But the Don is an old-fashioned kind of guy: he insists it's made underground, in secret. Prohibition may be over but our competitors will stop at nothing to get their hands on this pre-Prohibition recipe. Trust me, nothing comes close to the rich sweet taste of the Don Lazia Distillery.
However, Don Lazia would like to remind you that he is not responsible for your misfortunes. So if you wake up in an alley with a bad case of Chicago Amnesia or if you've been sleeping with the fishes (though I don't recommend you do that), or if you feel like you've been written off by the Chicago Typewriter, or your old lady is chewing your ear off . . . remember: the Don just wants you to have a good time and enjoy the fresh smooth rich sweet taste - like it's your sweetheart's kiss. And if all else fails: Forget about it. With the Don Lazia Distillery. “I hated having to sell my Mustang. I loved that car! But it was old, and I couldn’t afford to keep fixing it.” Jane sighed. “It’s been six months, and I like my new car—but I still miss that Mustang!”
“It’s hard giving up a car you love, but you have to, sometimes,” Barb, Jane’s sister, said. “Hopefully your car went to a good home.” “I hope so. Apart from that one dent on the fender, it looked pretty good. I thought it would be a nice car for a teenage boy to get to fix up.” Chad, Barb’s thirteen year-old-son, came into the living room and turned on the TV. His favorite show was on. It was a cop show, which appeared to feature an endless parade of car chase scenes. “Hey! Aunt Jane! Isn’t that your car?” Chad said, pointing at the TV. “It looks similar,” Jane stared. “It is my car! It’s got the same dent!” “Cool! Your car is on TV!” Jane’s old car was currently racing down a twisting mountain highway, with a police car in hot pursuit. Suddenly, it skidded off a curve. It crashed through a guard rail and went down a steep hill, flipping three times before it landed on the bottom. The driver crawled out the window and began running away—just in time to avoid a violent explosion, as the car burst into a mountain of flames. “Wow!” Chad yelled. “My car,” Jane moaned. Then, she began crying. When we were teens, you ripped up my break-up letter and tossed it in the garbage. Years later, when we were twenty-something, you called me again to meet up, but I was distant and with someone else, a new kick. Then I remembered we always sat tucked away in booths at restaurants, we seemed to align, mesh. Nothing else really mattered. You always held the door open for me and made me laugh over the small stuff. My brain was like one of those snow globes, everything inside swirling- swirling until things shifted.
And so it began, days and days-days with you. They turned into months with picnics and hours inside cool, cozy pubs. The sun in the sky seemed brighter, hot, for October until the chill. I don’t remember November or much of December, the accident consumed me, the screech of the tires, and that oak tree was all I could see. Still, sometimes, there are days, when the sky is cloudless, a beautiful blue and the sun tickles, it warms my skin. I know it’s you. |
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