The room was spinning and Peter threw his hand on the ground in an attempt to stop it, all it did was make it spin a little faster and his head throb; not to mention his hand had landed in something warm and wet. Last night had been just another night out for Channel 8’s Peter Simon, he’d go to the tavern in the city and sit on a stool, entertain the locals with weather facts, the girls would buy him drinks adding to the drinks he’d bought himself until he could hardly walk. At the end of the night he would usually make up stories about the weather, and come up with excuses to why he couldn’t go with this woman or on the rare occasion why his equipment didn’t work.
The alarm clock radio comes on then, blasting James Blunt’s You’re Beautiful into the still quiet bedroom; this event alone is why he jumps out of bed-he hates that song. The alarm clock silent, he rehashes resentment; he had let it known at the station that he hated that song, and the producer had introduced pieces of it into the opening of his weather report. That producer had it in for him for some reason, some day he’d get his, Peter thought.
Staggering to the bathroom, the thought of brushing his teeth makes him gag, so he grabs the vodka from the sink and takes a long swig. He had a couple hours before he had to go in, he’d better drink up to be sure the shakes had stopped by then. He had to drink now, found he couldn’t function at all if he didn’t, he remembered when it was a pleasure, when the alcohol was a lubricant, loosening him up for school, interviews, meeting girls… there was a time when it made everything easier; but now, everything was so hard and the booze just barely kept things acceptable.
The job was life; he had to keep the job. Vodka, beer and occasionally pot cost money; his tab at the bar was outrageous he was making monthly payments on it now, but it just seemed to grow and grow. Sometimes he could barely recall walking into the bar at all, the only reason he knew he was there was the stale vomit beside his bed and the empty wallet in his pants.
This was not how he had pictured success; where was the sports car, the eye candy on his arm and the nice clothes. He imagined elbowing his way all the way to a national slot, competing with the likes of Al Roker or maybe even an anchor spot. He sometimes wondered why this county needed a weather report at all, the weather never seemed to change, it snowed nine months out of the year and the other three were so humid your clothes stuck to you within seconds of leaving an air-conditioned room.
Oh well, he thought, taking another swig, who would even notice if I used the maps I used yesterday, or even the same forecast. Might as well drink a bit more and feel something besides normal, maybe even smoke a joint.