Auntie is a drunk, she has been for most of her 86 uneventful years on this planet. Perhaps that's why she drinks, because she has no imagination or gumptive powers to find a better hobby.
She drinks Wild Turkey, 101 Proof. By my estimation between my fingers, toes, and an abacus, 101 proof equals more than fifty percent alcohol. And she buys it by the barrel, that ginormous jug reserved for lower liquor store shelves because sheer weight alone will bring the inventory down. One a week.
I am not a big drinker so I don't know that a vat of liquor per week is considered "a lot," especially to a run-of-the-mill alcoholic, but in my own personal brain, it seems to be quite a quantity of spirits. And, ironically, it is giving no lift to Auntie's spirit; she's still dour and puckered.
The drinking of 8-10 ounces of turkey juice is not enabling proper balance and walking skill, though she has a cane. Wobbling around is a fully mental challenge for her anyway, much less when she's sauced, and so I took it upon myself to remedy the situation with a bit of tap water each evening to top off the bottle.
Did I mention she has dementia? No? That's probably a crucial detail, because otherwise I would not get away with the dilution portion of my story. She would stagger over to me and smack me with the cane for taking the sweet out of her candy instead of just opening the bottle each day and drinking a lesser portion of her beloved liquor.
At first, the liquid looks like bourbon, it's a dark amber. After the first day, it's more Long Island Tea than straight barrel-aged sauce. Second day, she's looking a bit peaked, shall we say, kind of brewed tea, turning to a weaker brewed version the next day. Day four, it looks like a bottle of urine. It's not pretty. And by day five, Auntie is downing a glass or twelve of sunshine tinted water. At least I can be certain she is getting her recommended daily allotment of water each day.
Does she notice a substantial taste change? No, she does not.
But of course, when I watch her practically licking the inside of her tumbler to get to the last drops and I realize I am marvelling that any mammal other than a giraffe has a tongue that long, it's time to get a new bottle.
Here's the fun part: you can't water down a fresh bottle. There is no room in the inn, shall we say, and the bottle would of course overflow.
So you wait, just watch.
She pours that first drink, sits at the table, eagerly lifts that glass to her mouth, and takes that first sip.
Bam!
The lips purse, the throat constricts, the eyes squeeze tightly and then bug out like a thyroid patient and here come the sound effects! Starts with a gasp, ends with a whimper.
Visualize a water buffalo submerged too long. She shakes her cranium back and forth ferociously to get that junk down her gullet. Droplets of booze fly from her lips and snot from her nose and I think, "I'm gonna need Windex."
After the initial breathing returns, she looks at me and whispers from her abraded throat: "Good."
And I go to the cleaning cabinet for supplies.
