It was my Uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food

Host: The evening was a slow burn of amber and neon, a bar at the edge of the city, where the floorboards creaked like old laughter and the walls remembered too many secrets. A radio hummed somewhere in the back, playing an old jazz tune that seemed to lean into the smoke rather than escape it.

Jack sat at the counter, a glass of whiskey before him, ice clinking softly like the passing of time. Jeeny was beside him, her coat draped over the stool, her eyes catching the dim glow of a bare bulb above. The bartender — an old man with a face like a creased novel — polished a glass with the kind of care only given to rituals.

Jeeny: “You know what P. G. Wodehouse said? ‘It was my Uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought.’ I’ve been thinking about that line. There’s more truth in it than most people realize.”

Jack: “Wodehouse was a comedian, Jeeny, not a philosopher. He meant it as a joke — not a revelation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes a joke hides a confession. Maybe Uncle George was just a man who found nourishment in the only thing that didn’t judge him.”

Jack: “Or maybe he was just a drunk, trying to make his habits sound heroic. People do that — they turn their weaknesses into philosophies.”

Host: The radio’s trumpet wailed and then fell into a lazy silence. The bartender poured another round, his hand steady, his eyes empty of surprise.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve known a few ‘Uncle Georges.’”

Jack: “Haven’t we all? My father was one. Swore by his bottle the way priests swear by their God. Said it helped him ‘think.’ But mostly, it helped him forget.”

Jeeny: “Forget what?”

Jack: “That he wasn’t the man he wanted to be.”

Host: The air hung thick between them, the smell of whiskey and dust mingling with the faint bitterness of memory. Jack took a slow sip, eyes narrowing as if the liquor might reveal an answer.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what Wodehouse meant. Not that alcohol is food, but that it feeds something — not the body, but the ache. Maybe Uncle George didn’t need a meal; he needed mercy.”

Jack: “Mercy doesn’t come in a bottle. Only numbness does.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes numbness is the only mercy left.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was soft, almost tender, like she was speaking from some hidden wound. Jack turned to look at her, really look, and saw the fatigue beneath her grace — the kind that doesn’t come from work, but from feeling too much for too long.

Jack: “You speak like someone who’s been there.”

Jeeny: “I have. My brother — same thing. Every night, the same ritual. One glass to forget, two to remember, three to believe he was still alive. He said it made him feel warm. And warmth, when you’re lonely, feels a lot like love.”

Jack: “Until it doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “Until it burns.”

Host: The bartender refilled their glasses, unasked. He’d seen this kind of conversation before — the kind that circles the truth until both hearts are too tired to run from it.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. We call it a vice, but the world keeps selling it like it’s salvation. Ads tell you to ‘unwind,’ ‘escape,’ ‘celebrate.’ We’ve just rebranded despair.”

Jeeny: “Because despair sells. The modern world’s full of Uncle Georges — people who can’t stand the silence of themselves. Alcohol’s not just a drink; it’s a disguise. It lets you wear your sadness like a smile.”

Jack: “So you think he was right then? That alcohol really is a kind of food?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not for the body, but for the soul, yes. For the parts of us starving for connection, for meaning, for forgiveness.”

Jack: “Forgiveness from what?”

Jeeny: “From being human.”

Host: The rain started outside, soft and unhurried. The neon sign above the bar blinked — red, blue, red again — a heartbeat for the forgotten.

Jack: “You always find a way to make the ugly sound beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Because the ugly is what’s real. We spend our lives trying to escape it, but that’s where all the truth hides.”

Jack: “So you think Uncle George wasn’t running away?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he was coping — badly, maybe, but honestly. And in his own way, he found a nourishment the world refused to give him. We call it addiction, but sometimes it’s just hunger in disguise.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his jaw tightening as the words hit something deep. The clock above the bar ticked on, uncaring, as if time itself had no stake in their sorrows.

Jack: “You know… I once told myself the same thing. That a drink wasn’t escape, just a way to think clearer. But it wasn’t clarity I wanted — it was permission. To stop trying, to stop pretending I could fix everything.”

Jeeny: “And did it help?”

Jack: “For a while. It quieted the noise. But then the silence got louder.”

Jeeny: “That’s the trick, isn’t it? You think the bottle erases, but it just pauses the pain. And when you hit play again, it’s all still there — only heavier.”

Host: The rain grew stronger, drumming against the windows like a tired song. Jack stared at his glass, then pushed it away. The bartender raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Jack: “Maybe Wodehouse was mocking all of us — the way we turn poison into comfort, the way we keep pretending that numbness is a form of nourishment. Maybe Uncle George wasn’t a hero. Maybe he was a warning.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe both. Wodehouse always hid his truths in laughter. Maybe he knew that even fools deserve their feasts — even if it’s just liquid bread.”

Jack: “Liquid bread. That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s tragic. But tragedy’s just another kind of truth, isn’t it?”

Host: A faint smile crept across Jack’s face, the kind that carries more sadness than joy. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small notebook, and began to write.

Jeeny watched him quietly.

Jeeny: “What are you writing?”

Jack: “A note. To my Uncle George — and to every fool who ever thought a bottle could fill what life left empty.”

Jeeny: “And what does it say?”

Jack: “‘Alcohol isn’t food. But sometimes, when the soul is starving, even poison tastes like hope.’”

Host: Jeeny didn’t speak. She simply reached for his hand, her fingers brushing his — a brief, human gesture, fragile as breath.

The bartender dimmed the lights. The rain softened, and the radio began another song — a slow, melancholy melody that felt like a goodbye whispered under a blanket of smoke.

Jack raised his glass, not to drink, but to toast.

Jack: “To Uncle George.”

Jeeny: “To all the starving souls.”

Host: They didn’t drink. They just sat there, the whiskey glowing amber in the low light, untouched but understood — a symbol of everything sweet, dangerous, and necessary about being alive.

Outside, the rain finally stopped, leaving behind a shimmering street — reflections of lamplight, memory, and two silhouettes who had learned, for one quiet night, that sometimes even fools can speak the truth.