To a Cashier at a Discount Liquor Warehouse

Just so you know, some of this is for a friend. Most of it, actually. Yeah, I know, it looks like a lot. I’m just doing him a favor and picking up some stuff for him while I’m in town. The gin? All his. So’s the Cabernet. Which reminds me: could you get someone to bring around a full case of that? Thanks so much.

Also, I’m hosting a party next week, so the rest of this is mostly party supplies. Summer means mojitos, am I right? Ha ha!

Okay, the amaretto. I know that looks weird. Let me explain. See, my wife and I are foodies, and a lot of this booze is actually for recipes. You wouldn’t believe how many recipes call for a quarter cup of this, two teaspoons of that. Like, the sherry is for a sauce. For chicken. The bourbon is for another sauce. Barbecue. And a pecan pie.

That scotch is also for a friend. Yeah, same friend, Todd. I can’t stand scotch, but he loves it. He loves almost everything. Actually, he has a little bit of a problem.

Oh, right, the amaretto. It’s for a cheesecake. At a party. It’s a cheesecake party. Look, I go to a lot of themed parties, okay?

Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just feel like maybe you’re judging me a little. Like, when you scanned that liter of raspberry schnapps, it looked like your lip curled into the tiniest little sneer. Which isn’t too professional. Besides, I wouldn’t actually drink that stuff, not straight — it’s for the mojitos! At my party!

Well, it’s in my recipe.

Okay, look, I’m going to level with you. Brace yourself, okay?

Fact is, there is no party.

Here’s the thing: my so-called friend Todd has totally fucking lost it, and he’s holding my family hostage at my cabin upstate. He says I have to bring liquor, or my family will die.

I don’t know what happened. I mean, I know he’s been under a lot of stress lately, what with him losing his job and his wife leaving him — that’s why we invited him up to the cabin in the first place. We were all having a perfectly pleasant weekend — doing a little fishing, playing cards, sipping a few brews — and then he just lost his shit. Snap! Suddenly Todd’s waving a gun around, he’s locked my kids in the boat house, and he’s holding me and my wife at gunpoint making crazy demands.

He says that unless I bring him two handles of vodka, four of rum, some crème de menthe, ginger ale, and a fuckload of sour mix, he’s going to start getting violent.

Of course I’m serious! Why would I make this up? Yes, I want the little bottles in a box!

In fact, Todd just texted while I was getting the second cart. He says he’s going to start cutting off my wife’s toes, one at a time, unless I text him a picture of a case of Grenache Syrah in the back of my Explorer in the next ten minutes.

So really, it’s pretty fucking urgent that you cut the attitude and ring this stuff up so I can get going.

Thank you. Thank you so much. And please don’t call the police; I can’t predict what Todd might do. I love my wife. Her name is Sarah. And when I get back to that cabin, I’m going to kiss every single one of her beautiful toes.

Know what? Throw in a couple of these little airplane bottles of tequila for the drive.