Drink

      His name was Doug, he was alone here, and he preferred it that way. It was the only place to get a mid-afternoon drink in this little suburban oasis. Shooters Bar & Grill was empty this time of day, sunlight darting through half-closed wooden blinds which covered the front windows at odd angles. The television which hung over the far end of the polished oak bar was running some inane sporting event of the type in which ESPN2 seemed to specialize. The volume was turned down low so that the nonexistent crowd wouldn’t be interrupted in their conversations. The bartender, who looked all of 20, polished beer mugs as they were shuttled out from the kitchen by an older Mexican man whose weather-beaten face and permanent stoop suggested he should have retired before the bartender was even conceived. The telephone behind the bar rang steadily five, six times before stopping, then began ringing again; neither man seemed to take notice of it. On the near end of the bar was a mason jar of twelve hard-boiled eggs pickling in some ancient olive-green liquid; it was the kind of oh-so-cute blandishment that suburban watering holes like Shooters displayed to show customers that Hey, this isn’t like all those other shopping mall bars; here is a place with character. Doug wondered vaguely how long the eggs had been there. He also wondered if anybody had ever been foolhardy enough to eat one; if they had been drawn to eat it.

      Tempted, thought Doug.

      The word made him wince and he turned back to the former focus of his attention, a single shot of amber whiskey in a glass which lay before him on the table. He caressed the shot glass almost lovingly with his finger. Abruptly, he jerked his finger back as if he’d felt a jolt of current. He closed his eyes tight, put his face in his hands. In the background, the phone rang on; Doug’s brain seemed to reverberate with each new peal of noise.

      Oh yesssss

      Doug shuddered in spite of the climate-controlled restaurant. He closed his eyes tighter and tried to will the pictures out of his head, but he couldn’t fight both that and the urge to pick up the glass. His lips felt dry and cracked; he was thirsty.

      God mmmm that’s it

      Doug pushed the voice away and reached for his wallet. He opened it and searched through the folds until he found what he was looking for, two photographs with dog-eared corners. In the first picture was a fat-cheeked infant boy of about two months; in the second, the same boy, a few years older, sat holding a baby girl, his younger sister. Doug clenched the pictures between his thumb and forefinger as if he were a desperate gambler holding a pair of aces. He checked his watch, which told him it was 1:30 PM; he was due to pick up the kids from day care at quarter after two. The thought was almost enough to make him laugh; here he was worrying about needing to pick up the kids while his wife…his wife…

      It was too much. His shoulders shook, until finally he started to sob quietly, the tears streaming down his pale cheeks. Some of them fell in the whiskey. His breath hitched and caught as he tried in vain to get himself under control.

      “Hunh-uh-huh…”

      uh unnnh uhhh he saw her fist gripping the sheet on the bed they shared

      The sudden vision shocked Doug, who tried even harder to block out the memory and failed. Unbidden, the images came to his head in a flurry: his wife’s hair laying tousled on the duck feather pillow he had bought her six months ago because he knew she was allergic to cotton; the greedy look of pleasure in her eyes which he knew he had never given her; the tanned, coarsened hands of a stranger running up and down her back…

      Doug’s hand edged toward the glass of whiskey, seemingly independent of his body.

      There was a loud crash from the direction of the kitchen, followed by a torrent of what seemed to be curses in Spanish and English. Doug’s hand scurried back as his attention was drawn to the noise. The glass cart lay on its side; the old Mexican gent was bent over it, frantically trying to pick it up.

      “Jesus Christ, Manny,” said the young bartender, not moving to help. “Between you and this frigging phone, I can barely hear myself think!”

      Manny seemed not to comprehend this. “Lo siento, lo siento, I trip on the carpet.”

      The bartender shook his head impatiently and sighed; Doug decided right then and there he didn’t like the kid. “Whatever. Barry’s gonna shit when he gets in here, and it’s coming out of your paycheck anyway.” He threw his bar towel down and headed for the bathroom.

      As Doug looked on, Manny watched the kid leave, muttered something and resumed his struggle with the glass cart. The phone went on and on; the ringing had by now become just another piece of Shooter’s wanna-be-quaint atmosphere. Doug, almost as if remembering something half-forgotten, reached for his inner jacket pocket and retrieved his cell phone, which he kept solely for reaching his sponsor. Right now, he was just relieved he’d never given out the number. He didn’t dare ask to use the bar’s phone; the odds were he would have to answer whatever mad person was calling so fast and furiously, and he thought he had a pretty good idea who that person was. He hit the Contacts button on his phone and scrolled down to an entry which read “Donald AA”. He pressed “Call.”

      The phone dialed and rang in his ear, creating a weird counterpoint with the rings of the other phone which made Doug feel dizzy.

      “Please be there,” Doug said to himself.

      After two more rings, the phone picked up. “Doug?”

      Doug closed his eyes, almost fainting with the wave of relief. “Don. Oh man, thank God you’re here! I am in a really bad way right now, man; I need you to talk me down.”

      The voice on the other end of the line sounded cautious. “Okay, Doug, the most important thing to do right now is to stay calm, and tell me what’s—“

      A second voice, frantic and female, cut through Don’s. “Is that him? Is that Doug?! Doug, please—“

      Don cut her off curtly—“Will you shut UP?”—but Doug had already heard. He knew that voice as well as he knew his own; he had heard it say “I love you” a thousand times; had heard it singing on late Saturday nights and early Sunday mornings, had heard it expressing joy and agony as his children were born. The bottom of his stomach dropped out. Suddenly, he realized whose hands he had seen in the bedroom.

      Don’s voice came back on the line. “—said shut up. Doug--”

      Doug cast the cell phone away from his ear as if it were a writhing snake. He sat and stared at it with a sick fascination. Then, strangely, he chuckled. He listened for the bar telephone and heard nothing but Manny speaking shortly in Spanglish, the tan receiver cradled against his deeply browned skin. “Yes. Yes. I see if he here. Hold on, please.”

      He walked over to Doug’s booth. “Excuse me, you are Señor Llewellyn?”

      Doug smiled at him, his eyes hollow. “Yes, I am.”

      Manny smiled back apologetically. “Your wife, she is on the phone.”

      Doug looked down at the shot glass, which still sat full on the table, unmoved by whatever turmoil Doug was feeling. He stared at it as if he had never seen whiskey before.

      “Hey,” Doug said, “it’s Manny, right? I heard that kid call you Manny.”

      Manny nodded, half-smiling and wary.

      “Can I ask you something? Why didn’t you knock that guy on his ass? He deserved it.”

      Manny didn’t answer. Doug saw the look on his face and assured him, “Relax, I’m not looking to get you in trouble. I’m just… I’m curious. You look like you could’ve put a hurting on that kid.”

      Manny thought for a moment. “Señor—“

      “Doug.”

      “Doug,” said Manny, “sometimes, it just not worth it.”

      Doug turned Manny’s words over in his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I guess you’re right on that one.”

      Manny shuffled back to the still-overturned glass cart. Suddenly, he turned to face Doug. “Oye, what about your wife? She still on the phone.”

Ooooh---ohhhh my god doug what are you doing home

      “Tell her I’m not here,” said Doug before he neatly threw back the shot of whiskey and slammed the glass on the table. “And have that kid bring me another one.”