HE
I walk
around when I’m on the phone. Sit, then
stand. Walk in circles. Press against weak spots in the floorboard
with my foot. Experiment with the
malleability of the walls. They’re
always as solid as I think they’ll be, but the moment before I touch them I
think to myself maybe this time they’ll give way. And all the while your voice in my ear. I’m listening. I pay attention. It’s just that I need to be doing something
else while I am. My mother did the same
thing. I used to find scraps of paper
around. notes from the doctor, or the dentist, or the lawyer. Certain numbers, certain letters, she’d go
over and over them again and again with the blue Bic pen. Like she was slowly, over the years, laying
out a code that someone was meant to decipher.
Maybe that’s why she never threw anything out.
I’m still
listening to you. You’re telling me a
story about your stepdad. I asked you
to. Not specifically about your stepdad,
but you mentioned him and I said “go on,” you know, like you do when you’re
being polite, though I meant it. I think
I did anyway.
When I
mentioned to you that I was thinking about going to a meeting, you said “you
know that’s a real thing, right? not
just a place you can go for attention.”
And it made me think this thorny, ingrown thing. My first reaction was how unfair it was, but
then I thought what if you’re right?
What if this whole thing is just a play to get attention? I think you were kind of talking to yourself,
like you do whenever you dole out advice, but you’re almost always right. You just say it so it hurts, and you say it
so casually, like just kind of tossing out these little IEDs and wait for me
(like you know I will) to drive over them.
How did we
even come together? Yes, I’m still
listening. You said how your stepdad was
a mean drunk. He drank Jack. He called it the Gentleman’s Choice and was
pissed years later when they came out with that Gentleman’s Choice Jack Daniels
and didn’t pay him any royalties. How
did we even come together? I remember
that we met at the bar, sort of. It’s
like you just kind of melded into my life, and I yours. Soon enough we were sharing late nights in
the shallow end of the booze-pool, wading around and trading ridiculous grins
at the stupidest of shit. And where are
you tonight? You’re drinking and I’m at
home. This is a new thing and I’m sure
it’s what will eventually drive us apart.
The booze. Not the new thing. Or, I guess the new thing. The new thing is mostly me.
And you’ve
been to the meetings already and I haven’t.
I haven’t told you that I made plans to go with someone else. You’d be so furious if you knew. I think it’s my turn to talk, and so.
Yeah, I
mean, we all have that kind of person in our families. Every family’s got one. I know my mom never touched a drop of
drink. I don’t know what my life would
be like if she did. My stepdad only ever
drank domestic beer out of cans. I never
saw hard alcohol until college. It’s not
all about me. Do you want me to come
down there? You’re not a failure, you’ve
just failed.
See, I can
do it too. I just don’t like how it
feels when you explode, because you don’t – not really. You implode, go as cold as a brown dwarf and
ice over. Get these little frost patches
on your lips and fingertips. Anything
you touch or say freezes over and then shatters while you look on, your mouth
curving just a little, satisfied – but you’ll never be satisfied, not all the
way.
And you’ll
keep failing. That’s the nature of the
thing. You’re not failing until you feel
like you’re winning, but you’re not happy with winning, you want to conquer,
you want to bust through. I’m happy with
just coming out on top for once. Do we
ever know where we are on the ladder?
What
ladder? I don’t know. The ladder of life. Bad metaphor.
I know. Full of ‘em lately.
I should let
you go.
I should
hang up the phone. Your voice is pulling
me through. In my mind’s eye, I can see
the bar. The dim places, the jostling
shoulders of smiling-too-wide folks. The
thud of the music from each corner of the red room. I am imagining the covert snickers the cooks
in the kitchen are exchanging due to some drunk’s conduct. I am imagining you imagine the things
everyone around you is thinking about you.
Little horrible nightmares growing out of the sides of their heads, all
depicting you with fangs and slobber. Fat
rolling off of your sides like waves. I
am watching you slam down another drink to shrivel those growths. I am being drawn through the phone and I need
to hang up and get back to work.
Yeah, I
should let you go. How is it down
there? Just like normal. Nothing ever changes.
Herodotus
says you can’t step into the same river twice.
Well, I
guess some things change. I could use
one. What do you mean what do I mean? Why could I use a change? Well, I don’t know,
I guess.
It’s hard to
say.
I’ll talk to
you later.
I love you.
