Mainstream/Literary Short Story
“The man takes a drink, the drink takes a drink, the drink takes the man.”
âIrish Proverb
Jarrett Ares sat in his Friday night Alcoholics Anonymous meeting planning his next drunk. The late summer Midwestern air that filtered through the church basement windows made it impossible to sit any longer. The weekend was already here, but thereâd be another half hour or so of this crap. He should be partying, spending that paycheck. Instead, heâd been coming to these things for the last three months. Ordered in. Suggested, he reminded himself. Yeah, right, suggested. It was suggested he sit in a room full of losers. If AA convinced him of anything, it was that heâd have to hide his drinking.
My ex is the only reason I come to these, he thought. She was the only one he had to hide his drinking from. Not the people in this room. If he was going to end up like themâself-righteous, religious fanaticsâheâd rather die in a fiery head-on with a bottle of Jack in his crotch. Not the court appointed counselorâit will be a well-deserved slap in the face when Jarrett is allowed to drink openly again.
He would stop drinking for his mom. She protected him when he was little. But, when Jarrett turned 18, the cops showed up for his dad and his mom left in a Department of Children and Family Services van. He heard that she went to a shelter, but no one would tell him more, and he couldnât find her on his own. Jarrett moved in with his girlfriend after that, and he hadnât heard from either of them since. Which was fine by him, as far as his dad was concerned.
Then his girlfriend got pregnant. Jarrett did the right thing and married her at the county clerkâs office. The mother-in-law watched his son while the two of them worked. His ex got a higher paying job than Jarrett, and stayed employed longer. Which, Jarrett figured, made her think she was better than him. Soon they were fighting over money and how to raise his son. And soon she served him papers, moved back with her parents, and took his son. Since then, his son turned four, and Jarrett wasnât invited to the party. He wasnât allowed within 100 yards of the house.
If Jarrett wanted to be a part of his sonâs life again, if he wanted to toss a ball with him someday, his ex-wife better never catch him drunk.
The old man next to him was rambling on about karma and crap. As usual, he intoned âto drink is to dieâ half a dozen times. Uh, no, Jarrett thought. Itâs about the only time I feel alive. The old man would be going on for a while, he always did, so people were getting up to use the toilet or get coffee. Jarrett got up and strolled toward the bathroom. He kept walking, up the stairs, out, to his truck. He pulled cigarettes from his shirt pocket and started tapping one out, leaning on his fender. A sidelong glance back at the church. He was alone. He pushed the cigarette back in and hopped in his truck.
Jarrett twisted the ignitionâno key. A previous owner lost the keys, drilled out the ignition cylinder, and disabled the door locks. Jarrett figured the truck was a piece of crap no one would steal, so he left it that way. He slapped it into drive and gunned it. Nothing. âDamn you,â he yelled at the dashboard. He crammed it into low, and gunned it again. Nothing. Back to drive. The truck burst forward. He eased up on the accelerator and headed home. âYouâre fucking killing me, truck. You’re killing me.â
Why is she doing this to me? His ex-wife had turned everyone against him. The courts, the counselor, even his truck was screwing him over. I need a drink, he thought. It was the only thing that felt normal. The only thing that made life normal.
He had the windows down on his way back to the apartment he shared with an ass he found through a want ad. âChristian man to share rent with same.â It was all he could afford now that he was working through a temp agency. As long as Jarrett paid his half of the rent, why would Christian Man care if he drank? If he did care, thatâs too damn bad. He never hurt anyone but himself when he drank. Not like his old man, anyway. He lost his temper occasionally when he drank, but who doesnât? He rarely missed a day of work, even if he was hungover. And he knew he could drink and be a good dad, if his ex would just let him prove it.
It had been a month since his last drink. No one in the AA meeting figured it out the last couple of times. If it werenât for the pot in his system when he saw the counselor, the courts wouldnât have figured it out either. Just a straight-up good drunk over the weekend, no drugs, and heâd be back to work on Monday like it didnât happen. If he was going to do this, he needed to make sure no one found out. He needed to avoid anything stupidâlike calling his ex-wife or getting pulled over.
Who quits in their 20s, anyway? Maybe if he just had a couple now and then. How am I going to get laid if I canât go to bars? There was no use trying to fight it, he would get drunk again.
It was just a matter of how.
Jarrett swung into a hardware store on the way home. Ten minutes later, he was out of there with thirty-five feet of light-duty steel chain. Forty-two fifty put a serious dent in his drinking money.
He pulled into the apartment parking lot and killed the engine. Grabbing the spool of chain, he jumped out of his truck and slammed the door shut. It didnât latch, so he slammed it again. Then he unspooled the entire thirty-five feet of chain into the bed of his truck. He grabbed a couple of two-inch long 9/16 bolts and nuts from his toolboxâwork would never miss themâand attached them finger-tight to each end of the chain.
Back in the apartment, Christian Man wasnât home. Jarrett could relax. He threw dinner in the microwave, opened a cola, parked in front of the set. He finally got a few moments alone. No one harassing him.
Saturday morning was warm and clear. There was nothing to get done and no reason to do it if there was. The apartment smelled of mildew, as it had all Summer. His phone was dying, but he wouldnât be taking it with him today anyway. Christian Man was ranting about The Book of Judith, or some such. It would get hot in the afternoon and cool down in the evening. Perfect. After spending half the morning in his underwear, Jarrett decided there was no reason to sit through this crap any longer. Although it was warm right now, he threw on a long-sleeve shirt and rolled up the sleeves because he intended to sleep outdoors tonight. Jeans, tennis shoes, no socksâby 11:30, Jarrett was out of there.
The Midwest is full of small towns, farms, state parks, and forest preserves. One state park, a little over an hour away, was surrounded by farmland and a couple of one-intersection towns. Jarrett pointed his truck in that direction. He stopped for a burger, fries, and cola, but wanted a beer. After lunch, Jarrett unlocked his toolboxâ36, 24, 36âand threw a pair of pliers and a 9/16 wrench on top of the chain. One more stop, he thought, and was on the road again.
Jarrett found a liquor store down a back road. He killed the engine and stared at the door. Not like anyone in there knew him. âFuck it.â He slammed the truck door and sauntered in. The old man at the counter watched too closely as Jarrett acted casual in front of the whiskey. This is stupid. Grab anything. He grabbed two liters. Up to the counter, two bottles of whiskey, cheese curds and a couple of sticks of jerky for dinner. Just chill, thought Jarrett. The old man started ringing it up. âHang on.â Jarrett shot back to the cooler on the rear wall and grabbed a tallboy of cheap beer. The cold can in his hand transported himâin a short while, he would be drunk.
Back on the road, tallboy in the cup holder, whiskey beside him glowing amber in the sun. He cracked open the tallboy, waited for an oncoming car to pass, and took a long draw. âH-o-l-yâŠâ It was cold in his mouth and warm going down. The yeasty smell lit up his nose. The taste was like homemade bread. A hot rush shot up his spine. He let out a long breath and felt the muscles in his back and chest release. âOh, hell yeah.â Jarrett kissed the wet side of the can and put it back in the cup holder. He was free again.
There was a path he knew. A couple of ruts through a wooded area leading to an abandoned farm house. By late afternoon, the tallboy emptied and pitched from the open window, Jarrett drove past the path. The woods disappeared before he realized he missed it. Circling back, a state trooper approached the opposite direction. Jarrett snuck a glance at the path on his second pass. As soon as the trooper was gone, Jarrett found a scrap of dirt to turn around on and headed back. He found the path and left the road.
Underbrush tore at the bottom of his truck. Past the ruins of the old farm house, the path faded and plunged deeper into the woods. The truck slipped out of gear, but dropping it into low solved that problem. He was probably on state park property by now. Then, suddenly, a glade. Jarrett jockeyed his truck till it faced the way it came, killed the engine, and kicked the door open.
Torn remnants of blackened beer cans disclosed the fire pit. Jarrett found the pliers and wrench, and shoved them in his back pocket. Grabbing one end of the chain, it rumbled over the tailgate as he dragged it to an oak at the edge of the glade, between the fire pit and his truck. Once around the oak, he used the nut and bolt to secure the chain to the tree. He twisted them tight enough he wouldnât be able to undo it without tools. The other end spilled off his tailgate and pooled below it. He returned the tools to the truck and set about gathering firewood.
The cheese curds were gone by the time he got the fire started. A tree had fallen a short distance from the glade, and Jarrett spent the daylight dismembering it with a hand saw. What wasnât burning, he piled for later.
There was no moon. The sky was darkening quickly. As the fire caught hold, everything beyond the trees faded to black. He unwrapped his second jerky stick and watched its wrapper curl in the fire, anticipating that first swig of whiskey. The punch, the burn, the warm rush. The beer this afternoon only made him anxious, heâd been fighting the urge to open the whiskey since he got here. Jerky gone, black sky, a dark wall of fire-lit trees surrounding him, broken only by the back of his truck. Time to drink.
In the darkness along the side of his truck, Jarrett opened the driverâs door. The dome light burned out weeks ago. He fumbled with the ignition and turned it to âACC.â Dash lights revealed the whiskey sleeping in the passenger seat. He grabbed the booze and switched the truck off. He found a flat rock near the fire. There, the twin bottles stood proudly, waiting for him.
Sitting on his tailgate, by firelight, Jarrett undid the nut from the bolt on the other end of the chain. He wrapped the chain around his left wrist a couple of times, and pushed the bolt through. A quick test to ensure he couldnât free his hand, and he awkwardly screwed the nut on. He manipulated the pliers into his left hand to keep the bolt from turning, while using the wrench to tighten the nut. The pliers and wrench went into the toolbox tray, and he dropped the lid closed. A couple of tries to find the eyelet for the lock in the dark, he clamped the lock and spun the dial. There would be no way to retrieve the tools by firelight, drunk.
Jarrett grabbed his first bottle of whiskey, adjusted the chain around his wrist, and parked next to the fire. Tethered to a tree; no leaving, no phone, no consequences. This would be the perfect drunk.
A quarter of the bottle, gone. The booze wasnât working. Maybe heâd been sitting too long. He stood, and it hit him like a rush of warm water. âWhoa!â He attempted to steady himself, hands out, twisting around, gravity leaving his feet. His head seemed detached, not part of this world. Sickly yellow-white flashes, blackness.
Jarrett found himself on his hands and knees, crawling away from the fire. âI gotta take a leak,â he explained to the darkness. Crawling some more, then walking on his knees, one foot on the ground, rising, both feet on the ground. Carefully, one step, two, three⊠his left hand⊠âWhat the Hell?â Jarrett traced the chain into the blackness behind him, slowly recognizing its significance. It didnât matter. He was alone. He could do whatever he wanted. Jarrett dropped his pants and underwear and pissed toward the tree line. As the pressure in his bladder started to relieve, he leaned backward and felt the warm rush of booze through his body. He swayed. He felt himself falling from reality. Tilting into the warm embrace of the booze.
âGod, I love you.â Who? Jarrett figured he must be talking to the empty whiskey bottle. There was something familiar and magic about blackouts. He was sitting next to the fire with his pants undone. The fire was still strong. He had put more wood on it, but when? Staring through the bottle, he watched the refracted dance of the fire. A drop, a taste, in the corner? He tilted the bottle up, waited for a drip, anything to hit his tongue. Nothing. He smashed the empty bottle on the rocks surrounding the fire and flicked pieces of glass into it.
Jarrett yelled into the night, âWhat time is it?â He looked for his phone in his back pants pocket, but the pocket was sliding down his leg. Stumbling to his feet, the jeans sunk to his calves. His equilibrium was going, he was back on his knees. He rolled to his back and struggled to pull off the jeans. âShoes.â He pulled off his shoes and threw each at his truck. They disappeared into the night. Struggling to get his jeans off, feeling them clench up around his feet. He picked at the cuffs, freeing his feet, but his left hand wouldnât cooperate. He scooted backwards, leaving the pants behind. Soon, Jarrett was on his knees, holding the jeans in front of him. He dug out his wallet, trying to remember what he was looking for. âNo.â He dropped the wallet. âWhat time is it?â he asked the jeans. He dug around for his phone, but it wasnât there. He tossed his pants and sat, bare-assed on the ground, underwear above his knees. There had to be another bottle around here, somewhere.
Crawling around the fire, he found a piece of timber and dropped it clumsily in the center. His left arm was tired and heavy. Flames appeared and the second bottle of whiskey revealed itself, the lid off, more than half full. Crawling to it, he said, âMy ass is cold,â and dropped to the ground laughing.
Jarrett was cold. Not freezing cold, summer night cold. Scratched, maybe bleeding. Sitting, back against the bumper of his truck, clinging to a bottle in his right hand, he tried to scratch himself with his left. His left hand wouldnât cooperate. It was wrapped in his shirt. He was naked with his shirt wrapped around his hand. He shook his left hand violently to get the shirt off, but it was heavy.
âOne fucking game, just one game,â he yelled at his father. âWho does that to a kid?â His left hand dropped to the ground with a dull thud. A swig of whiskey. âI wanted you to see me. I wasnât the best, I couldnât catch, Iâm sorry. I tried, Iâm sorry.â Another swig. âJust throw me the ball. Toss it!â It almost seemed like too much effort to lift the bottle to his lips. âWhere are you? I bet I could beat the crap out of you. Whereâd you go, old man?â Jarrett closed his eyes and saw the dark and empty windows of the house where he grew up. The empty yard. It was always empty.
He felt his fatherâs hand on his wrist. He reached for it, but his fatherâs grip was cold, and hard, and dead. It tightened around his wrist. âMom!â Tearing at his shirt, it wouldnât pull past his elbow. âMom, make him stop.â But his mother was gone, she left him with his father. âMom!â He beat at his wrist. âDad. DadâŠâ
Fetal position next to a dying fire. There was a boy in the shadows. âYou want a baseball? Iâll get you a baseball, and a bat, and a glove.â Where was the bottle? It was too dark to see. âDid you take my whiskey? Why would you take my whiskey? Iâll still get you a baseball.â He started crawling in the dark. âGive me my whiskey!â His hand landed on a shard of broken glass. âDamn it!â He fell on his bare ass and tried to pick the glass from his hand, but the other hand was wrappedâhad he punched through a wall? âIâm sorry,â he said to his son.
âBitch.â On his back, staring at the moonless sky. âThatâs my son. You canât take my son.â Why wouldnât she let him see his boy? âIâm a good father. You know Iâm a good father. What do you want from me?â Looking for the bottle, it was here, somewhere. âYou hate me. Fine, I hate you, too.â Feeling the ground for the bottle. âYou canât take my son from me.â Groping in the darkness. âWhy did you leave me?â His fingers touched a neck of cold glass.
The world felt darker than it was, as Jarrett tipped the bottle up. Nothing came out. It was double-vision blurry, bottles moving in and out of each other, lit only by starlight and a couple of embers. It looked empty. Empty. He squinted. It was still empty. His right hand burned and stung, his left was bound up and numb. âIâm naked,â Jarrett laughed.
A cry in the forest. His son? âIâm sorry, boy.â He started to cry. âI want you to love me! I want you to love me!â Jarrett threw the bottle into the darkness. âYou know I wouldnât do that on purpose. Your mother pissed me off. Iâll never do it again. You know Iâll never do it again.â He wiped his face with the back of his free hand. âI swear to God, I will never, ever, hurt you again.â
He was crawling alongside of his truck. It was dark. He smelled like piss and alcohol. His eyes hurt, and his mouth tasted like whiskey and tears. Struggling to stand, pulling himself up the rear quarter panel, jerking his hand free of the grip that pulled him back. It tightened. âLet go of me!â He dragged himself along the quarter panel, screaming into the darkness, âLet go of me! Iâm going to get my son.â
Jarrett dropped to his knees, face against the cold metal. âMom,â he tried to stand, but couldnât find the strength. âMake him let go of me.â More whiskey. Every cell in his body cried out for more whiskey.
The door handle was above him. Jarrett clung to it with his right hand, thrashing to grab it with his left. âNo! Iâm getting my son. Iâm getting my son.â He pounded the door with his clubbed hand, hanging onto the handle with the other. âLet go of me, damn it!â The earth shifted; the corner of the door nailed his gut. Falling backward into the blackness. His stomach heaved. His left knee found the edge of the door. Screaming, twisting, sticks in his face, claws across his chest. His was thrown across his bedroom. Jarrett lay face down in the dark, crying.
Jarrett opened his eyes. He couldnât see. He blinked, he screwed his eyes shut and opened them again. Jarrett was in his truck. He was in his truck, sitting, naked, in a pool of urine, the taste of vomit in his mouth. Jarrett was in his truck. It was dark. It was always dark. Always dark, and empty, and alone. The door was openâit wouldnât close. He tried again, but his left hand wouldnât move. It lay on the bottom of the steering wheel, in the blackness, feeling distant, heavy, cold. He stared through the windshield into the night.
The world had gone quiet. The sound of blood pounding the inside of his skull was growing. Jarrett opened his eyes. He was still in his truck. Still dark. Still alone. The night, threatening him from the other side of the windshield. The throbbing continued. âWeâre doing this.â Through blurred and watery eyes, he saw his right hand on the steering wheel, but had little idea where his left may have gone. His head was swimming. He groped for the ignition. Closing his eyes, he felt the world dissolve. No sense of balance. He was swaying, floating, suspended in nothingness. A dry emptiness tightened his stomach. He could feel the shape of the ignition as he ran his fingers over it. He clenched his eyes, twisted the ignition, and the engine turned over.
Jarrett opened his eyes. Stark trees, bold white against a black. Two rows, two walls, either side. A road, a path, lined with white-hot trees. âI want my boy,â he screamed at the hellish tunnel in front of him. He hit the accelerator and the truck roared, but did nothing. The tunnel was spinning and reality was dripping away.
âOut of my way.â Who was there? A phantom. His ex-wife. âNo!â Jarrett jammed the truck into drive. âHeâs mine.â He slammed a bare foot on the accelerator. The truck roared, but didnât move. His head pounded. Think, think, think. He yanked it into low and slammed the accelerator. Nothing. Head rush. Throbbing. His stomach churned. He closed his eyes. No, no, donât lose it. A child was running through an empty yard. Stay here, stay here, he commanded himself. Jarrett opened his eyes and shoved the stick into drive, pounding on the stick, looking forward. Hands on the wheel, left hand wouldnât go. âGive me my son,â Jarrett yelled, and slammed the accelerator one last time.
The cold, hard grip around his wrist. His father tearing him from his chair. Jarrett held on to the wheel and plunged his foot into the gas even as he twisted, wrenched from the truck. Airborne. Flying. Shoulder burning. No longer feeling the weight of his arm. No longer feeling his fatherâs grasp. His body was warm, then on fire, then cold. The world spun around him. The universe spun around him. He closed his eyes and smiled as his shins hit dirt and stone.
A flash of orange and Jarrettâs father grabbed the desk lamp, tearing its cord from the wall. He watched it tumbling through the space between them. His motherâs arms were around Jarrett. She was behind him, pulling him out of the lampâs path. He ran backwards through the lawn, the baseball arcing toward him. Had his dad thrown him the ball, or had he thrown it? Jarrett was tired and drained, as the ball spun toward his son, now eight, maybe nine years old, running backwards through the lawn. His ex-wife, cheering, behind his son. Smilingâno, angry, furious, grabbing his son, arms around him, pulling him away. The lamp cracked against Jarrettâs temple. A flash of red. Then rust. He kissed his sonâs forehead. Then black.
M. E.