The Need

CHAPTER THREE

Today began no different than the daybefore. He awoke in his usual alley, between a liquor store and a conveniencestore. It is a prime spot. Projections for a typical day were about thirtydollars. Due to the high traffic of each store he could often count on enoughmoney to get something small to eat, a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of gin.On the rare occasion he managed to make over forty he would treat himself to ahot meal or cold beer at his local haunt. Between his spot and his personablenature it isn’t difficult to scrape together a days pay. Once he played aguitar, and he still would, if not for the two thugs who smashed it and stole theguitar case housing his donated change. Thankfully, he’d made acquaintanceswith smokers and drinkers alike of which there are plenty of in Ashton and manyoffered condolences when he’d told of the guitar incident, one nice fellow evenoffered to bring him a guitar but Herb declined, no longer wishing to subjecthimself to any extra attention. Around ten this morning a nice fellow gave himfive dollars on the condition he use it for food; Herb isn’t dishonest so hepurchased a bagel with crème cheese from a local coffee shop: it was afortunate start to today. The noon sunbeamed on his weather beaten skin. His untethered grey beard itched somethingfierce. On this unseasonably warm day in May, even he smelt the odor waftingfrom him because it had been so long since he’d bathed. Today was unusually slow and he grew restlessso chose to forgo lunch in lieu of cigarettes because without cigarettes timerefuses to move. Many people passed him by without a whiff of acknowledgment.Am I really that repulsive today? – He’d thought, touching his nose to hisarmpit and denied that to be the truth. He endeavored to recall the last timehe’d stood before a mirror. Over time Herb has grown wary of his own reflectionout of fear of seeing what the world sees. By five he’d only made fifteendollars, which was barely just enough to live on. Maybe I can get a slice fromPatsy’s – He’d thought while smoking in hungry dejection - If the after workrush can provide maybe I can afford a bottle of cheap gin. All day he’d beensalivating for a bottle as was his mission every day. The lingering humidity inthe late evening did little to curb his appetite for alcohol and by days end hewas alone with his hunger and desperation. Regrettably none of his donatingpals came by today and disheveled over this waste of a day he’s perched on the stepsof a local tattoo parlor, consoling himself with darkness and tobacco. Acrossthe street a lovely young girl walks alone and he watches her intently yetdiscreetly. At times like this he feels depraved because his body screams toravage hers because it could pump life into his ebbing heart. How long has itbeen since I’ve slept with a woman? – He asks himself, but he quickly refutesthe question with another question - What does it even matter? As a vagranttime is irrefutably inane; there are no schedules to keep, no places to be oralarms to set. When he’s hungry he eats, if he can. When he’s thirsty hedrinks, anything. If he gets tired the world is his mattress. While this isn’tthe life he’d idealized for himself as a child now, well into his fifties, he’slong since accepted tramping is his existence. Over the years he’s becomeprideful of his vagrancy and romanticizes his life by being convinced he’s somehowcheated society by living in its cracks. Herb is overcome with such desperationhe almost approached the young woman but she was already gone; besides, a pieceof vagrant wisdom frowns on approaching young women when they are alone: theystartle easy. A better target will be along soon so he lights a smoke and likea spider he waits. Not long after two men came walking along so he putsOperation Beggar into action. One of the men wears a toque and glasses; theother is a polite but pale young man and the latter slips a twenty dollar billinto Herb’s dirty palm. Herb is drunk with gratitude and he makes straight forhis local bar, where he can perhaps parlay the drinks he can afford into somefreebies from some generous patron. Ever since the fortuitous morning bagelhe’s been wrought with terrible luck and this act of generosity balances it allout: everything balances out in the end.

Provided one has cash there is a certain bar that isaccepting of street people: it is a haven for them. Such a place should have regularfits of violence yet it’s instead rather irenic. Most patrons are so gratefulfor the hospitality they treat the establishment with the utmost respect. Classicrock always plays from the jukebox. The pool tables are free on Wednesdaynights and offer some much needed entertainment. The regulars like gamble adollar a game and Herb always loses money playing pool but it’s liberating togamble. Herb has more luck playing poker and almost always comes away a fewdollars richer, one night Herb won almost twenty dollars so he bought a roundfor his colleagues. Entering this bar named the ‘The Powder Keg’ he inhalesdeep and smiles. The décor is simple. The wooden bar is partnered with woodenstools with red cushions. The pool tables are in the back that is bright withhumming overhead lights while the rest of the bar provides ample places toslink in the shadows or steal an indoor nap in a corner booth. The clock saysit’s eleven-thirty; he usually arrives earlier and most of his kin have alreadyvacated so it’s oddly empty and quiet. The barkeep takes his order and plops abottle of Budweiser in front of him. Herb slides the twenty across the bar. Thefizzy sweetness of the beer overtakes his world. More vagrant wisdom: beer getsyou drunk and fills you up, making it a frugal purchase. Herb drinks half ofthe beer before he stops himself and thinks – No sense drinking the well drybefore it rains again. Herb rations hischange and assigns each pile a drink.

The drink untangles his thoughts and he realizes heneglected to thank the kind lad for giving him the money he’s now drinking: herepents by finishing the bottle.

Herb’s starving so he helps himself to some complimentarynuts now that he’s had a drink. He plods towards the juke box and inserts fiftycents. He deliberates over which song he wants to hear because fifty cents isexpensive to him and he settles on ‘Like A Rolling Stone’ by Bob Dylan. Back onhis stool the music nestles over him like a blanket and wisps him back to the carefreeand cleaner days of his youth. Beneath his grizzly beard he smiles. He ordersanother beer.

Just then a young man approaches the bar and sits severalstools down. His hands are shaking. He’s sweating something terrible. Herbwatches him order a drink. Discreetly, he studies the boy: his darting eyes, theway he looks over his shoulder and the tender way in which he caresses hisglass with his finger. Hastily Herb drinks his beer and moves onto gin, all thewhile looking at the boy. If this boy was a groundhog – He thinks – I’d think therewould be another six weeks of winter. He laughs out loud and the boy doesn’tglance at him. After getting a second drink, the young man moves to a booth.Despite knowing it’s rude to spy, Herb finds it impossible to resist. The boyis a nervous wreck and he buries his face in his hands and begins to bawl. Herbis a firm believer in karma and his negligence in thanking the nice lad for themoney has plunged Herb into the negative and he wishes to balance himself outso, drink in hand, he approaches the crying boy. The boy acknowledges him withlost, damp eyes.

“What do you want?” The boy snaps.

Herb responds with a dumbfounded stare. The boy doesn’tlower his glaring eyes as he takes a long drink. “You looked like you could usesome company.” Herb says in a congenial voice. The boy says nothing but Herbsees him processing. It’s obvious to Herb the boy’s in a turbulent state.

“And you figured that why? Does it look like I’m looking for charity?”

“If either ofus is looking for charity, it’s me. The only reason I have this drink in myhand is due to sheer generosity. I don’t mean to intrude.” He pulls at his beard,“You just look like you could use an ear to vent into.”

“And you’re willing to be that ear?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it going to cost me?” The boy says, leaning backin the booth.

“Excuse me?” Herb rebounds.

“Your kind’s always looking to get something from me.”

Herb runs his tongue across his stained teeth. “I’m notlooking for anything.”

“Good, cause you ain’t getting nothin’ outta me. But ifyou want to help yourself to my misery, you’re welcome to it. Let’s spread itaround a bit. Sit the fuck down if you want.”

Herb sits “Thank you. Wow, that’s quite the scratch youhave there. Rough night?”

The boy titters. A long scratch stretches from his templedown his cheek. “You can say that again, old man. But this bitch of a scratchis from last night.”

“What happened?” The boy’s face informs Herb he’s gottentoo personal and, for some reason, Herb is a little afraid.

The boy stares into his drink. It takes him half a minuteto answer as if he’s deliberating over his approach. Finally he chucks hishands up and says, “Women, what can I say? ‘Can’t live with em’ and all thattalk.”

Herb laughs a coarse, haggard laugh that booms inside thegrungy walls. “You’re right about that! Dames, they always find a way to get tous, don’t they? But still, we can’t escape their feminine whiles. So you’retroubled over a girl are ya?”

“Not anymore, it’s over. She’s the one who gave me thisscratch. That was before she threw me to the streets like a piece of trash. Youknow what she told me? She told me that I ruined the person that she was, thatI sucked the life out of her.” He stops to suck back a few tears. “She calledme a damned time vampire. Can you believe that shit?”

“No, I can’t.” Herb replies. Truth is, he has no ideawhat a time vampire is.

“A year ago she was telling me I was the best thing thatever happened to her, that I made her live worth living. And now today I’msupposed to what, go on living like she never existed? That the four years wewere together never happened? I don’t think I can do that. Before I met her Iquestioned whether or not I was even alive. Now I know that I am alive and Ijust can’t go back to being dead inside, I just can’t. How can I possibly dothat? How?”

“I sat on your side of the table once, a long time ago.”

“How did you copewith it?”

Herb gestures along his body and the boy follows hishands, noticing his grubby beard and filthy and torn plaid button up. “Does itlook like I coped well?”

“No, I guess not.” The boy says and chomps on his lower lip.

Several people enter the bar and stir up a ruckus. Herbturns towards the noise and the rambunctious young men head straight for thepool tables at the back and their volume goes with them.

“So what’s your story old man? What did you do that wasso regrettable?”

“Pardon?” Herb replies, off guard.

“Well, you want me to share with you. Maybe if youindulge me with your misery, I’ll be more willing to open up to you about mine.You didn’t get to where you are without regrets, so let’s hear one.” Herb’sreluctant to answer because he doesn’t want to tread the trails of his sulliedpast. The boy slams a wad of cash from his pocket and slams it on the table. “Howabout a drink? Maybe that will get thattongue working.”

Herb knows he will look the fool whether he accepts adrink or not. “Gin.” He says and indicates two fingers worth.

The boy leaves the booth. Herb’s sweating and suddenlyfeeling as if the roles have been reversed and he’s the one who’s wandered intoa spider’s web. He feels extremely foolish for thinking he can repay the ladfor the twenty dollars by offering his ear to this troubled stranger. The boyreturns with two drinks: one gin, one rye and coke.

“Your fee.” The boy says and slides the glass across thetable. “Talk or walk because I ain’t sitting here all night. I got places to be.Things to do. People to see.”

“Thank you, very much.” Herb says and clutches his drink.

“Ain’t yougonna drink it?”

“I’ll need itwhen my story is done. You are right, I’ve done many regrettable things but onething stands tall among the rest.” Gin splashes over the brim of the glassbecause the hand holding it violently trembles. He puts it down and licks thebooze from his grubby fingers; the boy kind of smiles at the sight. “Once I wasmarried. I loved my wife with all my heart, and my daughter as well. For workI…well, it doesn’t matter what I did. Let’s just say I was pretty successfuland leave it at that. A large part of myjob was showing out of town clients Toronto, usually the night life whichincluded less than reputable establishments sometimes. Needless to say therewas a fair bit of alcohol involved, drugs too. I did a lot of cocaine and I dranka lot of booze, and I did a lot both for a long time until it caught up withme. I fucked up real bad with a few clients, unfixable kind of fuck ups. I gotcanned. My reputation in the industry was soiled. I was beside myself.

“I had mydaughter enrolled in a hoity-toity private school and she was blossoming intosuch a beautiful, upright girl. But whenthe well ran dry I had to pull her out. She couldn’t forgive me for beingforced to put her in a public high school. Eventually, I managed to find adecent paying job right here in Ashton. Over time my wife stopped crying somuch and my daughter settled into her new school, so I convinced myself todrink a tall glass of optimism. Maybe things would work out in the end.” Herbpicks up the gin but stops himself from drinking it. The boy leers at everyanxious motion Herb makes and Herb doesn’t notice his baleful stare becausehe’s unable to lift his eyes from his glass. “One day a water main burst so thefactory had to shut down so they could fix it. With my free time I figured I’dgo to a bar and tie one on. I wassupposed to pick up my daughter after soccer practice. I go so drunk so fast I’dlost track of time and I was an hour late before I’d even left. When I got tothe school no one was there and when I got home she wasn’t there, either. Ifigured she’d gone to a friend’s house so I waited for her. By nine at night,me and my wife were panicked. We called around to as many parents we could butthere was no trace of her. The police said they would keep an eye out for her. Hourswent by with no word until the phone rang just as the sun was coming up. It wasthe police. They’d found her…”

Herb can’t wait. The pain is too much. He needs to drink.He socks the drink back. The boy is definitely smiling now. Gin drips fromHerb’s straggly, grey beard.

“They found her on the side of the fucking road! No, shewasn’t dead but I think she’d been better if she were. Someone abducted her,beat and raped her. Fuck! She was fifteen years old, fifteen! Can you evenimagine? The sick fuck didn’t even bother to clothe her when he dumped her inthe gutter. My wife, well she hated me. My daughter,” he trails off into aprolonged blank stare before finding his place. “My daughter, she just wasnever the same after that. I couldn’t bear to look at her. Oh god, I couldn’t evenrecognize my own daughter. That’s how terribly he’d beat her. And then–-” The boy studies Herb’s throbbingfists. “Well, you know how the story ends. You knew it the moment I walked upto you.”

“Jesus.” The boy whispers and drinks his drink.

Herb can’t place exactly why he told this sordid story.He’d no intention of pulling the heaviest skeleton out of the closet but nowthat it’s on the table he thinks he can parlay it into a few more drinks, anice little pity payment, so he shovels it on heavier. “That’s my biggestregret, drinking. And everything I willingly regret, if only to regret all themore!” Herb grabs his glass to drink having forgotten it’s empty. It’s almosttime to cash in – He thinks – I can feel it. “So, what do you regret?”

“I regret love. I regret needing it, having it and thenlosing it. And you know what the worst part about it is?”

Herb shakes his head.

The boy takes a long drink and says, “The worst part isthat for so long I thought love was going to save me. That the only thing thatwas wrong with me was that no one loved me and that if someone, hell anyone,could bring themselves to love me that I would suddenly change, suddenly becomesomeone or something, ya know? But nothing changed. Not a goddamn thing. Soyeah, that’s definitely my main regret, love, and ever being stupid enough towant anything to do with that whole goddamn mess.”

“That’s a sillyregret.” There’s s a twitch in the boy’s countenance and Herb knows heperturbed him.

“Oh, is it? How the fuck can you possibly say that afterthe story you just told me? When was the last time you even looked at yourself?You’re fucking repulsive to every sense and yet still you beg, you beg! Youspill your life story to me, a total stranger! I’m just a kid compared to you!Do you know who you have to thank for your life as it is now? Thank yourfamily. Call em up and thank them. Thank them for the love you had for thembecause if you didn’t love them, if you never loved them, you wouldn’t befeeling guilt. Trust me on this, okay? Love is an evil, evil thing and it willburn the world to the ground. Just wait and watch and maybe you’ll see ithappen.”

“You may have a point. But all the same, I wouldn’t giveup on love if I were you. Best advice I can give is, do whatever you can tokeep it in your life.”

“What if it’stoo late for that? What if I can’t fix it? What if I never feel love again?”

“There’s no such thing as too late when you’re young.”

“No, it’s gone! Okay? It’s gone and it ain’t ever comin’back. Just like it never came back for you.”

Herb consolesthe boy with warm eyes, and thinks – What he’s raging war with is tearing him apart.Herb doesn’t need a reflection to know he’s worn that same face many, manytimes so he says, “Are my wife and daughter gone? No. I could use a quarter andcall them this very moment.”

“So, why don’t you?”

“I’m too ashamed. I’m far too old. And I’ve waited fartoo long. They have their own lives now. They can’t gain anything by my beingaround. I’m afraid calling them after so long would only be a selfish choice. Butyou, you’re still young! You have time on your side. You have time to directyourself, and you really should. That is, unless you want to be sitting on thisside of the table one day.”

The boy standsup and slams a twenty dollar bill on the table and says, “I’ll never sit onthat side of the table. Here, buy yourself a drink or two. Wasn’t that yourplan? Go tell the poor, depressed, lonely kid all about your bad decisions andhope he’ll take pity on you and shower you with drinks? I will admit though oldman, you’re a great measuring stick. Next to you my rap list is short.” Herbsnatches the bill and stuffs it in his pocket, but his shame is so burdensomehe can’t lift his head from the table. “Honestly, who in their right mind wouldtake advice from you? You and people like you are a virus, you’re just carriersof misery.” The boy storms the bar, orders a shot and pounds it back. He saysto the bartender, “Night Roy, hope I see you again.”

“Goodnight,Darren.” Roy responds, not noticing the tone in his customer’s voice.

Until closingtime Herb sits alone in the booth, despondent. He discovers his sadness isunquenchable by drinking himself broke. Pity is his only currency. I’m a uselessold fool – He thinks, which something he’s long been convinced of. Karma is atricky mistress – He thinks as he picks himself up and returns to his domain –I feel like this because I didn’t thank the lad for the twenty dollars. Shamechurns his stomach and he thinks – If only I was rich enough to buy drink afterdrink, surrounded by beautiful women, not only living but loving life. But Herbknows he’s worth the same as an empty tumbler.

He’s back inhis alleyway, his home. The air is damp and the wind sharpens its edge againsthis skin so he climbs into his threadbare sleeping bag for warmth. This daywill end like any other day: drunk, depressed and alone. The hard cement is a difficultthing to embrace. Soon he’s asleep and he stumbles into a dream. He’s coming upthe walk of his old home. His wife reads on the swinging bench and she greetshim with a warm smile. Then he hears a laugh he’d forced himself to forget. Hisdaughter runs towards him with her arms out, her white dress flowing behindher. Herb stoops to equally embrace her but she passes through him and goesinto a white van. The sliding door slams shut behind her. A mangled screamcomes from the inside the van. The van starts rocking back and forth and aslender, pale hand presses up against the fogging window. A hand falls on hisshoulder but he can’t look away from his daughter’s palm. A voice, his wife, whispersin his ear as his daughter’s hand falls from view – Open the door, save her. It’sspoken as a suggestion, not a plea. Hot blood pours from his ears and hisdaughter’s unbreakable scream swallows the world. Herb clutches the slidingdoor’s handle. The screaming stops. He throws open the door but there was noone in there. On the van’s floor are his daughter’s clothes and they are rippedand bloody. A storm rolls in over the city of Ashton and its first drops fellon Herb’s sleeping body and inside his dream it starts to pour. He sticks outhis tongue to catch the drops. It’s raining gin. Like the great deluge hisworld floods over. Herb is too old, too tired, too beaten to tread in therising tide of alcohol so he sinks, opens his mouth and swallows.

CHAPTER TWO

A city is a creature whose skeleton is comprised of concreteand steel, its heart is its infrastructure and the people are its blood; a citygrows from atom to anatomy, molting its skin as its skeleton expands but thisexpansion requires more blood and if the heart becomes encumbered and it fails,the city dies. The city of Ashton is like any city and it’s susceptible todiseases that can cripple and even kill it. Some of these diseases lie beneaththe skin and, like termites, consume the core before the shell collapses. Acity treats a recession as a doctor may treat a rash. A city treats ghettos astumours which are thusly excised only to form in another appendage. But whathappens when a city is stricken by a disease for which no scans orimmunizations exist? What about diseased blood? Can diseased blood corrode acity’s heart and eventually kill the creature entirely? In the centre of Ashtonthere is a community centre, it is a shoddy building whose bricks are soweathered it could be picked apart with two fingers; this community centre, atthis time, is comparable to a Petri dish filled with the blood of Ashton. When pooledall blood becomes a single entity: no two cells the same, no two any different.Every blood cell in this building is diseased and, like any disease, it canonly truly be seen by means of a microscope.

“Hello,my name is Phil and I’m an alcoholic.” Phil was the only one standing in thecircle. The floor belonged to him for the first time. His nerves struggled tomaintain their stranglehold on his throat.

“Hi Phil,” the circle said.

Phil moistened his lips with a sip of coffee: the coffeewas terrible. His expression would lead the uninitiated to think he’d prepareda eulogy, but in a way it was a eulogy. Everyone except him is brave and itmakes him angry. He could only speak in silence. It was so easy for all of themto open up. Phil wished he had a bottle to grease the axels. But there was nobottle, there never will be another bottle and that, that thought alone, was themost terrifying thought he’d ever had. Without the bottle he’s unable to feeljoy and he has no idea why. Angry tears threatened to spill from his eyes. Justthen an elderly woman clasped his hand with a feathery touch, only for amoment. Phil imagined that she lent some of her bravery. It was time to man up.It was time to open up.

“I’m new to the group. I’ve come a few a times but I couldn’tbring myself to talk. It’s just kind of hard to you know, open up to people Idon’t know all that well. And I’ve been so angry, too. My wife, my wife shemade me come. ‘Sober up or get out’ to sum up the big fight we had. She tookJenny,” he paused to remove a picture from his wallet and the entrapped smileof the six year old seemed to brighten to the room, “this is Jenny, my daughter,and my wife took Jenny to her parents up north. I guess she wanted me to get ataste of how empty she could make my future. When she left, I did the worstpossible thing to I could have done. I got drunk. I got so drunk I needed totake a couple days off work. Things have to change, that’s what I told myself.I have to change. So I came here.”

A few people quietly applauded. It encouraged Phil toopen up some more as he extracted more of their bravery. “After the first meetingI got drunk. I felt terrible. I felt helpless. I just couldn’t control myself.When I paid my bar tab that night and I saw this picture in my wallet,” helooked at the photo and sighed, “I broke down then and there. It wasembarrassing to cry like that in a bar but I couldn’t stop. The next week washell. But from the next meeting up until this meeting, I’ve been sober.” Phil’shands shook and he dropped the picture on the floor. Someone picked it up forhim and said ‘you’re welcome’ before he could say ‘thank you’. To Phil they allseemed to be angels and much better people than him. But once, he remindedhimself, they were not angels.

A bald man holding a clipboard interjected, “you can stopwhenever you want, Phil. Take it at your own pace. Don’t push yourself.”

“No, I’m fine. Really, I am. I don’t have too much moreto say, really. I do want to thank everyone. It’s less lonely knowing I’m notalone with this problem, this disease. Hearing how you all found a way tomanage it is incredibly encouraging. I don’t think I’m quite ready yet but soonI’ll accept Jesus Christ as my savior and I’ll overcome this problem. I haven’tdrunk this week and next week and every week after I want to still be able tosay that. Thank you, and Amen.” The circle joined in his amen and Phil satdown. The elderly woman touched him again as if to take her bravery back butthat was okay because he was finished with it. It was a long road ahead buthe’s taken the hardest step: the first step.

“We’re nearing the end of our meeting,” the bald mansaid. “Would anyone else like to say anything?”

“I will, Steve.” An old woman said. She was almostshorter when she stood up. It had been decades since she’d bought clothes. Herthin hair contained only a whisper of colour. The pasty appliance of roughembossed her deep wrinkles. Her speckled and pale skin seemed both pliable andbrittle. She smelled as if she’d filled a landfill with cigarette butts. “Helloeveryone, I’m Martha and I’m and alcoholic.

“Hi, Martha.” The circle chanted.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard my story at some time oranother so don’t worry, I’m not going to bore you all with it again.” Shecoughed into a boney fist. She looked at Phil, smiled and said, “I hope you’llhear it one day. All I really want to say is that I love this group. I’ve beencoming for over twenty years. Coming here keeps me on the righteous path ofsobriety. After all this time I’m glad I can still come here. It seems I haveless and less to say as time goes, but I’m always listening. I love you all.”

They clapped as she eased back into her chair.

“Thank you, Martha,” Steve said. “I think I speak for thegroup when I say that we’re listening too.” Someone, somewhere, snorted at hisstatement. Steve flipped through the pages on his clipboard and muttered tohimself. “Seeing that we’re almost out of time I’d like to remind everyone wewill not be meeting after the long weekend. I’ll be out of town that week.Everyone should make sure they can contact their sponsors or have a back-upbuddy incase you feel tempted. Well we have about ten minutes left. Does anyonehave anything else to add?” Though the question was general Steve was lookingat one man in particular when he said it. It was the man who laughed at himjust a moment before. Steve knew nothing about this man but was willed, for onereason or another, into feeling a vehement dislike for him. “Lloyd, do you haveanything you’d like to say?”

The circle looked around, trying to figure out who Lloydwas. They did not know until he spoke: “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very.”

“This is your final mandatory meeting. You haven’t saidanything for the past six months. Don’t you want to say anything, anything atall?”

“If I wanted to say something, I’d have said it.” Lloydsaid and pushed his thin-rimmed glasses back against expanding forehead.

“Am I right in assuming you will not be coming back nextmeeting?”

“You got it.”

“You only get out of this program what you put into it.”

“So how much do I get?” Lloyd laughed.

“Is this a joke to you?”

“Kind of.”

“It isn’t a joke to us.”

“Give it time and one day you’ll get it.” Lloyd smiled.

“Lloyd, I can see you’re frustrated.”

“Goddamn right I’m frustrated. Judge made me come here.Bastard also took my license away and gave me ten days in jail. That’s fiveweekends.” He held out his open hands to show the count.

“Why are you here?”

“You got the form right there on your little clipboard.You know my story so I ain’t telling it. You can’t trick me into expressingmyself, Steve. My ex-wife was a shrink so I can smell that technique fromhere.”

“Can’t you indulge the group? They don’t know your story.I’m sure they’d like to hear it. We have the time.” The group murmured in approval of the idea.

Lloyd only laughed. “You gotta work on your psychology abit. But fine, I’ll bite. I’m here because I got caught driving drunk. I’vedriven drunk many, many times. This time I got nailed for it. Part of my debtto society is coming here. The end.”

“That doesn’t concern you?”

“What?”

“That you drive drunk all the time? That you lost yourlicense?”

“Well, I made the choice to drive drunk and now I’m here.I’d say the system works so no, I’m not the least bit concerned.”

“And you said something about an ex-wife?” Steve saidwith a semi-smug grin.

“Fuck you.” Lloyd spat, literally.

“I’m only trying to help you see the truth, Lloyd. Thatdrinking has taken away your license. What else has it taken from you? Jobs?Friendships? Your marriage? Your family?”

“It didn’t take any of those things.”

“None of them?” Steve looked puzzled.

“Nope. Nothing took them away, I lost them. Drinkingdidn’t take away my license. No, choosing to drink and then choosing to drivewhen I was drunk and then choosing to run a red light while I was driving drunk,now that cost me my license.”

“So you don’t think you have a problem?”

“Yeah, I do have a problem. I don’t have a license for anotheryear.”

“That’s not what I mean and I think you know that. Lloyd,why can’t you say it?”

“Say what?”

“That you’re an alcoholic.”

Lloyd howled at that, he really howled. “That’s because Iain’t no alcoholic. I already told you that. I choose to drink. Everyonechooses to drink. Being an alcoholic is just a denial phrase. You think myfather had a disease? Fuck no. He hated himself and he hated his family and hehated world and drinking was just how he chose to cope with it. It didn’tchoose him.”

“So why do you choose to drink?”

“End of the line, Steve. That’s all you get know aboutme. We’ve done plenty of talking about me. Maybe we should do some talkingabout you.”

“Me?” Steve said.

“All of you. You all accepted Jesus as your saviors yetyou do not see the devil in front of you.” Lloyd gestured towards Steve. “Rightthere you have your local cult recruiter. Y’all took it hook, line and sinker,didn’t you? Well you can’t recruit me, Steve. I know that’s why you don’t likeme. Because I don’t buy the bullshit you’re sellin’.”

“And what am I ‘selling’?” Steve made quotations with hisfingers.

“Powerlessness, that’s what you’re selling. They mightbelieve they are powerless but I don’t. If God created alcoholism he also gaveus the power to overcome it. If the only way I can stop drinking is to givemyself over to God and sell my soul to him, then I think I’d rather give it tothe devil and keep drinking instead.” Lloyd chuckled. “It’s like beingsurrounded by zombies. It really is, sitting here, right now. Zombies. At leastdrinking reminds me I’m alive. Alcoholism is a lie and you’re all prettyfucking stupid for believing in it.”

Disapproval churned throughout the circle but Steveraised his hands up and managed to simmer them. “There is no reason to beinsulting.”

“Like you never insult anyone, you passive-aggressivefascist. You wanted me to speak, didn’t you? Well, now I’m speaking. Don’t likewhat I have to say? Too fucking bad! I haven’t liked a goddamn thing you’vesaid for the past six months.”

Steve tossed his hands up in defeat but said nothing, nordid anyone else in the circle. Everyone was eating out of Lloyd’s hands. Aweird surge of power went from his toes to his brain. It had been a long timesince anyone had listened to him, really listened to him. It took on a euphoricedge. Lloyd was feeling validation for the first time in a very long time. Hewas going to ride the wave until it died:

“It’s no wonder you’ve all bought his lies, you buy yourown lies. You lie to yourself that you’re diseased. Your body lies to you. Yourbody convinces you it needs it. It makes you think you’re going to die, thatyou might kill someone if you don’t drink. You let him,” he pointed at Steve,“convince you will always be an alcoholic, that drinking is a problem so greatthat only God Himself can save you! Don’t you think God would send a bettermessenger than this piece of shit? I like to keep things short and sweet soI’ll just say–”

“We’re out of time.” Steve interrupted.

Lloyd jumped up with such force his chair slid severalfeet behind him. He stepped towards Steve with his teeth grinding, eyespulsating, a fist raised high. Steve recoiled and shielded his face with hisclipboard; the sight filled Lloyd with joy. “Don’t fucking cut me off.” Lloydlooked around to find several people standing up to show solidarity as one oftheir flock is threatened. Lloyd eyed each and everyone one of them. “What areyou sheep going to do about it?” No one said a word or took a step. “That’swhat I thought,” Lloyd said and bared his teeth with a smile. “You’re all goingto hell! I just want you all to know that. You are weak and God sees this and hewill punish you for it. And at the end of the day I’ll have a nightcap withGod. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m going to go get drunk now.” Lloyd lookedabout the room, “You’re all free to join me. I’ll buy the circle a round!”

The shifting eyes and the clearing of throats and themoistening of lips were indications of temptation. Lloyd reveled in it. Theirdiscomfort made him happy. Lloyd had successfully, in a matter of moments, madehimself bigger than them. Most of the circle now stood and without realizingit, had filed themselves together, leaving Lloyd a lone island adjoined to anarchipelago; it was nothing new to him, in fact, Lloyd was rather comfortablewith the set up. Steve smiled not with his mouth but with his eyes. Steve hadhis flock while Lloyd only had a bottle: Lloyd wasn’t impressed. What wasimpressive was the new record he’d set in alienating himself: ten minutes.Lloyd imitated a sheep to goad them on. Truth is, Lloyd was looking for a fightand it didn’t really matter if he won or lost. With his eyes he begged them,all of them, to fight him but no one bit. They stood their ground knowing therewas safety in numbers; Lloyd knew there’s more trust in an army of one. In onelast effort for a fight, Lloyd pulled a wad of cash from his wallet and held itabove his head. “Who wants to get drunk? Let’s go! Last chance!” Lloyd knewsome wanted to come but they stayed where it was safe. “That’s what I thought.Enjoy going through life with a crutch.” And with that, Lloyd left the flock behind.

Lloyd lit a cigarette and strutted away from thecommunity centre. Lloyd hoped Steve got more than he bargained for trying to bea savior. If one of them jumped from the wagon into a glass of whiskey the pastsix months were worthwhile. He licked his lips. It was time to forget thegroup. It was time to get down to brass tacks. It was time to drink.

Three blocksaway there’s a hole-in-the-wall bar. Its windows are grimy. The toilets arestained a dull yellow. This bar, like many bars, attracts many rats and not allof them have tails. The people of Ashton’s are drawn to these asylums of dirtand they bathe in the undercurrent of society, hide from life amongst the riffraff. Lloyd paced as he choked down his cigarette. He entered his haven: wherenobody knew his name, where nobody wanted to know his name, where nobody wanteda single thing from him except to be left alone. Lloyd entered the bar andnested on a stool. He tapped his fingers on the bar and ordered two fingers ofJim Beam. The glass’s filth lulled him back to sin. He touched the glass to hiscurved lips and muttered, “To choice.” Lloyd spilled the liquor over his gumsand his smile faded.





Nine months removed from his last Alcoholics Anonymousmeeting, Lloyd is stocking boxes of cereal onto shelves in a grocery store. Itwasn’t always like this. Once he made a respectable, blue collar living insideAshton’s auto manufacturing industry but no longer. This job is no moredemeaning than any previous job he’d held but the pay is worse; less pay meanspaying less alimony and child support, which isn’t really a bad thing. It isnot that Lloyd doesn’t want to support his children but it’s less taxing on hissanity this way. The job market in Ashton sucks and it allows no room forgrowth and Lloyd hasn’t grown enough to work elsewhere. A kid who is barelytwenty walks up to him. There is a pimple fresh scab glaring on his cheek. Hewalks as if he has a limp even though he doesn’t. This is the only aspect ofthis job Lloyd loaths.

“I thought I told you not to wear that on the job.” Thekid says. This kid is Lloyd’s supervisor and Lloyd knows tell the kid gets akick out of giving orders to someone nearly twice his senior.

Lloyd removes his Army-Green toque, exposing his recedinghairline. “Sorry, it’s just that the store is closed. I didn’t think it was aproblem.”

“Customers or no customers, when you’re on the clock youstay in uniform. I got a few boxes that need to be emptied into the freezersbefore you leave. You get me about that toque, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Lloyd says, massaging his supervisor’s egowith the title.

“Now get to it. See you, Monday.”

In the past, Lloyd has flown off the handle at hissupervisors and it got him into trouble. Sure, it pisses him to be talked downto by a teenager but he knows the kid is just waiting for a reason to axe theold man; so he bites his tongue around him, placates him with false respect andin return he takes home a paycheck. Lloyd’s life is miserable enough withoutcreating problems at work. Lloyd does as he was told and he punches out twentyminutes late. The first thing Lloyd does is replace the toque over his showingscalp. It’s tight but he makes it to the liquor store just in time and theylock the door behind him. There is nothing like sitting down at home to thatfirst drink after a day at work. However, he doesn’t want to wait until he’shome so he ducks into an alley, cracks the bottle, waves it under his nose andthen he takes a long, deep swig. It burns the entire way down and his stomachgoes warm and fuzzy.

After hisdrink, Lloyd lights a cigarette and traverses his destitute city. Strangersoffer him a variety of looks as they pass: indifference and distain anddistrust. Once, he was one with thepeople but he was excommunicated without even realizing it. At the end of along night of drinking, Lloyd is prone to study his senescent reflectionbecause he cannot recognize the man who, monopolized by weariness and grief,gazes out of the mirror. Why can’t he strut anymore? Where did his inordinatecharm go? Why, once he could charm the pants off any girl and now they crossthe street when he approaches. Even in this growing May warmth he hides hisinsecurity beneath his toque. In the next alley he sneaks another swig. At thetender age of thirty-five he’s certain his halcyon years are long gone, so nowhe lives only to meet his maker and while he waits, he drinks, a lot.

Lloyd arrivesat their apartment building ‘Sauer Suites’ and he takes the elevator to thethird floor. For the past six months he’s lived with a heroin junkie namedAndy. He’s several years older than Andy but they get along just fine. Lloyd isconvinced their meeting was not mere happenstance. Andy is a good kid, a littleargumentative at times but that’s because he enjoyed a good, friendly debate;Lloyd, a devout catholic spent many nights arguing with Andy, an Atheist, overtheology and metaphysics. Andy is a well read young man. Andy is a heroinphilosopher. By the end of an average night their inebriated tirades devolveinto a more rudimentary vernacular, such as the girl at Patsy’s Pizza Andy hada crush on, the girl Lloyd can’t resist lovingly teasing Andy over becauseLloyd will know the pleasure of teasing his own about girls. He slides the keyin the lock and turns it. He grits his teeth in stern anticipation of the daythat lies ahead of him, and bender he’ll need to go on to survive it. Tomorrowwill be a nightmare – He thinks – But maybe having Andy around will help keepthe memories at bay. Lloyd takes a big swig of whiskey and enters theapartment.

CHAPTERTHREE

Andy scratches his shoulder because the itch is teethingon his pale skin. The itch retreats in defeat but it will return: it alwaysdoes. He tosses his paperback of ‘Catcher in the Rye’ on the coffee table andlights a cigarette. He sinks into his couch and sighs. This luxurious couch isquixotic when compared with the rest of his dingy apartment. The walls aretinted yellow from nicotine. The floor is clad in brown, shaggy carpeting whosefibers are permeated with alcohol with a dusting with ash. The apartment isperpetually musty. Its windows are foggy with grime. Dirty dishes hide thefilthy countertops. Take-out containers are scattered around the garbage pailthat is too full to hold them. The living area contains everything his old roomonce contained but it has become ragged and worn. Inside the living room isanother room hidden in plain sight, it is in his corner where his mahogany deskis and on top of it, is his lockbox. Yes, this is the ideal domicile for aself-actualized junkie; it is ideal for the mere fact it is cheap because it’s nothingmore than a habitable drug den. Andy is content with it. However, Andy canafford to live anywhere he wants yet he chooses to impose poverty upon himself.He gets up because there’s no sense fighting the itch when he can scratch it.

Andy enters his sanctuary and sits at his desk. A keydangles around a chain that hangs down from his neck and he uses the key tounlock his lockbox; the chain belonged to his mother and the lockbox, that oncehoused a pistol, was his father’s. One July night nine year’s before there wasa loud knock at his front door. Andy’s parents had gone to Toronto to see anopera so Andy invited over some friends. Needless to say he was shocked to opento the door to two police officers holding their hats to their chests. Therewas an accident, a drunk driver veered into oncoming traffic and drove head-oninto Andy’s parents: no one survived. Andy the chain beside the lockbox andopens it.

Inside there is assorted paraphernalia: packagedsyringes, squares of tin foil, cut straws, alcoholic wipes, spoons caked withdark brown resin that are bent back in the middle, butane lighters, rubbertubing, and what remains of his supply of heroin. The days following hisparent’s death were an incoherent blur of nameless condolences and gripping embracesfrom relatives he barely knew. Andy couldn’t face the funeral without gettinghigh but he forced himself to. Andy spent the entire night prior, high,preparing his parent’s eulogy. When he delivered it he stumbled over eachsyllable and sweat poured down his face, but tears did not; he couldn’t read itand those in attendance chalked his convulsing composure to grief. But the daywasn’t over when his parents were in the ground; no, he had to placate hisgrief to every Tom, Dick and Jane who ever met his parents and after about thetwentieth stranger who called him ‘Randy’, it took every ounce of will not toattack them. The day of the funeral was a twelve hour marathon of willfulsobriety when all he wanted to do was turn it all into static. But hiswell-meaning aunt and uncle ,who had given him no breathing space from thefuneral arrangements till this point, still wouldn’t let him spend a nightalone. First chance he got he crushed up some Oxycontin and snorted some lines.It got him high but it didn’t help him any. So he sniffed another pill when hegot another moment alone. Not even two pills were strong enough: neither wasthree. When his aunt and uncle finally fell asleep in front of the television,he slinked into the bathroom. Andy’s mother was a doctor so their first aid kitwas really a first aid center and from it he got a needle and a tourniquet.Andy pulls all the necessary paraphernalia from his lockbox and he places themin their designated spots on the desk.

Preparing his fix is ritualistic. It’s all very surgical.He removes the syringe from its package, rubs the needle with an alcoholic wipeand returns it to the desk. After the funeral, Andy attended meeting aftermeeting with his parent’s attorney, flanked by his aunt and uncle and it was anendless parade of documents and jargon. When all was said and done they’d lefteverything to him; over half a million in life insurance, half of which waslocked in a trust fund inaccessible until his twenty-fifth birthday, along withthe house and everything contained within not including items otherwisebequeathed, as well as ownership of all stocks and bonds. A week after his parent’sdeath, Andy was stupefied. The quiet, after the hustle bustle that accompaniesdeath, suffocated him so he replaced it with the sweet sound of static. Andytaps heroin into a spoon. He licks his lips. He takes a butane torch to thespoon and thin strands of dark smoke rise as the powder shrinks to a brown,bubbling puddle. Andy draws the heroin into the syringe.

He ties arubber tourniquet beneath his bicep and makes a fist. When he finds a vein hegives it a few swift smacks. Andy’s parent’s owned a house in a posh suburb ofAshton; it had four beds, five baths, a pool, a two car garage and its propertywas lined with a white picket fence. Surrounded by a picturesque neighborhoodwhere luxury vehicles are no stranger to its driveways, he was in disarray. Despitegrowing up there he sees it as artificial and mundane. Its inhabitants areslaves to the redundant superficialities of society, more concerned with theaesthetics of their landscaping than anything of substance. For months andmonths he attempted to co-exist with his fallaciously considerate neighbours asthey brought him home cooked meals and volunteered for yard work, all whilelending counterfeit smiles and inane proverbs of wisdom and consolation. Andy eventually loathed the sycophants helived amongst but he continued wearing a fake smile while he feigned small talkwith them. A month after the funeral they ceased approaching him, which he wasfine with. Time alone became a tremendous succor. In the afterglow of the drugwhile sprawled motionless across his parent’s bed, he wondered what life couldpossibly offer him. Almost a decade removed from his parent’s death Andy he islocked and loaded and he knows exactly what life has to offer: euphoria in itspurest form. Andy flicks the syringe, wipes his skin with the alcoholic wipe,and softly pushes on the plunger until a small amount squirts out. He touchesthe needle’s tip to his bulging vein. Andy takes a deep breath and pierces hisskin. The twinge is delectable. He draws blood into the syringe, exhales, andpushes the plunger down.





Andy isshaken awake by Lloyd. He fell asleep on the couch. Andy acknowledges him with glazed eyes, not reallyrecognizing his roommate at first but he shakes the the cobwebs loose andsmiles at his friend. “How’s it going, Lloyd? I wasn’t drooling, was I?”

“I’ll bebetter once I get a drink in me. And no, you weren’t drooling.”

“That’sgood to know. Never know when a pretty girl might go walking by, right?”

Lloyd ispleased to see Andy, even in his bedraggled state.

“Words to live by," Lloyd saysand absently readjusts his toque. Lloyd walks into the kitchen to make himselfa drink.

“Get me abeer, will ya?” Andy calls out after him. While Lloyd made his drink Andylights a cigarette. The clock says it’snearly ten-thirty yet he hasn’t heard from Darren. On Friday nights Darren, who’sbeen Andy’s best friend through half his life, is a staple at the apartment.Andy called him a few hours earlier and it went straight to voicemail, whichwas odd since Darren is always available because he’s always looking to eithermake a score or make a sale.

Lloydhands Andy a beer and sits in a tattered green recliner, its fabric is fadedand loose in spots and it radiates a yeasty odour of spilled beer. This chairis the only piece of furniture Lloyd bothered to bring from his old apartment;as Lloyd moves place to place he takes less and less with him and now, whatlittle he still has, is tucked away in storage. He takes a long sip of his drink and lights a cigarette.

"So, how was work?" Andyasks.

"Same old shit. We’re having asale on orange juice! Whoopdie shit, ya know? It’s a nothing job but I don’thave a choice. I gotta make money to pay off the ex. You know how it is inAshton. Here you literally have to find a job, just stumble across itaccidentally like a goddamn four-leaf clover. That’s how I got this job. I stumbledacross it.” He laughs and sips his drink. “Ain’t I the lucky one?"

“How long you been there for now?”

“A year and a bit, I guess. Couldget fired tomorrow and I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.”

"True that." Andy replies."Glad I don’t have to worry about that shit.”

“Yeah, now you are the real luckyone. And because you’re so damned lucky you’re going to roll us up a joint,right?”

“Call me lucky. Call me skilled. Call me ugly,you gonna get killed.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just something my fatherused to say.” Andy brings his lockbox to the table, unlocks it and pulls out somepapers and an Altoids container and he locks it back up.

“So where’s Darren? I can usuallyhear that mother fucker blathering when I get off the elevator.”

“I was actually wondering thatmyself a minute ago.” Andy piles weed from the Altoids tin into a paper andartfully rolls a joint. Even before Andy lit it, the potency of the bud punchesLloyd in the nostrils. Dense smoke waftsin front of Andy’s face. After a few hauls he coughs his lungs out and passesit to Lloyd. The first hit he takes makes Lloyd sputter and has to slap his legit’s so strong. Andy laughs. “That’s good shit, eh?”

“This isn’t what we smoked the othernight.” He coughs out his words and passes it back. “Tell me when I’m about toinhale razorblades, will ya?”

“This is Lemon Kush. Francis said itwas a one time deal so I bought a bunch up. We finished the Northern Lightsyesterday, just ground this up a few hours ago. It’s delicious, isn’t it?”

“I can’t taste it over my ownblood.” Lloyd says, still coughing.

“You got virgin lungs.”

“I don’t smoke the stuff that often,you know that.” Lloyd says.

“I thought it was a little strangeyou asking me to roll one up. Think it’s the first time it’s been your idea tosmoke up. What gives? Work got you down that much?” He passes the joint.

“No, work is work.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Lloyd chuckles. “Yeah, I guess youwouldn’t. I may as well tell you. Youknow that I’m divorced and everything, well, tomorrow would be mine and Kate’ssixteenth anniversary.”

Andy throws up his hands and says,“Stop right there. No need to go into detail, I understand completely. I’m notgoing to make you dig up anything you’d rather leave buried.”

“If tomorrow I seem different or, yaknow, angry or something, that’s why. Italways finds a way to bubble up. Iusually spend the day alone,” he passes the joint, “not that I mind you beingaround or nothing. Hell, you’re letting me live here for practically nothing.It’s just that I sort of want to apologize in advance if I’m a complete dicktomorrow. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“You’re giving me the ‘it’s not you,it’s me’ routine?” They share a laugh and Andy passes the joint. “I get whereyou’re coming from, Lloyd. The anniversary of my parent’s death always finds away to get to me too. Let’s make a little deal with each other. I got your backtomorrow if you get my back in July.”

“Deal. But why ask me and notDarren?” He passes the joint.

“I love Darren. We’re bros andeverything, but he’s completely unreliable. Also, I think their death waspretty hard on him too. He lived at our place half of the time just so he wouldn’thave to face going home. I doubt he even remembers the date so I don’t like toremind him.”

Lloyd stares at Andy in awe. He’s athin, straggly with a long and pale face who can just as easily live in a cave.His long, dirty blonde hair hangs in front of his face but he never looks to behiding. Beyond that stained Pink Floyd T-Shirtlies an altruistic heart. Lloyd looks at the worn copy of ‘The Catcher In TheRye’ on the coffee table and, anxious to abscond from the topic of grief, hebrings up the book as Andy passes him the joint. “You’re reading that again?You were reading that when I moved in here.”

“I read this book twice a year.”

“Why? It’s just some whiny rich kidwho gets chance after chance and throws them away because he’s too busybitching about how miserable he is.”

“Maybe you just can’t relate to it.”

“Believe me, I can relate just fineto being miserable. I have had plenty of misery in my time, my friend.”

“Misery ain’t a contest. Misery ismisery. Rich people aren’t allowed to bemiserable or something?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. It’sjust there is no tragedy in the book.” Lloyd says and passes the joint. “Imean, at all. It’s teenage bitching about how the world is shit and all thatjazz. Nothing happens. It’s like he’s miserable just for the sake of beingmiserable.”

“I’ve never understood how peoplecan view the book like that.”

“Most people do, from what I know.Ever think there’s something to that?”

“Yeah, most people used to the thinkthe earth is flat.” Andy says.

“Touche.”

“I suppose if you misunderstandHolden Caulfield, you misunderstand the entire book.”

“What is there to misunderstand? Hethinks everyone’s a phony when he’s the real phony.”

“You’ve got to look behind hisbitching, or rather into his bitching. Holden feels pity and empathy foreveryone, even Ackley Kid who irritates the hell out of him, because he canunderstand why he is the way he is.People are phonies, Lloyd. They become the people they think they should be instead of the person they actually are.” Andypasses the joint. “Finish that. You see, all Holden wants when he leaves schoolis to have a real conversation.”

“A real conversation? What does thateven mean?”

“We just had one. A realconversation is when people are who they are and a connection is made. It’swhen you realize the humanity in the someone else just throughconversation. Holden does get the realconversation he craves, but he had to go home and talk with his little sisterto get it. She is one hundred percent genuine with him. Holden is so miserablebecause he understands the terrible truth about aging, that we lose our identitiesas we age because we create one for ourselves. That’s why he thinks everyone isa phony.”

“I don’t see it.” Lloyd puts out thejoint and stands. “I’m going to make another drink but I’m listening so keeptalking. Talking about the book is more interesting than reading the damnthing.”

“Just think about the title of thebook. Holden said if he could have any job, it would be to be the catcher inthe rye, the one who catches the children who can’t see the cliff because therye is too thick and too tall. It’s not the children he wants to save, butpurity and innocence but most of all, he wants to save identity. But he understands the circle of life by theend of the novel, that as we age and as we question ourselves over who we areor our place in the world, that children exist so they can tell us who weactually are.” There’s a crash in the kitchen. “You okay, in there?”

“Just dropped the ice tray.” Lloydcalls. He didnt say he dropped the ice tray because Andy’s last sentence was adagger in Lloyd’s heart because it was awful and true. “You need a beer?”

“No, I’m good. See, Holden viewsschool as a place where identity is murdered so he doesn’t apply himself as away to save himself. He’s miserable, I think, because he’s terrified of losinghis identity and becoming a phony himself. Isn’t that a common fear? Waking upone day and thinking ‘who am I and how did I get here?’”

Lloyd plunks in his recliner andsips his drink. Though he doesn’t want to admit it, Andy is plucking some truechords. Lloyd has no idea who he is anymore. He isn’t a husband. He isn’t afather. And until he met Andy he wasn’t a friend, either. Lloyd is stubborn andto salvage his opinion he deflects the conversation, “They say men identifythemselves by their jobs. I stock shelves, so does that make me a stocker?”

“That’s terrible.” Andy chuckles.

“I know. I love my corny jokes.”Lloyd says and drinks half his drink in one sip.

“That you do. A moldy oldie isalways a goldie.” When Lloyd looked at him strange he said, “My mother used tosay it. She loved obvious puns.”

“While I won’t say you changed mymind about the book, you make some very good points. How come you never went toschool or anything?” He lights a cigarette and Andy does as well. “I mean,you’re passionate and you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“Didn’t I ever tell you? I did go toschool.” Andy goes to his desk and pulls something out of the drawer and handsit to Lloyd: it’s his Bachelor’s of the Arts degree for American Literature.“When my parent’s passed most of the money was locked in a trust until I wastwenty-five. By attending school I could access the funds. I’ll probably neverdo a single thing with it but I felt as if I owed it to my parents to get adegree. I’ve tinkered around with writing but I’m more critic than artist.That’s why I never read back anything I write.”

“How can you not read it, I mean, while youwrite it. Isn’t that hard?”

“It’s freehand associationwriting. A guy I knew from Uni taught meall about it. You know about it?”

“I’ve heard of it, don’t know whatit is though.” Lloyd says and reclines, awaiting Andy’s explaination because itbrings Lloyd joy to hear Andy explain things with fervor: Zachary, hisestranged son, was the same way.

“It’s simple really. You just take apen in your hand and touch it to the paper. Then you close your eyes and sortof medidate. If you can get into the right state the pen will start to move.What’s difficult is ignoring what the hand is writing and just letting it work.It’s theorized that the unconscious mind takes over. To put it elegantly, yoursubconcious takes a big shit all over the page.”

“So you have no idea what you write?Like, at all?”

“Nope. Part of me is afraid to knowwhat’s going on in there, ya know? It’s a therapuetic exercise more thananything. It unmuddles the mind, let’s me think clearer. I think when I fill upmy journal I’ll read it through or I might just burn it. I haven’t really decidedyet.”

“You’re a queer fellow. You knowthat, right?” Lloyd titters.

“Excuse moi?” Andy says and raisesan eyebrow.

“Peculiar, is what I mean.”

Andy laughs and finishes his beer.“Ain’t it the truth of the whole matter?”

Lloyd downs his drink. “I’m hungry.You want to head down to Patsy’s and get ourselves a pizza?”

“I can’t remember if I ate today.”Andy says, sort of frowning.

“Well get ready, I’ll treat. I’m going to make one for the road.” Heleaves for the kitchen. From there he calls out, “Hey!”

“What?”

“Maybeyour dream girl will be there!”

Andy blushes but doesn’t sayanything. Whether or not she’s his dream girl remains to be seen, but Andylikes her just fine. Truth is, Andy just doesn’t have the patience for arelationship. And besides, Andy only has room for one love in his life and hislove, as unconventional as it may be, gets under his skin more than any humanever can; though his love is squalid and undignified it does what conventionallove cannot: it pumps through his heart. Shooting heroin is intimate, venereal.What need does he even have for human love when he has heroin? The women of theworld have lost out on this venerable man because his heart has already beenclaimed.

Stupid copy/paste keeps taking spaces out arghhhh