I drove into the parking lot and pulled up next to Jim’s Lincoln, and for the first time in a long while I felt proud getting out of my car. I might seem like a strutting peacock for being so vain, but the Range Rover made me feel like a person, not an apology for one. I crossed the lot and entered the bar through the back door.
I passed the restrooms, which always stank of the misery of excess, and walked into the saloon. It was busier than usual, with a selection of regulars plus six guys I didn’t recognize who were sitting at a table beside an old, empty cigarette machine. They looked mean, in heavy metal T-shirts emblazoned with the names of old bands engulfed in hellfire and surrounded by demons. The guys watched me as I walked to the bar and slid onto the stool next to Jim.
“Fuck happened to you last night?” he asked.
He was slurring badly, and his eyes were thickly glazed.
“Sorry, man. I had to deal with a crisis over at Toni’s.”
“Women!” He raised his beer glass, which was three-quarters empty. “Where’s your drink?”
“I’m okay right now, man,” I replied. “I just came to show you my new ride.”
“New ride? New ride needs a celebratory drink. A christening.” He leaned across the bar. “Rick, this man got a new ride. We need a couple of chargers to celebrate.”
Rick nodded and set to work.
“I’m okay, really,” I said. “I just wanted you to see it.”
Wiser folk than me say misery loves company, and it certainly felt that way when Jim said, “You ain’t going square on me, Peyton?” His eyes went distant for a moment but suddenly sharpened on me. “I hate squares.”
If you’ve ever been around addiction, you’ll know the addict wants someone to share their decline. The drunk probably won’t buy you drinks but will put a friendly arm around your shoulder while you pay for your own. The crack smoker won’t pass the pipe but wants you out there hustling for your own rocks. And if you try to leave the life, haul yourself out of the decline, they don’t like it. Not because they care about you or might miss you, but because if you change, you’ll hold up a big mirror and force them to look their reflections in the eye and ask what’s keeping them down. What is it that prevents them from climbing out of the hole just like you?
“Really, Jim, I’m okay,” I tried.
“You don’t refuse a friend who’s bought you a drink. Not if you want them to stay friendly.”
I nodded, reluctantly picked up the shot Rick deposited in front of me, and dropped it into the beer glass next to it. Rick was too smart to ever judge his customers or give any indication of disapproval, but I could have sworn I saw pity in his eyes.
Jim watched me with a fierce glare as I picked up the beer glass and necked it. I’d drunk hundreds of the things, but even as the cool liquid spilled down my throat, I realized this one felt different. It was the end of a fledgling way of life.
I told you, Walter’s ghost whispered in my mind. You killed me for nothing, Deadbeat.
After a day of living clean, I suddenly felt dirty. And people who feel bad about themselves are more likely to seek comfort in drugs and alcohol.
Which is what I did.
I don’t remember much after my fourth drink.
There’s me and Jim staggering into the parking lot and him having a good poke around the Range Rover before declaring it a “fine automobile,” but not a great one like his Lincoln.
I still don’t know whether I told Jim about Walter Glaze or bragged about my new wealth, but my only other memory of that night is loudly proclaiming drinks were on me, and buying a round for everyone in the bar, and smiling as a few folks toasted my health. The six tattooed heavy metal demons didn’t join the toast, which should have been a warning, I suppose.