into the parking lot of Charlie's Tavern. The neon OPEN sign flickers, calling my name. It's mostly empty, except for a few of the regulars.
"You're early." Smitty, the bartender, sets a coaster on the bar.
"It's been a hell of a morning already."
"Yeah? So you want the good stuff, then?"
I smile stiffly. "Hell yeah, I do."
He pulls a bottle of bourbon from beneath the bar, pours a double shot, and slides it over. "Here ya go."
"Thanks," I say and gulp the drink down, enjoying every minute of the burn in my throat. I slide it back to Smitty. "Another."
He shakes his head and laughs but pours me more. "Pace yourself."
He's probably right, but I really don't give a shit right now. I swirl the dark liquid in the glass before downing it. The bald, pudgy guy at the end of the bar is staring at me. "What're you looking at?"
"Watching you down that drink like it's the last one you'll ever take," he says, moving his chair closer.
"What's it to you?" I ask.
He laughs. "Don't matter to me. Wanna talk about it?"
I curl my hand around the glass hard, but I've already gotten into enough trouble for the day; I don't need any more here, too. "What makes you think I'd talk about anything with you?"
"I don't. I was just asking is all," he says. He goes back to his own drink.
"Fucking women."
He nods his head vigorously. "Fucking women. What'd yours do?"
"Cheated. Fed me bullshit lies. Locked me out of the house last night."
"That's rough. I'd beat her ass."
"That's part of the problem," I mumble.
"Well, you're not the only one. That's why I'm divorced now. Old bat couldn't figure out who was boss."
I snap my head up, "You just let her leave?"
"Didn't have much of a choice. Came home one day and everything was gone. Even the goddamn fish in the fishbowl. Didn't leave me a thing."
I shake my head, "Nope. That's not happening with mine. Over my dead body."
He chuckles and extends his hand. "I'm Rich. Not literally—it's just my name."
I laugh against the deep sense of doom filling my stomach and working its way to my throat. Or maybe that's the bourbon coming back up. I shake his hand. "Carter."
"So, Carter, whatcha going to do about your little problem?"
I look at my empty glass. I gesture to Smitty, who refills it again. I hold it up to Rich, and when he brings his own drink to mine, and the clink feels like permission. "I'm gonna have myself a few more drinks and then show that bitch who's boss."
"Here, here," Rich says jubilantly.
Smitty wipes the counter where our drinks spilled. He looks at me with concerned eyes. "I've known you a while, Carter. You're a good guy—don't do anything you'll regret."
The corners of my mouth tug upward. "Who, me? Nah. It's gonna be fine."
Smitty doesn't look convinced. "Okay. I'm just saying, I don’t want to see you in any kind of trouble."
I hold up my empty glass. "Thanks, Smitty. I'll be fine. One more and then I'm going."
He frowns, but tops me off. I drain it. I can't even feel the burn anymore. I reach in my pocket and pull out the only cash I have left—a wadded-up twenty. I slide it over to him. "I'll give you the rest tomorrow."
"Take care of yourself," he says, nodding.
"Will do."
Rich stands up and pats me on the back, then whispers, "Don't be afraid to do what I should have done before that bitch took everything."
"That's what I intend to do," I say.
Outside, it's already warmed up significantly. The heat nauseates me, or maybe it’s the fact that I'm three sheets to the wind now. I don't understand why more people don't drink like this. It's a glorious feeling—invincible. Like I can do anything. Be anyone. I'm not the loser who just lost his job. I'm not a weak man who lets his wife lock him out of the house. No, I'm the fucking boss.
I pull onto the road. I swear there weren't four lanes this morning. I keep as far to the right as I can. I've driven much worse than this. This is nothing. Even though the world stretched out
"You're early." Smitty, the bartender, sets a coaster on the bar.
"It's been a hell of a morning already."
"Yeah? So you want the good stuff, then?"
I smile stiffly. "Hell yeah, I do."
He pulls a bottle of bourbon from beneath the bar, pours a double shot, and slides it over. "Here ya go."
"Thanks," I say and gulp the drink down, enjoying every minute of the burn in my throat. I slide it back to Smitty. "Another."
He shakes his head and laughs but pours me more. "Pace yourself."
He's probably right, but I really don't give a shit right now. I swirl the dark liquid in the glass before downing it. The bald, pudgy guy at the end of the bar is staring at me. "What're you looking at?"
"Watching you down that drink like it's the last one you'll ever take," he says, moving his chair closer.
"What's it to you?" I ask.
He laughs. "Don't matter to me. Wanna talk about it?"
I curl my hand around the glass hard, but I've already gotten into enough trouble for the day; I don't need any more here, too. "What makes you think I'd talk about anything with you?"
"I don't. I was just asking is all," he says. He goes back to his own drink.
"Fucking women."
He nods his head vigorously. "Fucking women. What'd yours do?"
"Cheated. Fed me bullshit lies. Locked me out of the house last night."
"That's rough. I'd beat her ass."
"That's part of the problem," I mumble.
"Well, you're not the only one. That's why I'm divorced now. Old bat couldn't figure out who was boss."
I snap my head up, "You just let her leave?"
"Didn't have much of a choice. Came home one day and everything was gone. Even the goddamn fish in the fishbowl. Didn't leave me a thing."
I shake my head, "Nope. That's not happening with mine. Over my dead body."
He chuckles and extends his hand. "I'm Rich. Not literally—it's just my name."
I laugh against the deep sense of doom filling my stomach and working its way to my throat. Or maybe that's the bourbon coming back up. I shake his hand. "Carter."
"So, Carter, whatcha going to do about your little problem?"
I look at my empty glass. I gesture to Smitty, who refills it again. I hold it up to Rich, and when he brings his own drink to mine, and the clink feels like permission. "I'm gonna have myself a few more drinks and then show that bitch who's boss."
"Here, here," Rich says jubilantly.
Smitty wipes the counter where our drinks spilled. He looks at me with concerned eyes. "I've known you a while, Carter. You're a good guy—don't do anything you'll regret."
The corners of my mouth tug upward. "Who, me? Nah. It's gonna be fine."
Smitty doesn't look convinced. "Okay. I'm just saying, I don’t want to see you in any kind of trouble."
I hold up my empty glass. "Thanks, Smitty. I'll be fine. One more and then I'm going."
He frowns, but tops me off. I drain it. I can't even feel the burn anymore. I reach in my pocket and pull out the only cash I have left—a wadded-up twenty. I slide it over to him. "I'll give you the rest tomorrow."
"Take care of yourself," he says, nodding.
"Will do."
Rich stands up and pats me on the back, then whispers, "Don't be afraid to do what I should have done before that bitch took everything."
"That's what I intend to do," I say.
Outside, it's already warmed up significantly. The heat nauseates me, or maybe it’s the fact that I'm three sheets to the wind now. I don't understand why more people don't drink like this. It's a glorious feeling—invincible. Like I can do anything. Be anyone. I'm not the loser who just lost his job. I'm not a weak man who lets his wife lock him out of the house. No, I'm the fucking boss.
I pull onto the road. I swear there weren't four lanes this morning. I keep as far to the right as I can. I've driven much worse than this. This is nothing. Even though the world stretched out
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