On the House

Fifty dollars.

I sat on the bed with that fucking yellow light glow from that stupid fucking lamp filling the empty fucking bedroom and staring at it. A wad of cash on the bed.

My chest was full and heavy and cracking open wide enough to crawl inside and pretend none of this was happening. My eyes stung from the salt. My vision clouded. I was exhausted. I thought I could win. I thought I could save the day. I couldn't. I didn't. I was defeated.

I heard her car start in the driveway.

Run to her.

Run.

I stayed.

While you still have the chance.

I stayed. I heard the car back out. I heard the engine fade. I heard nothing. Tears filled and burned my eyes and fell. I cried over her.

I laid on the bed and tried to breath.

How did I let it all get to this? I could have been better. I could have done better. I could have. I could have but I didn't. My wife.

I cried over her.

The word echoed in my head. Wife. My love. My partner. My love. My love.

After a few minutes and what must have been a thousand deep breaths, I sat up. I could feel the swelling around my eyes and cheeks. The salt on my skin, in my mouth. My love.

My head filled with thoughts of taking it all back. Making everything right again. Of worlds where none of this ever happened and everything was beautiful and fresh again and we were still in love. Where she still loved me.

I looked at the wad of twenties and fives on the bed. Fifty fucking dollars.

I couldn't understand why she left it. What is some sort of fucking severance pay? Was it supposed to numb or soothe or heal? Fifty fucking dollars?

She was gone. Marie. My love. I had lost her.

I snatched the wad up and jammed it into my pocket and got up. I put sunglasses on and left the bedroom and house. I needed a drink.

The sun was high and the August heat was gracious. I walked through the neighborhood and stared at each passing car wishing desperately that it was her. Please.

I kept my face solid. Stone. Straight. A mans emotions belong to him and him alone. And his wife.

I imagined impossible and ridiculous scenarios as I walked, with each car. She had parked hers somewhere and picked up this one, a blue truck. Or that one, a white van. She had painted it green like this one. Or, she had a second car somewhere and she was coming back to get me. To start over with me. To be with me. To love me. To let me love her. I watched and and crumbled as each car passed.

I walked into town and I was drained. I went to the first bar, an Irish themed place less than classy. I sat down at the first stool. It was three-thirty. The bartender, a woman, maybe mid thirties, blonde, used up, came over.

"Hey sweetie," she said. "What'll it be?"

"Whiskey. Double. Neat."

"Coming right up," she said.

The bar was mostly empty, save for her, a guy at the other end of the bar and another at the pool table in back and myself. There was a baseball game on the television in front of me. Guns and Roses played on the stereo from somewhere behind me. I looked at my hands and waited for my drink. I felt my phone in my pocket. I waited for it to vibrate and it didn't. It wouldn't. I waited anyway.

"Here you go, sweetie" the Bartender said as she laid a coaster down and set my drink on it. "Four bucks."

I threw it back. "Another."

"Sure thing," she said. "You want me to open a tab."

"Please."

"Okay." She went to the other end of the bar and came back again with the whiskey. She handed it to me.

"Thanks." I threw it back.

"Another?" she asked.

"Please."

"Sure." She didn't go anywhere. "Are you all right sweetie? You don't look so good."

"Rough day, I guess."

"Work?"

"Wife."

"Oh. Well, that's marriage."

"Was."

"I'm sorry?"

"Was," I said.

"I heard you. I just meant, I'm sorry."

"Yeah," I said.

She stood there a moment longer and then left to get my drink.

I looked up at the television. Some team was playing some other team and I didn't know or care. My phone didn't vibrate. The whiskey warmed me.

My drink came.

"You want to talk about it?" she asked.

"Not really. It doesn't matter."

"Things get better," she said.

"We'll see."

"It's true," she said. "I used to date this guy in Florida, and well, you probably don't want to hear this, but I don't know, anyway, I used to date this guy in Florida."

"Okay..."

"We were together for like eight years. The first four were great, you know? He was loving and supportive and just great, and let me tell you, he could fuck. I mean, he could fuck. Anyway, around the fifth year, he starts getting sort of angry. Like, a little at first, then a lot. The next few years he just gets worse and worse. He starts screaming at me more often than not. he starts beating me almost daily. He starts berating me in front of people, and the whole time, all I can think about is 'what's wrong with my man?', you know? So I just try to keep him calm and make him happy, but it's killing me. I just, I saw the whole world as this like, deep, empty dungeon where it was just me and his anger. He broke my nose. Both arms. Two ribs, and I wanted to leave, but I just couldn't, abandon him, you know? Finally, my friend Rob, that's him at the end of the bar there, came to visit me, and I had bruises and shit from the night before and Rob just looked at me and said, 'Get in the truck, we're going back to New York.' Then we did. He took me out of the situation. This huge terrible thing that I thought I needed, and everything now, is well, beautiful. Sometimes, you can't see it until after, you know?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Hang in there. You drink on the house tonight."

I smiled as best I could. "Thanks."

She kept the drinks coming. As soon as I finished one, she brought another and soon it was evening and I was smiling at nothing and considering calling Marie. In one last moment of clarity, I called Marco, a friend from college, instead. While it rang I washed down the last whiskey and went out back to the smoking area to talk.

"Hello?" Marco said.

"Hey man."

"James! What's happening my brother?"

"Come out to this skeezy Irish fucking Bar and drink with me."

"Where?"

"Fucking skeezy irish fucking bar place. Near my house. You know."

"Are you drunk already?"

"Yes," I said. "Now, come drink with me."

"Okay. I'm in town. I'll be there soon."

I hung up without saying goodbye. I went back inside and went to the bathroom. I pissed and splashed water on my face.

Marie.

I refused to give in and I sort of walked back out to the bar. "Another, please!"

The bartender smiled at me, whether happy for my new attitude, or wary of it, I don't know. I sat down and she brought me another whiskey.

"How many does that make?" I asked.

"This is nine."

"Nine fucking whiskey's? Good lord!"

"Impressive. You going to have someone drive you home?"

"I have a friend coming."

"Good. I'm sorry, but I have to cut you off now sweetie. I'm worried about you."

I drank the whiskey and looked into the bottom of the glass. "Okay," I said. "You're very nice."

"Thanks. Things will be better."

"I know."

"Good." She walked away to the other end of the bar and Rob. I waited for Marco.