Dennis Lehane - Since We Fell

Old-timers who embraced day drinking and swilled PBRs and ’Gansett tall boys without an irony chaser rarely watched the six o’clock news. The younger crowd didn’t watch it either, at least not in real time, but they might DVR it or stream it through their laptops later. And they certainly accessed YouTube on a regular basis. When the clip of Rachel’s meltdown went viral last fall, there were eighty thousand hits in the first twelve hours. Within twenty-four, there were seven memes and a video mash-up of Rachel blinking, sweating, stuttering, and hyperventilating, backed by a remix of Beyoncé’s “Drunk in Love.” That’s how it had played out — a drunk reporter loses control during a live report from a Port-au-Prince ghetto. Within thirty-six hours of the incident, the video had two hundred and seventy thousand hits.

Her few friends told Rachel she likely overestimated the number of people who recognized her in public. They assured her that the very nature of the viral age, its need for constant replenishment of content, ensured that the video, while watched by many, was remembered by few.

It was fair to assume, however, that half the people in the bar under thirty-five had seen it. They may have been stoned or drunk at the time, which raised the possibility they’d see the single woman at the bar in the baseball cap reading the newspaper and make no connection. But then again, maybe a few of them had been sober and possessed strong memories.

With a few swift upticks of her gaze, she got a sense of the other people at the bar itself: two office women sipping martinis with an added splash of something pink; five male brokers who pounded beers and fist-bumped over whatever game was on the TV above them; a mixed-sex group of techies in their late twenties who managed to keep their shoulders hunched even when they drank; and a well-dressed and well-groomed couple in their early thirties, the male clearly drunk, the woman clearly disgusted and a little afraid. Those two were the nearest to Rachel — four seats to her right — and at one point one of those seats half toppled into another two, the front pair of legs rising off the floor. The woman said, “Jesus, enough, ” and it was in her voice as it had been in her eyes, the fear and disgust. When the guy said, “Fuckin’ calm yourself, you spoiled fuckin’—” Rachel accidentally caught his eye, then his girlfriend’s, and they all pretended it didn’t happen as he righted the chair.

She neared the end of her drink and decided this had been a bad idea. Her fear of particular people — i.e., people who’d seen her have an unrestrained panic attack on the six o’clock news — had blinded her to her terror of people in general, an ever-burgeoning phobia she was only now beginning to suspect the breadth of. She should have run back to the house after court. She never should have sat at a bar. Jesus. The sparrow flapped its wings. Not too spastically, not frantically, not yet. But the tempo was increasing. She was aware of her heart dangling in her chest, suspended from cords of blood. The eyes of the bar were on her, and in the garble of a group of voices behind her, she was nearly positive she heard someone whisper, “ That reporter.”

She put a ten-dollar bill on the bar, relieved she had one, because she couldn’t imagine waiting for change. Couldn’t sit in this seat a second longer. Her throat closed. Her vision blurred at the edges. The air looked as if it had been smelted. She went to stand, but the bartender placed a drink in front of her.

“A gentleman sent this over with his ‘respect.’”

The group of suit-clad guys across the bar watched the game. They gave off a former-frat-boy-rapist vibe. Early to mid-thirties, the five of them, two going fleshy, all with eyes that were too small and too bright at the same time. The tallest of them gave her a chin tilt of recognition and raised his glass.

She said to the bartender, “Him?”

The bartender looked over his shoulder. “No. Not the group. Another guy.” He scanned the bar. “He must have hit the head.”

“Well, tell him thank you, but—”

Shit. Now the drunken boyfriend who’d knocked over the chair was approaching, pointing at her like he was a game-show host and she’d just won a dinette set. His disgusted and frightened girlfriend was nowhere to be seen. The closer he got, the less good-looking he was. It wasn’t that he wasn’t fit or didn’t have a luxurious tousle of dark hair and full lips draped over a white, wholesome smile, or that he didn’t move with a certain style, because all of that was part of the package. As are the eyes, as rich and brown as English toffee, but, oh my, Rachel, what lies behind them — what lies in them — is cruelty. Self-impressed, unreflective cruelty.

You have seen this look before. In Felix Browner. In Josué Dacelus. In projects and high-rises. In self-satisfied predators.

“Hey, sorry about that.”

“About what?”

“My girlfriend. My now ex -girlfriend, and that’s been a long time coming. She’s got a thing for drama. Everything’s drama.”

“I think she was just worried you’d had too much to drink.”

Why are you even talking, Rachel? Walk away.

He opened his arms wide. “Some people when they have an extra one or two, they get mean, ya know? That’s a problem drunk. Me? I get happy. I’m just a happy guy looking to make friends and have a fun night. I don’t see how that can be a problem.”

“Well, good luck. I gotta—”

He pointed at her drink. “You gotta finish that. Be a crime to let it go to waste.” He held out his hand. “I’m Lander.”

“Actually, I’m good.”

He dropped his hand and turned his head to the bartender. “A Patrón Silver, my good man.” He turned back to her. “Why were you watching us?”

“I wasn’t watching you.”

The bartender brought his drink.

He took a sip. “But you were. I caught your eye.”

“You guys were getting a little loud and I looked up.”

“We were loud?” He smirked.

“Yes.”

“Offended your sense of proprietary, did it?”

“No.” She didn’t correct his malapropism, but she did fail to stifle a sigh.

“Am I boring you?”

“No, you seem like a nice guy, but I’ve got to go.”

He gave her a big friendly smile. “No, you don’t. Have that drink.”

The bird was starting to flap hard now, its head and beak rising to the base of her throat.

“I’m going to go. Thank you.” She slung her bag over her shoulder.

He said, “You’re the woman on the news.”

She didn’t feel like living through the five or ten minutes it would take to deny it and then redeny it and then ultimately give him his due, and yet she still played dumb. “What woman?”

“The one who flipped out.” He glanced at the drink in front of her that she still hadn’t touched. “Were you drunk? Or high? Which was it? Come on. You can tell me.”

She gave him a tight smile and went to move past him.

Lander said, “Hey, hey, hey,” and put his chest between her and the door. “I just want to know...” He took one step back and squinted at her. “Just want to know what you were thinking. I mean, I want to be friends.”

“I’d like to go.” She gestured with her right hand for him to step aside.

He reared his head back, curled his lower lip, and mimicked her gesture. “I’m just asking a question. People put their trust in you.” He tapped a single finger off her shoulder. “I know, I know, I know, you think I’m drunk and maybe, you know, maybe I am. But what I’m saying is important. I’m a fun guy, I’m a nice guy, my friends think I’m hilarious. I got three sisters. Thing is, point is here, that you think like it’s okay to start throwing back the sauce on the job because you probably got a net to land in if it backfires. Am I right? Some doctor or venture capitalist hubby who...” He lost the thought, then caught it again, splayed his pink fingers against the base of his pink throat. “ I can’t do that. I gotta go make the money. I bet you got some sugar daddy pays for your Pilates and your Lex and the lunches where you hang with your homegirls and shit all over everything he does for you. Have that drink, bitch. Somebody bought it for you. Show some respect.”