Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

Christ, he misses Bobby. More today than in a long while. He misses him every day, but on certain days, the hole is so clearly defined that he can almost feel it being traced on his chest. Bobby would have understood the appeal of letting the afternoon drift away on a sea of beer. He would have laughed and celebrated the absurd backdoor cover at the buzzer. And he sure as shit would have picked up on the GoodFellas reference. He would be standing next to Franky now, looking out over the hundreds of shiny cars parked next to a sea of covered shit, and laughing.

Actually, no, he wouldn’t. He’d be inside, fuming, and Tina would be out here, smoking with Franky. A little buzzed herself. Flirting. Nothing serious. A conviviality, an understanding, that didn’t need to be spoken. Like brother and sister but not quite. The tiniest hint of something else. How could there not be? She loved Bobby and he was Bobby’s brother. There would have to be something there, would almost be unnatural if there wasn’t. They would share a vice, share some laughs, and then walk back in together to his brother and her husband, whose cheeks would be tinted red with jealousy.

He could have stepped in, could have helped Tina with the kids at least. But after that night on his couch, she kept him at arm’s length. And then everything happened: Thanksgiving at Peter’s house, the arrest. That was all years ago now. She could have given him another chance, given him an opportunity to show that he had changed. Instead, she’s with some asshole named Wade.

He takes a last drag, drops the cigarette to the ground, and steps on it. He checks the message his mother left on his cell.

“Franky, I’m sorry about before. I’m sure you’ve been doing much better and I’m proud of you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He holds the phone open, trying to decide whether he should call her back and make things right. Tell her how much he misses Bobby.

He knows his mother; Gail Amendola is a woman very familiar with the effects of alcohol on the men in her life. He’s had enough to drink that she’ll notice, even over the phone. He can’t talk to her now, in his condition, though when he’s in this condition is the one time when he can nearly articulate his loneliness, the one time when he feels reckless enough to reveal the scar on his soul, to let her know what a mess he is.

He closes the phone, turns back to walk inside.

What could she say anyway? What could she possibly say that she hasn’t already said?

* * *

In his absence, Kielty has asked for the check. His wife needs the car and they need to run some errands, he explains to Franky sheepishly, expecting a tongue-lashing. Franky yawns, feels the fatigue of three days closing in on him. This is one of those times, when all the signals are aligned together, indicating that the sensible thing to do would be to simply go home and go to sleep.

He’s exhausted. His ride is ready to go. He’s had enough but not too much. The melancholy is coming on. It’s still early. He could even nap, maybe go out later if the mood struck. Even his thirsty side can’t argue with that logic.

“Okay,” he says, in a rare surrender to common sense. “Okay, Special K, let’s go home.”

He checks the damage, throws down a few twenties. When he stands, his legs feel heavy, soaked through with some coagulant. He follows Kielty to the door. He’s about to walk out when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

He turns to find their waitress holding the plastic bag from Foot Locker.

“You forgot something,” she says with a busted smile.

“Thanks,” says Franky, taking the bag back into his hands.

“You guys leaving already?”

“Yeah, Kielty here has to get home to the wife.”

“What about you? You need to get home to the wife?”

He looks down at her. She’s short, barely comes up to his chest.

“Not me. I’m footloose and fancy-free.”

“I get off in a couple hours. I was thinking maybe you’d buy me a drink.”

“A couple hours?”

“You could wait at the bar.”

Franky glances over, spots the bartender pouring a gold-colored draft into a mug. It looks glorious under the yellow light. He looks back at the waitress. He still can’t decide whether she’s cute, but he would definitely fuck her.

“I’m Denise,” she says, flicking a strand of dirty-blond curls behind her ear.

A coltish breath fills his lungs. He can feel the day pulling him back: the prospect of some pussy, the allure of another half dozen drafts, the nirvana of not giving a fuck. What’s waiting for him at home anyway? A piss-soaked bed.

“Franky, I need to go,” Kielty pleads.

“ Vaya con Dios, Special K. I’m gonna stay for a while. Thanks for the ride.”

He gives Kielty a hearty slap on the back. Denise spins away, still smiling. Franky walks back to the bar, his whole being reinvigorated by a powerful second wind.

* * *

The afternoon takes on a sheen. Beers slide down Franky’s throat, each one easing the passage of its followers. Minutes compress, then slip away en masse. A few expand, he counts one silently while inspecting a coaster with a fascination usually reserved for rare archaeological artifacts.

The bartender, Harold, is a surly prick, which would be fine if this were some old-school joint, but it’s not. It’s a fucking Applebee’s so Harold should be happy beyond measure. But then again, hey, it’s an Applebee’s, so Franky feels for the guy. He’s not so bad after all. He buys Franky a round. Long time coming, but still. Harold’s all right by Franky.

Denise flits by from time to time, checking in on him. He’s starting to slur, just a little, but he’s fine. He sticks to beer, his buzz settles into a steady, floating euphoria. He bums a few more cigarettes from Denise, smokes them outside. He calls the bookie service. His balance is under two hundred. He lays seven hundred — doesn’t think about the amount, just says it — on UCLA minus three and a half. Isn’t even sure who they’re playing. He walks back in, realizes the daylight is dying.

He navigates his way back to the bar. The place emptied out in the late afternoon but is filling back up for the dinner rush. He tries to make small talk with some guy at the bar, but the guy is a fucking loser. The ends of his fingers start to go numb. He thinks that maybe the people around him are staring at him, but he isn’t sure. He pushes his empty mug across the bar at Harold. The beer is getting him nowhere fast.

“A wee one, Harold,” he says when Harold puts his refilled mug down. “Mr. John Jameson.”

Harold pours him a stiff one in a rocks glass, a double gulper. The whiskey clutches his chest and lands hard in his stomach. He swallows twice, tastes vomit climbing up the back of his throat. The urge to puke passes, stifled by will alone. He swallows again, feels better. He takes a sip of beer and when he turns, Denise plops on the stool next to him, her shift finally finished.

She doesn’t want to drink where she works, so Franky leaves a ten on the bar for Harold and they leave. It’s dark outside, a nearly full moon is slung low in the sky. Franky follows Denise to her car, a little unsteady in the dimmed light. When he gets in the passenger seat, Franky realizes he’s well beyond buzzed. He’s drunk, dancing near the cliff of a blackout. His thoughts are fuzzy and flickering and he cannot hold them. He doesn’t want to speak, can’t speak. His tongue is thick with drink. Denise looks over at him, incipient disappointment creasing the corners of her mouth.

What did she expect? She saw how he was drinking.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he replies with a roll of his neck.

“Little buzzed?”

“A little.”