Mike Larson sometimes
recalled what Mark Twain reportedly once said, 'Quitting smoking is easy. I've
done it thousands of times.' He paraphrased it when it came to his drinking
saying, "Quitting drinking is easy. I've done it dozens of times."
Which was true. This was his latest attempt and he hoped it was his last. But, in the end, who really knew?
It was his last day working for Long
Lake Hardware, and he came through the door with an air of mixed emotions. He
was looking forward to moving on with his life, but he was also going to miss
the easy camaraderie of the people he worked with.
His boss, Karen Jackson, took away
all of his potential nostalgia when she said, "Hey, Mike, even though it's
your last day, don't feel like you can goof off. I need you to clean out the
storage room and organize the shelves. It's a mess back there."
Mike gave her a mock salute and
headed to the back of the store. So much for taking it easy today. But that was
alright. Working would keep his mind off what would be happening tomorrow. That
was the day his wife, Ellen, was scheduled to pick him up and take him home.
He'd been living in a cheap, one room efficiency apartment two blocks from the
hardware store for the last year trying, as he put it, 'to get my act
together.' He had a drinking problem and had been sober for one year, the terms
he'd agreed to with Ellen before she would let him come home. And he'd done it.
He was proud of that. Proud but also nervous. The fact was he liked to drink,
and the past year had been the hardest of his life.
He spent all day in the back room doing
exactly what his boss wanted him to do: stacking paint cans, arranging boxes of
nails, screws, and bolts by size and in alphabetical order, and generally
tidying things up. At the end of the day when he showed her the result she
said, "Looks great. I might even miss you when you're gone."
Although she laughed at her little
joke, Mike knew she probably didn't mean it. "I can stay on, if you
want," he joked back.
"Naw. I'm good."
And that was that.
Now the work day was over and he had
time to kill. It was a beautiful spring evening, song birds were singing in
nearby trees, and there was a pleasant aroma in the air of lilacs in full bloom.
He decided to walk across the main street in town, Orchard Boulevard, to The
Golden Roster, a local bar. He told himself he wouldn't drink. Why would he?
Being sober for one year was something he didn't want to jeopardize. But he was
suddenly lonely and feeling a little sorry for himself, so the congenial
companionship of the patrons of the bar seemed like something he could use.
Besides, a local bluegrass band, 'Left of Fred', was playing. Why not treat
himself to a little fun?
He pushed open the beat up, wooden front
door and went inside. It was Saturday night and just after eight. The place was
starting to fill up with a boisterous crowd, talking and laughing, making him
feel immediately at ease. He said Hi to a few people he knew and decided to
skip sitting at a table, preferring a stool by himself at the bar instead. He
sat down and looked in the mirror across from him. The image was of a nearly
bald man with a scruffy beard who looked
much older than forty one. Though he would argue the point, heavy drinking had
taken its toll, aging him by at least ten years. He reached into his shirt
pocket for a cigarette, an automatic gesture after years of sitting in bars
with his buddies, having a few beers (well, maybe more than a few), and smoking
his cherished Marlboro Reds. Then he remembered the Golden Rooster was smoke
free. He'd have to wait.
Now, what to order? He'd been thinking
about this moment from the minute he'd walked in. To drink or not to drink,
that was the question. Man, he was so witty. He laughed to himself, the play on
Shakespeare giving him the confidence to go ahead.
"Hey, Steve," he called
the bartender over, a guy he knew from stopping in at the hardware store.
"I'll have a shot of Jack and a Bud Light."
"Coming right up."
Steve set the drinks in front of
Larry and went to help some other customers.
Larry wasn't watching Steve walk
away, however. He was spending a magical minute gazing at the amber color of the
whiskey. The liquid contained for him infinite possibilities of joy, happiness,
and relaxation. He lifted the shot glass and took a loving sniff, moving it in
a circular motion under his nose. He followed it up with a long, satisfying
inhalation. The woody aroma of the Jack Daniels filled his nostrils and
immediately brought back memories of all the times spent drinking and all the
fun he used to have. He had loved being with his friends, out for a night on
the town at a Sports Bar, watching whatever game was on TV and shooting the
breeze with the guys. If sometimes he disregarded his family, made his wife
mad, or neglected his daughters, well that was just too bad; it was the price
that had to be paid. Drinking for him was more than enjoyable. He loved the
feeling of slowly unwinding as the alcohol flowed into his system. He loved
getting relaxed and the feel of letting the tensions of the day leave his body.
He felt he became more talkative and friendlier when he drank. More confident,
too. When he was slightly buzzed, he felt his friends appreciated him more,
thinking he was funny, often calling him 'the life of the party'. Being with
them when he was drinking was a large part of what some might call a ritual, but
what he called a way of life; a way of life he enjoyed spending time
cultivating. A year ago, though, he'd driven when, in retrospect, he'd had more
to drink than he could handle. He ended
up crashing his car, miscalculating on a turn and smashing head on into a tree
at high speed, caving in the front end, breaking his right leg and crushing his
left hand. He was lucky to have escaped with his life. He now walked with limp
due to a pin in his femur and had only the use of the thumb and index finger on
his damaged hand. He'd lost his license, too, for three years due to it being his
third offense. He lost his wife as well, along with his four kids. Ellen had
told him to get out.
"You stay sober for a year and
you can come back home," she stated. "You'll see the girls only when I
say you can." Which wasn't that often.
He didn't argue. She had a point,
and he had taken the year to get sober and stay sober. He had done what he set
out to do, and he felt good about what he'd accomplished. Ellen would pick him
up tomorrow and take him home. He had an opportunity to start over, yet he was
nervous as hell. Was he really ready to get back into the role of husband and
father he'd given up on for the last year? He had to admit, he liked his freedom.
He liked his simple life. Even though he didn't have a car anymore, he liked
walking to work and coming back to his little apartment and watching
television. He liked not having a lot to do. I'm "Keeping it simple,"
is what he told his friends when they asked how he was doing. 'Cool, man,' was the
essence of what most of them said back. Yeah, he thought to himself, it was
kind of cool.
Yes, he hadn't had a drink in a year
and that was something, but now here he was in this friendly bar with its
atmosphere enveloping him life a cozy blanket. Right now he felt super. Maybe
he'd just take one little drink and get that warm, good time feeling going again.
Maybe he'd even relive some of his cherished drinking memories. Ellen would
never know. He'd take one more drink and that would be it. Over and done. No
more drinking after that. He'd go back to Ellen and the kids and be a family
man again. He shuddered a little at the thought and then put it out of his mind,
finally making his decision. He took a moment in almost gleeful anticipation, and
then in one smooth, confident motion, he lifted his glass and downed the Jack.
Next, he took his bottle of beer and chased the whiskey, drinking the Bud down
in hungry swallows. He sat back, savoring the warm glow as the liquor traveled
down his throat into his stomach. Almost
immediately the expected sense of well being started traveling through his
veins, relaxing him, enhancing his mood. Man, that felt good. He sat for a
moment soaking in the feeling. He felt wonderful. In the background he heard the
bluegrass band kick into their first song with a fiery fiddle solo. People
cheered and there was enthusiastic applause. This had the makings of a
memorable evening and he wanted to be a part of it. He made eye contact with
the bartender.
"Steve," he said,
motioning him over, "I'll have another."
It was just
after midnight night when Ellen's phone rang. She had been up, unable to sleep,
pacing in her bedroom and thinking about Mike coming home. She was both excited
and nervous. On the whole, she felt she and the four girls had adjusted nicely
while he was gone. Amy, her oldest at thirteen, had taken over a lot of the
household responsibilities, especially helping out with Sara, Lucy, and Lori, aged
ten, eight, and six, respectively. The girls all missed their dad, and Ellen
couldn't blame them. Mike was generally a good man. He was a fairly reliable
father, taking the girls to soccer games and shopping for clothes; anything she
asked him to do, really. If he wasn't overly attentive, at least he was willing.
Be he had changed over the course of their fifteen year marriage. Which Ellen
thought was alright and, in fact, to be expected. But the drinking...The
drinking had gotten out of control, having escalated ever since Lori was born.
Six years was a long time to put up with a man who she depended on to be more
than just a father figurehead and a neglectful husband. Which is what he was
turning out to be. Most everyone agreed with her putting her foot down and
setting limits. She felt it was something she had to do. A year was a long time
without him being around, but she and the girls had made the most of it,
starting to build a life for themselves. The girls, with Amy leading, were
pitching in more and helping out with cooking, cleaning and laundry, and even doing
yard work like cutting the grass, shoveling the driveway, and raking leaves,
things Mike normally did. In spite of it all, though, she missed him. She
missed her husband, and the companionship of the man she married; the man she
knew he had the ability to be. If he wanted to be. The choice was up to him. For
her part, she was willing to put the past behind and was looking forward to 'starting
over', as she sometimes put it, with him.
Then came the call. She let her
phone ring three times before tentatively answering it, knowing at this time of
night it couldn't be good news. She listened to a measured voice telling her that
he was a sergeant with the Long Lake Police Department. As he talked, Ellen's
hand started shaking. She grabbed it with her other hand to hold the phone in
place, listening and disbelieving. He told her that Mike had left the bar drunk
and had waved aside offers for a ride home saying, instead, 'I can walk from
here.' He'd stumbled out onto Orchard Boulevard, and a semi-truck making a late
night run hit him and ran him over. He was killed instantly. Ellen tried to
blot out the vivid pictures forming in
her mind as the sergeant talked on, giving her more details. She listened but,
at the same time, didn't listen, not wanting to believe the words he was saying.
Finally she forced herself to accept the reality of what she was hearing. Mike
was never coming home. Tears welled up in her eyes and her throat began to
constrict. She tried to focus on the sergeant's voice but the room was starting
to spin. He was telling her that he needed her to come to the hospital where he
would meet her and they could, 'Talk more,' as he put it, when she realized she
needed to get off the phone. Quickly, saying, "Ok, ok, I'll get there as
soon as I can," she hung up. Her husband was dead and never coming home. The
finality was debilitating. Numbness set in as she fumbled the phone onto the
nightstand. Momentarily, her world turned black. Then anger set in. She picked
up the phone and threw it across the room, where it smashed against the wall.
She took some satisfaction seeing it bounce to the floor. Then she jumped onto
her bed and started punching Mike's pillow. Hard. Throwing punch after punch until
her fists hurt. How could he have done this to her? To the kids? To their
family? Over and over the questions raced through her mind. Her anger built.
She felt she was going to explode. She picked up the pillow and threw it
randomly, knocking over a lamp. She pounded her fists against the wall, pictures
in their frames falling to the floor, glass shattering. She ran around the room
throwing things to the ground: a floor lamp, stacks of books and magazines, and
treasures from the dresser. Then she collapsed on her bed, energy spent, tears
running down her face, the pain and the anger giving way, finally, to a despair
so deep she didn't know if she'd ever survive. Her chest felt as if it was
collapsing . Her breath came in spurts; her body wracked with heaving sobs.
Ellen didn't notice, but as she lay
weeping, the door to her bedroom slowly and carefully opened. It was Amy, her
oldest, who stood in the doorway, awakened by the violent outburst. She watched
as her mother sobbed hysterically, unsure what to do. The bedroom, usually so
neat and tidy, was destroyed: stuff was strewn all over the place, lamps
shattered, and debris on the floor. She was frightened, never having seen her
mother, usually so strong and dependable, having broken down like this. After a
minute of watching and unsure what to do, she gathered her courage and carefully
walked across the floor, avoiding broken glass. She sat on the bed, softly touching
her mother's shoulder. Ellen started and then turned, silently acknowledged her
daughter's presence by grasping her hand, gripping it hard. They sat like that
for a long while. Finally, Ellen's tears stopped, and she relaxed her hold on
her daughter's hand. Amy took a Kleenex from the bedside table and handed it to
her. She wiped her eyes and her face, finishing up by blowing her nose. She
waded up the tissue and tossed it haphazardly on the floor. All the while Amy
sat silent. It was calming for her to be with her mother. They had become close
in the last year, using the time without her father around to begin to forge a
relationship different from what it had been before. She liked helping her
mother and the new responsibilities she was given. She liked knowing her mother
depended on her. Sitting with her now, as her mother calmed down, Amy's initial
fears vanished. She was no longer frightened but feeling, instead, the
beginning of something she'd never felt with her mother before; a closeness and
a sharing. It was like her mother needed her and was letting her into her
world, letting Amy see her as both vulnerable and human. Something in Amy
shifted. Her heart suddenly went out to her mother. She felt she should say
something.
"Mom, what's the matter?"
she asked innocently.
Ellen responded by hugging her
daughter, pulling her close and holding her tight, taking a moment to appreciate
Amy being there with her before saying, "It's about your father..."
As Ellen
talked, telling her daughter what she knew of the accident, Amy's thoughts
drifted. She stopped listening after the words, "He was drunk..."
She'd seen her father that way too often to count. How he acted during those
times had been sometimes ugly, sometimes embarrassing, and all of the time
unsettling. But, as she half listened to what her mother was saying, all of
that didn't matter anymore. What mattered was this moment in time, being with
her mother right now, wrapped in the comfort of her arms and feeling her love
and her strength. It would be just be the two of them (and her sisters, of
course,) for years to come. That was apparent. Her father was never coming home
and she would have to learn to live with that reality. For now, though, she
listened to her mother as she talked, her words flowing like a meandering woodland
stream, both relaxing Amy and at the same time, giving her courage; Ellen's
words soothing as she held her daughter so tightly that Amy could feel the calming
pulse of her mother's heartbeat. On and on the words came, her mother offering
now solace, telling her daughter that things were going to be Ok. "We'll survive,"
Ellen whispered into her daughter's ear, "We'll get through this,"
and Amy nodded, her fingers finding her mother's hand, entwining and holding on
tight, believing her words, knowing that no matter what, if that's what her
mother believed, then she believed it too. It was now something they shared: they
would get through this together.
Suddenly there was a flurried motion
and both mother and daughter turned. Amy's sisters stood in the doorway waiting
and looking cautious, as if not wanting to intrude. Ellen sat up straight, looking
at her three daughters, unsure what to do. She nervously smoothed Amy's hair,
the feel of it calming her. Ellen gazed at the glowing freshness of her
daughter's face, the faint freckles and her delicate eye brows. So young yet,
also, so old. Amy met her mother's eyes and Ellen saw in them a strength and
resolve she had never seen before. Amy touched her mother's hand, both of them gaining
confidence by the simple gesture, feeling a connection, then, between them:
something bold, something different, something lasting. Ellen smiled at her daughter,
acknowledging the beginning of something new in their lives. The days ahead
would not be easy. She was going to count on Amy more than ever, but they had
each other and that's what mattered; that's what really counted. She looked
toward the doorway and motioned toward the bed, her decision having been made. Encouragingly
she said, "Come in and sit with us, girls. Your sister and I have
something to tell you."
