will power had bottomed out.
Seventeen dollars poorer, Gerald turned into his driveway and parked his car. He got out, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out. He’d successfully gone nineteen days without a single one and then smoked three on the drive home. Fuck it , he thought. He already felt bad enough and wasn’t going to get himself any more worked up over smoking. He took the beer and sat down in his front yard. He pried the cap from one, flicked it at his garage, and downed half the bottle in one gulp.
Fuck it , he thought again.
Chapter 4
“Orion . . . Big Dipper . . .” Gerald slurred, lying in the yard. He lay in the grass, staring at the stars, surrounded by empty bottles, each containing several cigarette butts. The smell of fresh cut grass hung heavily in the air. In the three hours since arriving home, he had only gotten up to pee behind his garage a few times and to retrieve another lighter from the car when the first quit working. He was content to pass the evening smoking, drinking, and trying to identify the constellations in the Fallmeadows, Ohio, sky.
He and Tracy had spent countless hours on countless evenings lying in the yard staring at the stars. Sufficiently drunk, he felt safe dwelling on these memories. They were bittersweet but, through the alcoholic haze, more pleasant than painful.
He finished his last beer, tossed it off with the rest, and stood up. He got up too quickly, stumbled, and almost fell. After regaining his balance, he lit another cigarette. So much for quitting.
Despite how much he’d had to drink, he started feeling depressed thinking about Tracy. He looked at the house and laughed. It was after nine o’clock and he hadn’t even been inside yet. “Music,” he said to the empty yard and went inside. His first instinct was to turn on the stereo, crank some really obnoxious rock music really loud and piss off the neighbors. He thought about it, remembered his CDs were all packed away out in the garage and that he liked his neighbors and decided on headphones instead. He looked around and, unable to find them, thought watching a movie was a better idea. Before sitting down on the couch, he realized he held Tracy’s urn cradled in his arm like a baby. He must have picked it up without even realizing it. He put it back on the mantle, running his fingertips down its surface. Christ, he needed another beer.
He went to the fridge and came up empty. “Fuck me,” he said, standing up and hitting his head on the bottom of the freezer door. It made him wish he’d let Tracy spend the extra money and get the fridge with the freezer on the bottom. He laughed, remembering the two of them standing in Home Depot, arguing over which fridge to buy. They had been so happy. She had been so happy. Even in the midst of an argument, they were still more likely to laugh than yell. He’d give anything to have that back.
Being drunk made the incidental memories easier to take, but dwelling on them could get downright dangerous. On nights like this when Gerald was low on will power, he wondered why he kept going. Day after day of bullshit . . . His job consisted of dealing with idiots who believed they’d invented the wheel. Outside of work, he didn’t have many friends and spent nearly all his time reading and drinking. Times like tonight, it wasn’t easy to see if it was even worth it.
Gerald dug through his cabinet, found a half-empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s and drank greedily. Like six beers wasn’t enough , he thought, the whiskey burning down his throat. He put the bottle down, knocking it over and spilling what remained across the counter.
“Well . . . I’ll just have to go get some more, now won’t I,” he said to the empty house, a little too loudly. His voice echoed, reminding him of how empty it really was. He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Tracy lies in the bathtub,
Seventeen dollars poorer, Gerald turned into his driveway and parked his car. He got out, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out. He’d successfully gone nineteen days without a single one and then smoked three on the drive home. Fuck it , he thought. He already felt bad enough and wasn’t going to get himself any more worked up over smoking. He took the beer and sat down in his front yard. He pried the cap from one, flicked it at his garage, and downed half the bottle in one gulp.
Fuck it , he thought again.
Chapter 4
“Orion . . . Big Dipper . . .” Gerald slurred, lying in the yard. He lay in the grass, staring at the stars, surrounded by empty bottles, each containing several cigarette butts. The smell of fresh cut grass hung heavily in the air. In the three hours since arriving home, he had only gotten up to pee behind his garage a few times and to retrieve another lighter from the car when the first quit working. He was content to pass the evening smoking, drinking, and trying to identify the constellations in the Fallmeadows, Ohio, sky.
He and Tracy had spent countless hours on countless evenings lying in the yard staring at the stars. Sufficiently drunk, he felt safe dwelling on these memories. They were bittersweet but, through the alcoholic haze, more pleasant than painful.
He finished his last beer, tossed it off with the rest, and stood up. He got up too quickly, stumbled, and almost fell. After regaining his balance, he lit another cigarette. So much for quitting.
Despite how much he’d had to drink, he started feeling depressed thinking about Tracy. He looked at the house and laughed. It was after nine o’clock and he hadn’t even been inside yet. “Music,” he said to the empty yard and went inside. His first instinct was to turn on the stereo, crank some really obnoxious rock music really loud and piss off the neighbors. He thought about it, remembered his CDs were all packed away out in the garage and that he liked his neighbors and decided on headphones instead. He looked around and, unable to find them, thought watching a movie was a better idea. Before sitting down on the couch, he realized he held Tracy’s urn cradled in his arm like a baby. He must have picked it up without even realizing it. He put it back on the mantle, running his fingertips down its surface. Christ, he needed another beer.
He went to the fridge and came up empty. “Fuck me,” he said, standing up and hitting his head on the bottom of the freezer door. It made him wish he’d let Tracy spend the extra money and get the fridge with the freezer on the bottom. He laughed, remembering the two of them standing in Home Depot, arguing over which fridge to buy. They had been so happy. She had been so happy. Even in the midst of an argument, they were still more likely to laugh than yell. He’d give anything to have that back.
Being drunk made the incidental memories easier to take, but dwelling on them could get downright dangerous. On nights like this when Gerald was low on will power, he wondered why he kept going. Day after day of bullshit . . . His job consisted of dealing with idiots who believed they’d invented the wheel. Outside of work, he didn’t have many friends and spent nearly all his time reading and drinking. Times like tonight, it wasn’t easy to see if it was even worth it.
Gerald dug through his cabinet, found a half-empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s and drank greedily. Like six beers wasn’t enough , he thought, the whiskey burning down his throat. He put the bottle down, knocking it over and spilling what remained across the counter.
“Well . . . I’ll just have to go get some more, now won’t I,” he said to the empty house, a little too loudly. His voice echoed, reminding him of how empty it really was. He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Tracy lies in the bathtub,
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