Drowning Tucson by Aaron Morales

though Manny knew Jaime had said the garden and not the pond he wanted to be sure, so he walked over to the pond where a few teenaged couples were dipping their feet and holding hands and geese lay sleeping beneath the shade of a giant oak tree, but Jaime was not there and Manny began to panic thinking shit, I’m an idiot and I probably missed him, walking, then running, back to the garden where a few old people meandered through the lanes of roses, but no boy. No Jaime. Manny’s stomach tightened. He began to feel anxious and continued to check hiswatch every few seconds to see how much time had passed. He walked up and down the rows of flowers, passing the old people, overtaking them time after time, until he had fully memorized the names of each rose—the common names and the Latin names—and he walked faster and faster, creating ruts in the rows and getting dirty looks from folks who were out for a leisurely stroll, trying to enjoy the late afternoon when the sun began to cool. Manny stared in the direction of the flower shop and saw a figure coming toward him and his heart beat faster—it’s him—and his anticipation grew and he forced himself to walk much more slowly, pretending to scrutinize each individual flower to see how they differed even within the same type, and the figure came nearer and nearer, Manny growing antsy and blatantly looking up now because he did not want the boy to think he was not there. Manny squinted and realized that it was not the boy, it was some scrawny old man walking through the grass—where is he?—his excitement wilting away, replaced by anxiety and anger. It was nearly five and most of the people were gone from the garden. Manny ran to his car and drove out of the park and over to the flower shop. It was locked. Manny was seething. He looked around for relief of any sort. It was too late to go back to work and he didn’t want to see his wife yet, not like this.
    A drink. That was what he needed. Not flowers. Not the boy. A good stiff drink. Rum or whiskey or gin, hell, I don’t care. He left his car in the parking lot of the flower shop and walked north because he knew this part of town had a liquor store or grocery store every few blocks, so he walked and had barely passed three businesses when he reached the corner and saw Torchy’s was open. He went inside and grabbed a bottle of Crown, his hands trembling as he retrieved the money from his wallet. The clerk wrapped the bottle in a paper bag and watched him leave, Manny shaking and fumbling with the lid of the bottle before he had even made it out of the store.
    He took a long pull from the bottle. It burned his throat all the way down to his stomach where it settled but didn’t bring complete relief. It was just enough for him to gather his thoughts. He decided to go back to the park just in case Jaime was there, so he walked to his car with the bottle tucked into his waistband, drove back to the garden, and sat on apicnic table, waiting. Manny lifted the bottle to his lips, letting it bubble two or three times, swallowing larger amounts as the afternoon turned to evening and the sun began to set. He knew Jaime wasn’t going to come, but now he could laugh about it because he was just a kid anyway, why the hell would a kid want to meet someone almost twice his age? His laughter helped, but the tension was once again getting unbearable. The liquor was no cure, no help at all. Neither was sitting on a picnic table in the middle of a park at dusk when the cops would be coming soon to move everyone along. He got back into his car and drove away, bewildered, tired, and lonely.
    What happened to me to make me feel like this? I mean, people like me. They like my family and are proud of all I’ve accomplished at such a young age. So why isn’t it good enough? Manny brought the Crown to his lips, smelling the potent sting seeping out of the bottle, knowing he should just go home to his wife, go home and help give the boys