December, 1919 – Chapter 11

Welcome to chapter eleven of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every week, unless the author has radical arm surgery. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 11

I flipped the big German’s card over and over in my hand, staring off at a darkening Philadelphia skyline. The clouds hung low, pregnant with snow due any day now, hugging the city in a cold embrace. The weather matched the mood; all the talk in the taverns felt muted and melancholy, like the entire city was collectively mourning those last few drops of booze left to die too young in the bottom of barrels. I’d cloistered myself on the roof of the brewery, tucked back behind the second stacked brick chimney where I thought no one could easily find me.

There, in the shadow of my father’s legacy, I cried. The wind slapped so fierce against my face I thought my tears would freeze, freeze like my spirit had as I watched the flames lick at the wood of his coffin. Threats and shadows finally snapped my last thread of stoicism, and I sat, like a child lost in the sprawling maze of a rush hour downtown, unsure what to do, or how to do it.

Berman and Moore never left my mind, but now, given Ritter’s insistence and insinuation, I saw demons in every shadow of every street corner. Protection? From who, and how? Legally, physically, emotionally? I looked down again at the crisp edges of the card, tracing my fingers over the elongated fours of the accompanying phone number. I hadn’t called. Not yet. I needed time to understand the danger, and know if it was only me who needed protection.

At the thought of my decisions putting my mother or Virginia or sweet William in danger, I abandoned any attempt at stifling my sadness. My sobs meandered upward on the draft between buildings, disappearing forever into the grey as my body purged itself of all the pent up fear and frustration.

“Crying won’t solve anything.” The voice startled me into action, and I jumped up, drew the small knife I’d been cradling like a paranoid vagrant, and turned to face its owner.

George looked terrible. Worse than terrible. His face pallid and sickly with huge, dark circles under each eye that made it like he’d just gone ten rounds with Jess Willard, and then another ten with Jack Dempsy. He’d lost weight, too, but still towered over me, imposing and austere. I moved back, keeping the knife out in front of me like a kitten brandishing its underdeveloped claws at that the maws of an hungry timber wolf.

“No need for that, Jack.” He lowered himself onto a brick outcropping across from me. “I’m not here to hurt you. In fact the opposite. Sit down.”

He motioned casually for me to pocket the knife and lower my guard. I put the knife back into its little leather home, but kept my hand wrapped around the handle, my nerves too cautious to trust anything or anyone.

“Heh, this prohibition might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Haven’t had a drink in two weeks. Was pretty rough at first, but I think the light’s finally coming back into my soul.” He held out his large, gnarled hand flat, palm down. It shook violently for a second before he closed it into a fist, brought it to his face, and blew warm air into the hole in the middle. He shivered, too, shoulders involuntarily shrugging despite a very heavy canvas coat.

“I can’t apologize for what I did. It happened and the consequences can’t be undone.” He didn’t make eye contact as he spoke, just stared off at some point behind me. “Virginia won’t talk to me. I understand, of course, but it’s killing me. Her mother doesn’t know anything, and the lie, or at least the lack of truth, eats away at me every day. I haven’t touched a drop since. The whiskey transforms me into a man I can’t trust.”

“George…” I said, trying to be gentle.

He cut me off. “You don’t have to do that, Jack. So like your dad. Try to make everything better even when it isn’t,” he said as he shivered, or shook, again. I couldn’t tell whether he was fighting the DTs or the cold, or some awful combination. “Your dad was like a brother to me. Losing him, then losing the brewery, then losing my entire identity to this temperance movement…I just couldn’t cope.”

I relaxed my grip on the blade and let the tension slide out of my muscles. He seemed sincere, and from his demeanor, it looked like the cold turkey detoxing had left him too weak to be a threat to me. My fear at being caught alone with him suddenly shifted to pity. Strange, I thought, how our emotions can flutter so ephemerally from one extreme to the other.

He sniffed, wiping his nose. “I never expected you and Ginnie to…well…you know. Andrew always joked about it, but she’s my girl, and I never accepted that she’d grown up. I want you to know…” his voice dropped, like he couldn’t figure out what to say, or was very reluctant to say what he needed to. “I’m happy for her. For you. Who better for my girl than my best friend’s son?”

He took his hand out of his coat pocket, and held it forward. The last hand I’d shook was Ritter’s, that massive, powerful paw that made my hand feel like it was made of tissue. George’s hand felt strong, too, but less assertive, less mighty, more connected and forgiving, like the callous digits, scarred and dry, were forgiveness and embarrassment incarnate. I took it, shook it. He coughed and flipped the collar of his coat up against the stubble on his neck.

“Let’s get down,” I said, shaking off a shiver myself. “It’s going to start snowing any minute now, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to climb down a slick, frozen ladder.” George forced a smile, and weakly got to his feet. As he shuffled toward the steel railing that lead back down to the brewery floor, he turned back to me.

“I know it won’t matter, but can you tell Virginia that I miss her?” It was hard to tell in the bluster, but for a moment I thought I saw a tear well in his eye.

“Crying won’t solve anything,” I said, flashing a cheeky smile.

He sniffed and nodded, before disappearing down the ladder, into the dark shadows of the brewery floor below.

To be continued…

Session #85 – Why Do You Drink?

Local beer-buddy Doug Smiley of Baltimore Bistros and Beer is hosting the 85th iteration of The Session. The topic: Why do you drink? I got a bit experimental with the syntax, but screw it, it’s a party.

The party is stagnant. Four new roommates stand in a crude circle. Their friends stand in divided groups, like a middle school dance. Small talk, weather, work is all anyone can muster. There was a time, earlier in the week, when everyone thought this was a good idea. The bowl of pretzels seems to be the most lively member of the gathering.

Poppy lyrics drift in from a lonely backroom stereo. Quiet, but audible enough, a soundtrack to a mistake. Faces stare at screens instead of each other. Excuses form; doors are eyed. An awkward laugh trails off before the echo of a bad joke.

But above the social lullaby a cork schlunks free like a single shot fired from starter’s sidearm. The rest of the band joins in, hissing, and glugging, and clinking hellos. Door knocks and six packs find their way in, and suddenly regret seems hasty.

Each sip or chug finds a mate with a boisterous laugh, and together they dance through conversations. A board game bursts to life with rolling dice, doing its best to keep pace with the shuffling of several decks of cards. It’s hard to track rounds when everyone starts drinking at different times, but bottles begin to pile up on counter tops, the lacing and puddles left on and in glasses the only sign the drink had ever been there in the first place.

A woman shouts out the lyrics to her favorite song, now blasting from the stereo that was surreptitiously turned up, turning the din into a unified chorus, singing perfectly in time with You Give Love a Bad Name. Shot through the heart, her boyfriend retreats to his shot slamming friends, licking his wounds right after he licks some salt and sucks a lime. Everyone winces and agrees shots are a bad idea, but in a perfectly little golden row the boozy cylinders line up anyway, revving the engine of the party to red line: 8000 RPM.

Right about now, unwanted guests crash the party; a petty conversation about Karen (that bitch), an argument that doesn’t need to happen in public (or at all), a unsettled stomach that didn’t eat dinner (and probably should have). The alcohol has loosed the lips, sinking social ships, drinking guarded sips, thinking in vitreous hollow tips. But through the noisy fog of camaraderie these voices don’t stand a chance, squelched and squashed at the first reminder that this is a party, after all, so take it easy and have some fun.

Behind these guests come the uninvited but not unwelcome, the intellectual discussions made hilarious by the participants forgetting what they’re talking about or slurring their sesquipedalian attempts to weave in jargon, to stay on theme, to stay on topic, to appear, in their group, the wisest and most learned of the ones who’ve maybe had just one too many. After each takes turns debating, countering, after logic fails because of liquid luxury, after the flow hasn’t followed it’s original path, Hemingway and Joyce and Kerouac make appearances, if not in literal literary allusion, then as muses and features or reasons for drinking, focus of cheer, celebrations of those greats who maybe, at some point, stood just as they stand, in a little clump, throwing out interjections through the haze of bourbon and beer.

The buzz of energy is palpable but lost behind the buzz of everyone else, the singing and talking and woohooing in the kitchen like a train has pulled in for dinner, blasted it’s arrival through steam whistle, unloaded it’s already liquored-up guests for a nightcap. Some have already re-boarded their rail cars, making for spinning rooms and welcome beds, but others persist and drink despite the whimpers of “but…” or cries of “no!” from their stomachs, brains, significant others, livers.

In twilight’s long late shadow, it’s hard to tell which reality is tangible, who people are, or if they are, when sober or drunk, which world is the one you belong in, here, now, then, there. In those nights when time seems just as immovable as it does fluid, when your senses have all but turned to blur and dust, your hand may brush something only recognizable in the flashes of supersight that come in dream, and your soul may ever so briefly – like a blue flash of static on a winters day – touch the infinite, the universe beyond our electromagnetic spectrum, the ever pulsing afterlife that so many, for so long, have sought to find, define, and bound in books of canonized scripture, that you managed, somehow through the guise of good times and good company, to find in the carbonation that bubbles ever upward, angelically effervescent.

So why do I drink? I guess I’m just like the chicken, really. I want to, however briefly, see what’s on the other side.

(Author’s note: I recognize that romanticizing drinking can downplay many of the realities of alcoholism. It’s easy – or convenient – when you work and spend time in an alcohol-related field, to ignore the pink elephant in the room. Alcohol dependence and addiction can pose a serious risk to life, health, and happiness. If you or someone you know is struggling with alcohol, there are many options available, and absolutely no shame in asking for support.)