His reach exceeded his grasp, as ever. At nearly 65, Jack’s mental and physical acuity had mostly vanished. Now, the object of his desire at second attempt, skittered further away, wobbling eccentrically before tipping over and glugging out its precious cargo in small waves. Again he stabbed at the bottle, managing to clumsily knock it to the floor, not breaking it but watching it inexorably empty. “Goddammit!” he exclaimed to no one as he mounted a last terror-laden attempt at rescuing the scotch. Instead, he slid from his rolling office chair and thudded to the tatty carpet below, within sight but not touch of the mostly empty vessel. “Fuck!” he thought to himself, as his head began to pound from the fall.
The scotch bit as it went down. The alcohol’s combination with yesterday’s three packs of cigarettes left a delightful ambience in Jack’s mouth. As it started to kick by his third cigarette, the physical revulsion lessened as the palliative dulling advanced. Today’s tack on thoughtful self-improvement would start with administration of the antidote before onset of the poison. “Always the innovator” he thought, as the first pang of hopelessness nevertheless appeared, tightening his chest and stifling his breath. He coughed, trying to regain his composure and finished the bottle in one long pull.
“This will never work,” he thought. It never did. Watching countless films of some poor bastard drowning their sorrows always seemed a viable approach, but not for Jack. No matter how drunk, his mind would always race past any delaying tactics right to the pain again. Quick to the miserable reckoning, his abrupt abandonment by his second wife would not be dissipating without its’ pound of flesh and scar. Not unlike the emotional carnage wreaked by his first wife’s departure, though complemented by some thirty years of reflection and presently failing coping strategies.
“Maybe I am a bastard, a loser” he thought as the scotch did its damnedest to dissent. Perhaps self-pity would do the trick, although it never worked in the past. In fact, it probably contributed to this result, Jack thought upon reflection. Never mind why, what and how was still clamoring about in his sodden brain. Jack’s boggle wasn’t the let-down or the unsubstantiated feeling of betrayal but, rather the nature of commission of the perceived offence. He hadn’t seen it coming and he had always hated surprises.
That last trip to the airport had been a mostly love-less high-speed jaunt on the parkway then turnpike culminated by a short, careening ride north along the Manhattan-facing edge of Long Island to Laguardia. It hadn’t foretold of the fortnight to come ‘Dear Jack’ call, or presented any evidence at all of impending doom. This matter-of-fact curbside drop-off and kiss-less departure was characterized more by its mundanity. It was just another of many drop-offs, some for business, some to see distant family. Not teary-eyed as most departures were during the early years of two decades of marriage but unrevealing of the ruse of its penultimate pretense.
His wife’s trip had ostensibly been to see her family for a month, Jack had been told. It had in fact been delayed for a couple of months upon his insistence that it was too dangerous to travel during a plague. “Didn’t want to lose my love,” Jack had thought. His unrelenting focus on the minutiae of his dumping sent his mind reeling. “Where are my cigarettes, and damn whiskey?” he thought panicking, as the tightening of his chest reappeared. On any other day, his symptoms would have seemed a prelude to a heart attack. On another day his wife would have been with him to call 911. On a better day still he’d have a wife.
The details rattled inside him. The call came two weeks or so into her visit. Jack heard her say “I’m not coming back.” The words hit like a hammer. At a few more weeks, they continued to break his heart. Jack paced about the house looking for something, anything, looking for her. Everywhere his gaze was met by emptiness. Everything echoed her presence. This was all her stuff. Everything said her. Every sound and uttered word was for her ears. Jack stumbled over his own feet. His mind swam in the implication of her leaving. The silence was deafening, her absence was oppressive.
Without excuse for any perceived offense, Jack came to a hesitant acceptance of her grievances. Not-withstanding their first few off-putting business-like conversations, by a week in, they had reconciled. In mid-pace, Jack remembered he had sensed a livelier note in her voice the last few times they spoke. “Perhaps hope does spring eternal” he thought if only for her. He had wanted nothing but her happiness since they met. He choked at the thought but helping her now couldn’t be bad. Jack would help set-up her new life, without him.
Growing weary and numbing from the panic, Jack noticed something on the liquor shelf he hadn’t noticed before. Approaching, it was nearly-full bottle of their favorite scotch. Reaching for the bottle, his eyes teared as he tried to catch his breath and muttered almost imperceptibly, “Thanks, baby.”
