SADDLEBAGS, Trunks, and Tombs

Chapter 10: A Little More

The miniature whiskey bottle wasn’t even covered with the powdery dirt yet.  It was probably still warm.  As the aged hand reached for the bottle, a small, terrified scream rang out and faded away as the bottle was placed in the ancient saddlebag.

     Evan Smith looked at his bare living room.  As he walked through his home, he noticed that each room was as bare as the last.  What the repo men hadn’t taken, she had.  He supposed she had felt entitled.  Not only had she taken their things, she had taken their two sons.  Annabel did leave him three things.  On the bare, white kitchen counter was a fifth of scotch, a tumbler, and a note.  He poured himself a glass of scotch and read the note, even though the note need not be read.  The emptiness of the house had spoken volumes and as he had guessed, she hadn’t gone to visit her mother.

     He and his wife had shared thirteen years of marriage and two sons, aged eleven and twelve, a large house in the suburbs, white picket fence, flowers, emerald green lawns in the front and back, basset hound, the whole nine yards and then some.  Hadn’t he given her everything she had asked for?  Was an occasional drink too much to give himself for all he had given? He remembered the day she had told him that she was pregnant with their first son.  He had just gotten promoted to Jr. Partner at the firm.  They had been dating, casually, and now she was pregnant.  He never even questioned her and had done the honorable thing after having a quick drink to calm his nerves.  From then on, the occasional drink had become his lifeline.

     As the years went by, he assumed he had begun to drink a little more.  After their second son was born and he had moved them into the house on 63rd street, the house he sat in now, he had needed a little more to take the strain from his tightening shoulder muscles.  A little more always did the trick.  The cases he was defending were getting harder to defend, but he was a winner, that’s why the firm kept him, he always won, up until two years ago.  Andrews and Beck had tolerated all they could.  “Evan, it’s time for you to put down the bottle.  You were, are, one of our best and with treatment, that we will pay for, you will be again.  Sober, you are brilliant.  Evan, you want your job?  You need to be brilliant.”  

     He had promised that he would slow it down.  Promised that he didn’t need treatment.  He had many chances but, as time had gone on, more near misses.  Then he forgot to show up for closing arguments on his biggest and final case in his career.  A multi-billionaire was being framed for the murder of a rival.  Evan was winning the case, it had been in the bag.   On the final day, the day to close the deal, Evan didn’t show.  The jury took this to mean one thing: He didn’t believe his client was innocent and neither would they.  The verdict came back, guilty.  The innocent went to prison and Evan was swiftly “let go” and soon disbarred.  

     Annabel had begged him to get help.  He remembered the night well.  He had walked to the corner liquor store, picked up some candy for his boys and a treat for himself.  His head had been throbbing, just a little more and he would straighten it all out.

      That night had been six months ago.  The credit card companies had started calling.  The mortgage company had started calling.  What they had in the bank was dwindling, quickly.  Had he been paying any attention at all, he would have noticed something different about his wife.  She wasn’t nagging him anymore when the creditors called.  She had stopped screaming at him when the cars were repossessed.  She had purchased a used mini van, cash, and had started working for a local art dealer.  There was no more s*x but there were also no more fights. 

     Evan poured a third glass of scotch and wasn’t surprised to hear the voice on the other end of the phone telling him that at this time, the joint accounts had been emptied out by Mrs. Smith.  He hung up the phone, telling himself that he would get it all figured out.  He sat on the back porch for what seemed like hours.  When he lifted the scotch bottle to pour a little more, not even a drop left the bottle.  He needed just a little more.

     He stumbled to the garage, where he had been smart enough to keep his prized Harley hidden, jumped on the hog and headed off to the Rebel gas station a couple of miles from the house.  He needed the ride to clear his head.  He never noticed the headlights behind him. 

     As he parked the Harley in one of the open spots near the door, he felt a change in the air.  Due to his current blood alcohol level, the change was lost on him.  He never even noticed the elderly man with the saddlebags thrown over his shoulder, never noticed him disappear into the night.  Inside the store he picked up a fifth of scotch and made his way to the counter.  “That will be $11.99, sir.”  The clerk eyed Evan as if this was a guy who could use a drink, desperately.  Evan, having already forgotten, handed his debit card to the clerk.  “Sir, your card is being declined.”  Now he remembered.  He pulled his wallet back out of his back pocket, replaced the card and realized he was cash poor.  “I don’t have enough cash on me, damn.  How much is that little bottle of Jack Daniels?”

     Evan handed the clerk two of the three dollars he had in his wallet and pocketed the nickel and the tiny bottle of whiskey.  When he got outside, keys in hand, he saw that his Harley had been loaded onto the flat bed  of a repo truck that was just pulling up to him.  “Pay your bill next time, Mack.”  Evan could only stand there, stunned, as the flat bed pulled off. 

     He started to make his way home or to what was left of his home anyway.  Soon the mortgage company would have him removed from the shell of the house he would sleep in tonight.  He had walked for about half an hour when he remembered the little bottle in the front pocket of the pants of his Armani suit. He stopped where he was, took the bottle out and bitterly thought out loud, “A little more, literally.”  

     His chuckle was filled with bitterness that bordered on solid disbelief.  As he choked down the contents of the bottle, in one burning swallow, Evan began to sway.  He reached out to hold onto something, anything, but there was nothing but air in his desperate grasp as the world began to swim and the air around him began to constrict.  Maybe, this time, a little more had become a tad too much.  The world went black.

     Evan could smell the whiskey.  For a little bottle, the smell was strong.  He was sure he had passed out and was now aware that he had fallen into something wet and warm.  The first thing that came to mind was his own vomit, but he realized quickly that that was not the case and was glad of it.  The smell of the liquor nauseated him.  He tried to stand up but slipped.  It was as if the ground beneath his feet had turned to glass.  He instinctively threw his hands out expecting to find nothing but air, and hit smooth cool walls.  Before he could even wonder where he was, his eyes were drawn up.  Through his drunken haze Evan thought he saw a large, leathered hand reaching for him.  He began to scream as he was tumbled into eternal darkness.