by Hazel Parker
It was too bad. I was hoping for a lot more from myself.
* * *
I couldn’t pretend that we opened up anymore when we got to Egg. I wished that the restaurant was more than the distance it was so that I could get on the bike and have the noise of the engine be what occupied our ears, not silence, but alas, it wasn’t meant to be.
When we sat down, Christine smiled to a couple of her coworkers, but I mostly just kept a scowl on my face. The girl from the very first day I’d shown up was there, but she either didn’t recognize me or decided that it was better not to bother us while we were out. How much I wished she could have thought otherwise.
After we quickly put our food orders in, both of us knowing the menu too well by now, Christine cleared her throat.
“Do you want to talk about this morning?”
“What is there to talk about?”
Maybe it was childish. But it wasn’t something I wanted to talk about, and I thought that I had made that abundantly clear back at her apartment. Did she really want to hear me say why I was the loser parent of the century?
“I woke up feeling fantastic,” Christine said. “I woke up feeling like we’d had an amazing night. And then you’re talking with your ex. Which, I appreciate you telling me you did, but still. How would you feel if you woke up and I was talking to my ex-boyfriend?”
“I don’t know. We’re not partners yet.”
“I know, Marcel, but—”
She cut herself off, perhaps avoiding saying something that would have truly upset me.
“I just want to make sure that we start things right, and that we do so by being honest with each other.”
“Honest like…”
Now it was my turn to cut off. I knew that what I was about to say—honest like whatever your issue is with alcohol—would have made her storm out.
“Look, if you have to know what happened, I had a Sunday date with my little girl planned.”
And just like that, it was as if the floodgates had opened, for everything came pouring out right there.
“My ex has almost complete custody of our daughter because of my prison time. It’s not great, but it’s court-ordered. I can’t get around that. But I do get to see her every other weekend right now. I want more, but it’s what I’ve got. And, because of last night, I slept in and missed picking her up. My ex won’t let me see her today.”
I put my head in my hands, running them up before resting my forehead on my right hand.
“It’s not your fault, and I know that. It’s my kid, my responsibility. I can’t pin that on you, nor am I going to.”
Left unsaid was me wondering just what the hell I was going to do with Christine. Apparently, having multiple people in my life was too much to ask of me. I was struggling to say the least juggling the club, Christine and Lilly.
It is about Lilly. All of this is for Lilly.
Even Christine was getting evaluated through the lens of how she would get along with Lilly. If she took away from my ability to put Lilly first, then, well…
It was the same old shit that got me in trouble before. I’d stretched myself so thin that I started getting desperate. First, I stretched myself thin and let my lust for Sarah get in the way. Then I stretched myself thin and cheated a bit to try and get income for Lilly. Now, I was stretching myself thin and potentially causing trouble for my daughter.
“Sorry,” I said.
“No, I’d be mad too.”
I wasn’t saying sorry because of my foul mood, though.
Our food came out shortly thereafter. We both ate pretty quickly, neither one of us really talking to the other as we ate. It wasn’t until the waitress took our plates that I explained why I had said sorry.
“I just need a couple of days alone,” I said. “It’s nothing with you. It’s just me. I just need to get my head on straight and make sure that I’m not being a jackass to my loved ones.”
“OK,” she said sadly. To her, it probably sounded like the beginning of a breakup. It wasn’t. “Will I see you again?”
I smiled.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll reach out to you.”
* * *
I was going to reach out to her. I knew that to be a fact.
It just so happened that everything else about the morning suggested that I wasn’t. Had I not kept her waiting for two weeks and felt like an idiot about it, I probably would have just ended it politely right there. Maybe, in a few months, I’d be thanking myself for making such a snafu and feeling I had to atone for it.
Or, maybe, I’d come to regret not cutting it off.
Of course, I was a master at telling the story to fit it as I wanted. If Christine and I lasted, then that two-week hiatus would be a blessing in disguise. If we broke up, then it would have been the act I should have most listened to. Time would have to tell.
For now, though, I headed back to Brooklyn Repairs, curious to see how things were going. Biggie didn’t normally work on Sundays, but since this was my club now, I didn’t think I needed his presence to justify my arrival. I could come and go as I pleased.
Well, when I arrived, I was right. Biggie was not in town.
But that didn’t mean someone else wasn’t.
“… and we have parties once a week. You will just need to make sure to supply the alcohol once in a while as we build up.”
Uncle’s voice reached to the front of the garage, where I had just entered, though he had not yet noticed me. I saw about six men listening in rapt attention, their eyes nowhere but on the man who could sell venom to a cobra. I let him continue his speech for a little bit before he finally noticed me, a wry smile on his face.
“And now, gentlemen, as you consider our pitch, make sure you say hello to the president, Marcel Stone, on the way out. He is the man who will be in charge of the club and thus watching over you.”
Everyone turned to me. I casually leaned against the pillar, nodding to them with a neutral expression. Some of the men nodded back, while a few seemed to regard me with something resembling a little fear. Uncle pushed them off.
I said hello to a couple, shook hands with two, and didn’t do anything with the other two. I suspected that they had no further interest in the club and had just not wanted to be rude to Uncle. That was probably wise, considering Uncle’s snippy tone. As soon as they all departed, Uncle came up to me, arms crossed.
“You know, they came here about thirty minutes ago, looking for you,” he said. “You are lucky that I was here to help with the recruitment process. Otherwise, your sorry ass Saints club would be the five of us still.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know that—”
Uncle’s eyes went wide.
“Don’t tell me that thick-ass skull of yours forgot already what I told you that one morning. Or was that so early that you were incapable of listening?”
I bit my tongue.
“There are no closing hours when you’re getting this shit started, Marcel. If you think I was kidding about that, then you need to get your shit in order, because just because I said I’m committed to a year’s worth of rent payments doesn’t mean I’m obligated to follow through for you. There ain’t no contract anywhere but with the city to inform them that I own the place.”
“OK, fine—”
“No, don’t fine me, just fucking do better next time,” he said. “I told them to come in this next Friday for a club party. At that point, they’ll either be forced to commit, or we’ll kick their sorry asses out. There’s no easier way to get someone to join a club than to do so while they’re drunk and having a great time.”
I arched my eyebrows. Uncle had some shady ways of doing things, that much was for damn sure.
“You want drunk commits?”
“I want commits, Marcel. You don’t have the luxury of the best right now. You just need to take whatever you can get. As time goes by, and as you get better known, we can get better members. But right now? Selective ain’t a word in your v
ocabulary. And that goes for your working hours—”
“OK, fuck it, I get it!” I said in a much louder tone than I meant.
Even Uncle seemed to recoil.
“It’s been a fucking hell of a weekend, OK? And I don’t mean that in a good way, in case you couldn’t tell.”
“That gi—”
“Don’t even,” I said. “I will knock your ass out if you push your luck. We’ll discuss this later. Do we have any more recruits coming?”
Uncle shook his head.
“Then we’ll reconvene tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll organize everyone. Six in the evening so you and Fitz can be there.”
“And today?”
I shook my head.
“You want me to make decisions in the state I’m in, with the shit that I’ve had to deal with, then fine. And then you can get mad at me for not having a clear head. I’ll take the short-term slowdown of the club over decisions with long-term ramifications.”
Uncle sized me up as if deciding if this was the time for one of his stupid ass lessons.
Thankfully, he seemed to decide against it. He just shrugged, waved his hand dismissively, and went to the office for whatever the hell he needed.
As for me, I just went straight home to Biggie’s apartment. It was the only place I knew that wasn’t tainted with bullshit.
Chapter 14: Christine
It sure seemed like every time someone got involved in my life, they suffered as a result.
Marcel was just the latest in a line of people who had gotten close to me only to get hurt. My last boyfriend had, by definition, been close to me, but my drinking had pushed him out the door and left him wondering why he’d dated a drunk. My bosses at work had gotten close with me—sometimes, unprofessionally close—but my drinking had forced them to away.
And now, while not the fault of my drinking, still because of my sexual appetite and selfish desires, I had prevented Marcel from seeing his daughter today.
Yes, maybe an argument could have been made that it was entirely Marcel’s fault. Plenty of men dated, stayed over, and got up early on a lack of sleep. I knew it wasn’t truly my fault, not in the sense that I had restrained him.
But it sure seemed to fit the pattern, didn’t it? Maybe this was why I had trouble staying committed to anything. Maybe this was why I needed as much help as I did—because if I didn’t explicitly rely on people for help, I just wound up hurting them.
Fucked up, right?
But how else was I supposed to look at it?
I went home after Egg, separating from Marcel with just a mere half-hearted hug that Marcel quickly removed himself from. The self-blame cycled in my head over and over again, alternating only by brief moments of anger at Marcel for… what, exactly, I didn’t know. He had, after all, said it wasn’t my fault, so it wasn’t like I could be mad at him for blaming me.
But I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t trust the mind that had turned me into an addict. I didn’t trust the mind that had rationalized it could drink enough to kill itself.
When I got home, I immediately sat in front of the half-finished painting of Marcel looking out at the skyline of Manhattan. I sat staring at that sketch for what felt like a good ten minutes, not so much contemplating how to improve it as I just did staring at it. What did I want from that painting? What did it mean to me now?
Not enough. That was the clear and obvious answer. Not enough.
I almost ripped it aside, but I thought better of it and just moved it to the side on top of some other half-finished paintings. I then stared at the blank page, letting the ideas dance in my head. Eventually, an unsettling idea became the thing I couldn’t stop thinking about, and so it became the thing that I started to draw.
This time, Marcel was facing me as I sketched him out. I didn’t pretend that it could have been someone else; it was very much so Marcel looking at me. It almost shocked me how easily the painting was coming to me. I could see his dark, alluring eyes looking me up and down; I could see his thick neck, the bumps on his skull, and the facial stubble that he had on his chin.
It was pretty obvious to me what was happening—the more stress I had in my life, the more drama that was going on, the easier it was to be creative. Some people had claimed that the messiness associated with many artists was not necessary, but I had to call bullshit on that one. Art was painful to make and painful to think about; would it not make sense that the more pain I felt as an individual, the more easily the art would come?
And in that regard, there was one easy way to make my life painful. One incredibly easy way, actually.
It was sort of ironic how, the more difficult I made my life in terms of being “good” or “better,” the worse my art got. If I just gave in to my worst desires, I had a feeling I would produce the best art of my life. What if, instead of trying so hard to be good, I just let myself be bad and let the art come accordingly?
What if I didn’t try?
What if, instead of trying to run like hell from my alcoholic tendencies by going to AA and getting help, I just owned them?
What the fuck are you thinking! That shit cost you your job and your relationship. It made you feel miserable; it made all of your life awful. Literally the only thing that was good in that time was the artwork you produced. And you’re going to say that is all worth it?
But despite the strong admonishment in my head, despite the concerns that I had, everything started to seem like it was shifting toward going back to that. I’d been fired, yes, but that had little to do with my behavior out of the office and more to do with being pushed up too high too fast. I’d lost my relationship, but it wasn’t like our relationship was great to begin with; there were plenty of red flags abound that we weren’t going to be a successful, happy couple.
Alcohol was the easy culprit, in part because it had support groups. No one had “Bad Relationship Decision Makers Anonymous.” No one had “Got Fired Anonymous.” But Alcoholics Anonymous? They were everywhere. You could probably find a chapter in a small town in Wyoming somewhere.
Maybe I had unfairly scapegoated it. After all, what had been sober for over seventy-five days gotten me except for a confusing relationship, a job waiting tables, and a general exhaustion from having to exercise will power so much? I didn’t go to Cornell to wait tables because I feared drinking on Wall Street.
Just… don’t make any decisions for a few days, OK? Go to work tomorrow. Get through the day. Come on.
I made a promise to myself not to drink that night. But I couldn’t promise myself anything else.
***
I didn’t wake up on Monday craving a drink as badly as I had the day before. I guess that was a good thing.
But that was sort of misleading because I hadn’t really “craved” a drink the day before. I just began to see the rationalization behind letting myself drink. It wasn’t like alcohol was heroin to me, where I’d break out in hives if I started having to go without it.
It was more like once I started drinking, there was no limit. I could resist temptation if there was no temptation to be had, but once it started, there was no putting the sealed cap back on it.
Or maybe I was just rationalizing everything and cherry-picking what I remembered. Maybe I actually did crave it, and last night had not represented the norm, but just the typical beginning of an addict going back to their drinking ways.
Either way, I didn’t really have time to debate it, because I had to get to work quickly. I had let myself sleep in just a little in the hopes that it would make things better. It had, just not enough to let the temptation sail and leave.
I got to Egg about five minutes before my shift started, and all seemed normal enough. Lacy was holding down the weekday breakfast crowd with ease. There didn’t look like there were any emergencies. I put on my apron, smiled in the mirror, and told myself to only focus on the next few hours. The drama outside these doors wouldn’t mean anything.
And then I stepped out to the floor and s
aw who my first customer would be.
Him.
I walked over with a nervous gulp, my hands folded by my hips, and smiled.
“Good morning. Welcome to Egg.”
“Ah, Christine,” Tucker said.
He looked much different than I remembered him. He had gotten a lot frumpier, and his hair looked a little patchier. His voice remained the same—not a surprise, since it had been two months, not two decades since I’d seen him—but he must have gone through some type of hell over the last two months to have looked as he did.
“I was hoping that you would be the waitress on shift today,” he said. “You look fabulous, by the way.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said with a nervous laugh, not wanting to look annoyed or unprofessional in front of the rest of the restaurant. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Well, you can always get me something to drink,” he said with a laugh.
I chuckled politely, which was a nice way of masking the sigh that followed.
“I’ll get you some water, and you can have a chance to look over the menu.”
“Yeah, you will,” he said.
I felt his hand brush on my side. I did my best to pretend that he hadn’t actually touched me and went back to the kitchen with a fake smile on my face. As soon as I got in there, Lacy rushed up to me.
“Who’s the creep in a suit that you just got?” she said. “Also, hi, hope you had a lovely weekend.”
“It was eventful,” I said with an eye roll as I filled the glass with water. “And the guy is someone I used to work with. He looks haggard as shit. Like his wife left him or something crazy like that.”
“From the looks of him, I’d be shocked if he ever had a wife,” Lacy said with a snort. “Do you want me to take the table? I won’t put up with his shit.”
“It’s fine,” I lied. “He’s a good tipper. It sucks, but that’s just the deal.”
I turned to take the water out, only to pause when I caught Lacy glaring at me.
“No, it’s not,” she said. “I know you’re a cautious person, but you’re allowed to fight back.”
