A Friend of Bill W.

I'm going to do something new for the blog (and me): I'm going to post a short story. It was written as an assignment for a creative writing class. It's short -- about 750 words -- and we were constrained by our professor only allowing us to use monosyllabic words. I'm rather fond of the final product, so I thought, Hey, why not? For my Facebook readers, I apologize for the lack of paragraph breaks. Something gets lost in translation from my blog to Facebook. If you go to http://imsayinisall.blogspot.com you'll have an easier time reading it.


A Friend of Bill W.

Up to this point in his life, Tom was a man who was, some might say, “fond of the drink.” Those who might say this would say it as friends will, when they tried to make it sound like it was all right, not a big deal, though he had just crashed down their stairs, or broke their chair, or, in one fun tale, barged (broke) in the wrong house at 3 a.m. They called him this so that they could pull a hat down to their eyes and shield them from the truth and thus the charge they all felt to help in some way. They did not see marks on his wife or his kids (there were none; he did not hit), and this helped them to feel that all was well.

Then, though, there were those who would call him what he was, and though they too said this as his friends, they were friends of the man he could be, not of the man he was. This last set of friends would call him what he was to try to get him to change, to see what they saw, and to fix it. This did not work.

So it is that we find him in a bar late at night. It is a bar: bar stools pushed to a long, coarse-wood bar top; a few booths lined the walls; two or three large drink stands with chairs in the space from the end of the bar to the door; some dark, dull glass looked out on the cold, lamp-lit glow of the street. He sat at the bar, on one of the stools, a full glass of scotch in hand.

He stared out into space. My wife is with child, he thought. A new kid. A new life to add to mine. One boy, three girls he had had by now, all grown. His new wife had one of each, both young. He did not think that, at this point, he would have more kids, but here he was, with two step-kids and one more on the way. He thought of his own kids, grown up, raised in the house with him, the way he was. He looked down at the glass, shook his head, slapped a five on the bar and walked out.
  The cold air hit him; he looked left, then right, picked left and walked. He walked, found he had stopped in front of a store, saw a light blink, glanced into the store. The store was dark, and he stood in front of a light on the street; he saw a man in the glass look at him. The man was drawn, pale; fat, but looked too thin; eyes sunk on pouched dark half-moons; chin with rough fuzz; thin hair on his head not combed. He glanced down, and stood in shock. He saw that the man in the glass had on the same shirt and tie, the same three-pleat pants, the same look of shock on his face. The glass-man’s jaw hung down; his breath came in short, quick grey mists in the night air; his hands shook; he bent over and retched up some bile.

  Tom stood up, looked at the green-brown pool on the walk in front of him, wiped his mouth. He looked up to the street signs, struck out south. He knew where to go. He walked fast, a near-jog. He saw the sign, found the stairs; ran down the stairs, turned the knob; walked in, closed his eyes to the bright light; looked out, was stared at. Smiled at. Hands on him, a push to the front. He looked out, saw help. Saw truth. He coughed, took a breath.

“My name is Tom, and I’m an—“