Free Fresh Kills by Bill Loehfelm

drank myself sick I was at a Halloween party my senior year. At Jimmy’s house. Molly’d left me by then, so she wasn’t in the car, thank God. She’d brought a date to that party, in fact, a contributing factor to my going overboard. My father had come to pick me up early, just to fuck with my good time. Jimmy’d already switched me to ice water, but my father’s early arrival had totally thrown off my recovery timing. Before we were halfway home, I got sick all over the side of the Cadillac.

    My father laughed at me, called me names, lurching the car all over the road while cheap vodka and Orange Julius lurched out of me. He didn’t say shit about the car. He’d probably been half loaded himself. If I hadn’t locked myself in the bathroom when we got home, he’d have probably knocked me around for breaking my mother’s rule about drinking at parties.

    Now, perched on the edge of the couch, I could hear him mocking me again, calling me a lightweight, a momma’s boy, a faggot, and a fool. No wonder Molly had thrown me over for a college boy, he said.

    I decided I’d puke in my lap before I’d lock myself in the bathroom. I told myself I had nothing to hide from anymore. I gagged, tasting vodka though there was only whiskey and beer in my belly. God, how old are you now? I asked myself. Get over it. Just refuse it. Beat it back. I started sweating, realized I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. I told myself I wouldn’t feel as bad tomorrow if I let it go tonight. But I didn’t get up. At least I figured I hadn’t when I woke up in the morning on the floor beside the couch.

FOUR

    JULIA COVERED HER MOUTH, TRYING NOT TO LAUGH, WHEN I bumped my head on the coffee table. I just glared at her and rubbed my head. She wore pressed jeans and a snug sweater, her face and hair already done up for the day. She sat on the coffee table. I hauled my wounded self up onto the couch.

    “Good morning, sunshine,” she said.

    I nodded. It hurt.

    “I made coffee for you,” she said. “It’s still hot.”

    She’d made coffee. I loved her so much at that moment I thought I’d cry.

    She stood. “But you gotta get it yourself.” She walked into the kitchen.

    I didn’t know if I could stand. I willed myself to forget everything I felt, to focus on only the thirty seconds it would take me to swallow that first sip. If I could just block everything out for half a minute, the railroad spike through my head, the molten iron in my stomach, the Brillo pad I’d been chewing in my sleep, if I could forget those things for only a few moments, I could make it. I thought of those people who walk on hot coals, who lift cars off their children. If they could do that, I could get to the coffeepot. I almost collapsed against the kitchen counter, but I made it. When the first mouthful of coffee hit me, I felt like the leper who’d touched Jesus’ robe. Halfway through my first cup, I thought I might enjoy a cigarette. I told my sister such.

    “Chemically dependent much?” she asked. “Jimmy McGrath called again this morning. You should call him back.” She started whisking pancake batter in a big glass bowl.

    I decided I wasn’t ready to watch that just yet. I waddled into the living room and found my cigarettes. I returned to the kitchen table and lit up. My chest burned and I coughed. I felt light-headed. I took another drag and then I felt perfectly normal.

    “So Saint Jimmy’s coming down from on high for little ol’ John Jr.,” I said.

    “Don’t be like that,” Julia said. “You have his number?”

    “Back at the apartment,” I said.

    She handed me a Post-it note with a phone number on it. “I thought that might be your excuse. He really wants you to call him. Have you talked to him since you and Virginia broke up?”

    I slapped the note back on the wall beside the phone and held up my hand. “Later. He’s at work now anyway.”

    Julia set the mixing bowl down, turning to continue the lecture.