Chapter Twenty Two

GRAYSON

My second double scotch of the night slides down even smoother than the first. The emotive display on my worn visage leaves me a slight degree of embarrassed to be in a public setting. But remembering Julian's nineteenth birthday is such a happy memory to recall. Alex surely cracked heads to get his hands on that beta model PowerBook a year before its release. As for the three-millionth tear shed in less than a week, I'll get over it soon enough.

Honestly, I'm just thankful I had this pleasant distraction from stressing about my pending career crisis. But now that my fucking brain is dwelling again, this reality will consume me until I'm good and anesthetized from the agonies of my life.

It shouldn't be a surprise that this bar is country themed. Peanut shells are scattered across the entire floor. And the tinny western music is a bit louder than I'd prefer. Not that I don't enjoy music within the genre, because I do. But I wouldn't be caught dead with any western song which landed the airwaves prior to the eighties. Though complaining about the ambiance seems counterintuitive. I suppose I should be grateful there was a bar at all in this town.

The old-fashioned glass meets my lips for another swig just before I realize my driving progress is now stalled by at least a few hours. I'd find another hotel, but the hint of losing my job in seven months somehow makes my penny-pinching conscience strike a bullwhip. I'll just have to hope Dickson has an all-night diner like they did a truck stop.

Kenny sidesteps the edge of the counter, wiping the bar with a rag. "Need a third my friend?"

As if I need a nanosecond to question my deep thirst. The answer to escape my mouth is a resounding agreement. "Keep ‘em coming," I shout over the music, waving my extended fingers in a circular motion.

I suppose if I'm well on my way to momentary bliss, it would behoove me to investigate Apple Maps for that twenty-four-hour restaurant. Surely, it's about time for last call, where I'll need a place to sober up before I can drive again. And though the dark monster of despair has loomed its way into my shattered heart—turning me into an alcoholic like my father—I'm not without ethical boundaries.

The bottom of this glass turns up to nose level as I slurp every remaining velvety drop. I slam it gently against the bar while Kenny slides a tertiary refill in my direction. Once I enter my passcode, the lock screen of my phone defaults to the first column of apps. The results Apple Maps has populated shows only one option for an all-night restaurant. About a half-mile away is a Mexican fast-food place. But it's better than a back breaking park bench or lying in the backseat of my car.

I hear a loud whistle from the opposing side of the bar, summoning my immediate attention. Kenny announces last call, just as I suspected it would be. And that everyone needs to place their final drink order before preparing to leave. Since I've already given my liver enough to metabolize for a good four hours, I think three doubles will be my limit. I might not be as dull to my senses as I want, but I'm sure my brain's drowning in enough dopamine to quench its alky desire.

"Close my tab, will ya?" I yell out to Kenny, proudly waving the Mastercard above my head.

Once he's free, Kenny retrieves the card from my fingers. He turns around to handle his point-of-sale and a moment later, hands me a receipt to sign. I scribble my signature at the bottom, making sure to fill in a twenty-buck tip. The minute I prepare to leave, the voice of reason chides me for leaving a gratuity exceeding fifty percent. This is yet another sting from my frugal nature with a reminder that I must stop throwing away money. I yank the messenger bag over my shoulder, swiping my phone from the bar in the process.

The only other thing to cure my body's cravings, is a nice long smoke while I saunter down the road to Dos Hombres. My hand scours the bag to feel for a cigarette pack, all the while battling the Earth's noticeable rotation. I'm surely not pissed drunk, but a heavy buzz most definitely. As I slide the lid of my cigarette pack, my lips detect only four remaining smokes. Assuming it only takes me four hours to recover from this bender, I'll have one per hour. I bow my head to light the end before a loud car horn jolts my senses from behind.

I hear a guy shouting from his window. "Get out of the road, asshole!"

His car swerves around me, speeding off in the distance. I'm not tipsy, I'm fuckin' sloshed. I shake my head at the realization of what a fatuous idea it is to be staggering down the road—in the middle of it rather—on my hunt for something greasy and a soft surface to cushion my aching body. Now my equilibrium is even more out of balance. After exhaling a long drag from the cigarette, I continue zigzagging towards a blurry white sign with what I'm assuming is a cartoonish taco.

A ccording to my phone, it's just about three in the morning. I'm stooped over a slender table inside Dos Hombres. So much purple and turquoise drowns the walls, it almost reminds me of a Taco Bell circa 1990. Just like the one Julian and I frequented in Felton. Oh, these damn memories. There's a long tube of incandescent light stretching across the ceiling every foot or so. If this three-day old stale coffee doesn't flush the booze quickly, maybe the sensation of being locked in a fucking tanning booth will.

My finger picks at a basket of soggy nachos I'd ordered when I arrived, while I spot one of the employees sitting down at a table across from mine. He retrieves a thick hardcover book from a blue backpack. He positions it in front of his face, revealing a picture of two men on a bright sandy beach which hogs the entire backside of the cover. It's Julian and me. Both with the happiest goddam smiles we could flash. The front of the book jacket is the cover of Julian's last ever New York Times best-seller, "Broken in the Bayou."

Prior to its printing, Seven Liberties Publishing requested that I send a picture of the two of us together. Since Julian's dementia struck in the middle of his writing process—and it was already under contract—I'd ghostwritten the rest. That and the fact that we'd already spent a large portion of its advance on a two-week trip to Puerto Rico. The plot in its own special way is an emphatic look at the dynamic between two married gay detectives in New Orleans, racing to solve the mystery of a missing autistic boy.

His outline was practically complete long before the first time I found coffee creamer in the microwave. Or his phone in the medicine cabinet. Suffice it to say, it wasn't hard for me to help him finish without his abundance of formal writing experience. When we went to submit the final draft, I wrote a detailed email to his editor which explained our predicament—also making sure to inform her it would likely be the last thing they'd ever publish under his name.

I shield my forehead as I shimmy out from the booth so I can slip outside for a cigarette, scowling at my wound still burning like a bullshit. Outside, a strong breeze blows in my face while I lean up against a coarse stucco wall. As inedible as those nachos were, my stomach regrets throwing them away before escaping the sights of apparently one of Julian's avid fans. Though this reminds me that I have yet another thing to do once I return home—report his passing to his publisher. And while I'd certainly benefit from any of his residuals, I don't feel accepting them on his behalf is entirely fair. Perhaps I can arrange for any future profits to be donated to an Alzheimer's focused charity.

After exposing my hooch drenched skin to the wind for several minutes, I swing the door open. All the while hoping that employee has finished his break. The last thing I want right now is to be recognized when I'm hardly even famous by proxy. I toss the empty cigarette pack into the waste bin as I walk by it, drawing in deep breath because I'm fresh out of them. Thankfully, the boy has left. Since I have time to spare before it's safe to assume driving, I unlock my phone to type out a text to Phoebe. Judging by the typos in my message, it's evident my vision is still impaired.

I shotuld have followed youre advice. But oh well…… I casn't go back in time and charge things now. also startted wartching the ABVC7 N news segmrnt, but it friize. Gud daamn hinm! Who does her thuknk he iss?