Vicious Ghosts

The following short story by Damon Stewart first appeared in Morpo Review, (1999). It later appeared in Interesting Tales of Other People's Woe, a collection of fiction by Damon Stewart (2014).

Christ, it makes me wince just to think about it.

***

I was driving home, coming back from a daylong conference at the other end of the state. It had been a long day, and by the time I got on the road, there were only a few hours of daylight left. It was late November, and the frozen landscape was resplendent with the hues of decay—grey sky, yellow grass, black trees. Darkness, I had thought, might be an improvement.

Sitting through six hours of seminars, followed by a monotonous drive through the dead countryside had its effect, and it wasn’t long before I started to zone, turning the driving over to a mental autopilot while the rest of me was vacant—lost in the lines on the road, the dimming horizon, the taillights in front of me.

I don’t know how long I had been like this when something on the side of the highway broke my concentration. I still can’t recall what it was exactly, I passed by too quickly to get more than an impression out of the corner of my eye—a dark fluttering shape, like the beating of large, black wings. I turned to look, but instead of the dark thing all I saw was a road sign, offering directions to my old college.

“Next exit, Tinman State,” the sign said.

“2 miles,” it added.

Now, I had been back and forth on this stretch of highway at least ten times over the past few years, but I’d never notice that sign before. That seemed odd, and I was also thinking about the strange flapping thing, when suddenly the exit appeared. Without thinking I wheeled over from the far left lane, cutting off a pickup I pretended not to see. Braking hard through the sharp corner of the exit ramp, the car listing heavily as I squealed through the turn, I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach, you know, “this is a mistake.” But I ignored this bit of gastrointestinal advice, instead telling myself, “it’s been long enough, how can it hurt?”

The classic “note to self:” never ignore your gut instinct.

I hadn’t been back to Tinman since graduation, and I never thought I’d return. I hadn’t kept up with any of my friends from those days, a mix of intention and a creeping adulthood with too much to drink. It’s not that I forgot them, it’s just that by the end I wasn’t sure which ones I had pissed off for good and which ones got the joke. So I chose the clean break. By the time I felt able to talk to anyone, years later, it had been so long that it’d be a cold call. No more point, you see. They didn’t care anymore and neither did I.

Besides, everyone reminded me of Lucy. As soon as I can deal with it, I used to tell myself, I’ll get back in touch with some people. But she was the backdrop to every other relationship. Separation was impossible because she was dyed in the fabric of the time. Besides, they would all want to talk about it, and I still can’t take that.

So when I left school, I left it all. Moved on, got a job and met someone else. Married, career, etc. And doing pretty well nowadays too. Laying off the booze helps more than I care to think. The only downside of success is that it can highlight former depths.

But there I was, coming back to Tinman on a whim, telling myself that I’d just maybe have a quick drive through, check things out, “for old time’s sake.” Despite all that had happened, I had a lot of good memories there too, and thought that it might be ok to relive some of those. Just those, though.

Yeah, right. Let me tell you, I have this fucking wonderful capacity to forget … no, that’s not it—to block, to ignore the past, but, like, I know what I’m blocking out, but I pretend I don’t. Understand? I don’t either, anymore. But I did then. “For old time’s sake.” My God, I don’t even know what the hell that means.

The State University at Tinman anchored one end of the City of Tinman, a once thriving port town located at the juncture of the Fulton River and Lake Erie. In its day, the city was a robust manufacturing center. When I went to school there, you could still see the old factory shells littered about on dead-end streets and along abandoned railroad tracks, gently fading into rusted oblivion.

That hadn’t changed.

I was well within the city limits before it hit me. I saw this old cement warehouse, a ruined hulk that canted to one side, its windows long since smashed through. I had no connection to it; was never inside it or anything. But it was one of those things that form a landmark on the mind’s map. After leaving the highway, up to that point, I’d driven past a couple of bars I used to go to. Nothing. But when I saw that building, man, I started to feel the old times. And it was just the good vibes; the other stuff hadn’t hit.

I kept going, and the geography of the city began to merge with the landscape of my memory. No concrete recollections came to the fore at first, but soon every block had a location that brought back feelings, sort of a reverse deja’ vu—I knew I had been there before, but just couldn’t quite remember it.

But it wasn’t long before some things began to seep through. Another mile went by, and then I saw the diner. Bam—there it was, a clear recollection of the two of us eating lunch there on a hungover Sunday. I had ordered the turkey club and she got a cheeseburger. That look, as she raised it to her mouth, laughing about something I could no longer recall.

It was then, when I thought of Lucy Harker for the first time in years, that it almost ended.

I got so lost in reminiscing that I nearly smacked into a car in front of me that had stopped for a light. I hit the brakes just in time, smashing back into the present but avoiding the car.

All things considered, I can’t say if it was bad luck that missed me or bad luck that I missed it.

Shaken, I pulled into a parking lot and told myself to just turn around and get back on the highway. It was starting to snow, coming down heavy, it was almost dark, and home was a few hours drive, doable with a cup of coffee or two.

But some things are never that easy, you know? Decisions that seem so obviously impulsive in hindsight have, at the moment of their conception, an unarguable logic that slips away with time. Anyway, just as I was getting ready to turn around, I looked down the street and saw it.

The Coalbin Tavern sat by the road, about a half-mile ahead. It was an urban island, surrounded by a concrete parking apron on three sides. “Genny” and “Coors” signs hung in the window with electric vigor, suggesting to the young and weary that they need only venture inside to find the Grail. Or several of them.

“Oh hell, why not?” I remember asking myself. “Just one for the road and then I’m outta here. It’s been years.” And so, without any further consideration (that comes to mind, anyway), I popped the car into gear and drove straight down the hill into the bar’s parking lot.

The place hadn’t changed much. It was a scruffy, cinderblock box, semi-covered with black paint that was peeling off like tiny, reptilian scales. Nevertheless, for all that it lacked in aesthetic appeal, the Coalbin was a landmark to thousands of Tinman State graduates. With a sharp entrepreneurial eye, the owner of the bar had established himself at a strategic location, to wit: one quarter-mile from the campus, the nearest oasis for the annual arrival of a young, middle class group of kids newly freed of any parental oversight or sense of moderation.

Owning the closest bar to the kids made him a wealthy man, at least it should have, since my attendance alone must’ve paid the mortgage on the place.

Back in the day, they crammed in as many as could fit. The terribly meek and the hopelessly drunk were pressed up against the walls, unable to squeeze through the mob of people, smoke, and music blasting through the speakers with such force as to become a physical presence. Shit, I remember being stoned in there once and having a conversation with the music. It bought me a beer. On weekend nights, it would be 100 degrees inside, dead in the middle of an upstate January. I’d stare out the window, drenched in sweat and watch the thick snow piling down on cars, swirling about in abstract descents that matched the chaos in my alcohol-soaked head.

I got out of the car and walked to the front door. The snow was already covering the ground. I was startled by a streetlight that suddenly snapped on, casting a pale yellow glow. It actually seemed to make everything in its range darker. I stepped up to the entrance and pulled open the heavy wooden door, pausing at the threshold to look around.

Inside, the place was dim and empty. The bluish glow of television screens provided most of the illumination. It seemed smoky, as if a light fog of cigarette smoke remained from the night before. The sour tinge of post-bottle, floor fermentation lingered about, and I guessed that the place hadn’t seen the rough caress of a mop for some time.

The bar itself formed a rather large rectangle in the middle of the room. Liquor bottles were stacked on an inner wooden island next to the cash register and various drinking paraphernalia. The T.V. sets, three facing each long plane, hung from the ceiling above the island. Tables and chairs were scattered throughout the room.

I had my choice of stools surrounding the bar. I picked one in the back that faced the windows so I could see out into the street. Throwing my coat over an adjacent stool, I loosened my tie and sat down, looking over at the bartender. He got the message, and put down a tattered newspaper.

“What’s shakin’ pal?” he asked.

“Not much. Looks slow today.”

“Early still—give it a couple of hours, it’ll be packed. What’ll ya have?”

“Genny draft. Pint.”

He silently poured the glass and set it on a napkin in front of me, then went back to his paper.

I took a gulp of beer and looked around again. The foosball table still sat in the corner shadows by the side door; in the opposite corner sat the pool table. Even from a distance I could see that its green felt cover was torn and stained. The floor around these devices was worn with years of combat, spilled drinks and cigarette ashes.

The beer tasted good. I took another swig, a long, slow guzzle that brought me halfway down the glass. I waited for the burp, felt the rumble and used the extra space to polish it off.

It was so easy. I signaled to the bartender, and he set another cold one in front of me, all the while maintaining a polite silence, as if he understood that a reunion of sorts was taking place.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the fumes like a former smoker taking a long-awaited drag. Picking up my fresh glass, I walked over to the jukebox that sat to one side along the wall. I scanned the titles, looking to see if any of the old tunes were still there. A few that seemed familiar, I lined them up and continued to wander about, stopping now and then to look around or stare at the bar from this angle or that, struggling to recall the circumstances of past visits.

Pint #2 was gone by the time I got halfway around the bar. I made a pit stop for another, completing the circuit while finishing #3.

Let me be clear about this—I had no intention of getting drunk, I wasn’t chugging those beers with the goal of getting plastered. I just wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing.

Sitting back down in my seat, it occurred to me that this was my usual spot in the old days. A learned behavior, unused for years but never lost, must have taken over and guided me there when I walked in. I grinned, happy in the knowledge that I still had it.

“Hey, another please—when you get a chance.”

Pint #4 was deposited on the scarred surface in front of me, and I remember pausing for a moment to reflect upon the contents of the glass. The random patterns of bubbles in flight, the soft shades of yellow and foamy white, the crisp texture as it ran down my throat. And that sour/bitter taste. It was good.

Yeah, only four pints and I got all misty-like about my beer. But even now, there are certain things that I miss—when you get in the right mood, with just the right amount of drink swirling around in your head, and a good tune on the juke … calm descends, and you just sit and smile.

It would be nice if it just stopped there. If you could safely inhabit that exact buzz for a set amount of time … But, it seems, you can’t.

Lunch at this point was a distant memory, and those four glasses that I poured into my empty stomach began to gain momentum. I could feel their effect, almost imperceptible at first, as an alcohol-laced fog of white noise rolled in, gently obscuring the landmarks of the present, coalescing into a tangible force. Helpless—really, in a sense—I sat there and ordered another beer then another, and another.

I don’t know exactly when, but it was probably around #6 that things began to get hinky. The bad memories, the whole point of my exile, began to thaw and cast loose, icebergs adrift in my perception. All that beer … I didn’t just start to remember the past, hell, I tripped and fell into it. I mean, one minute I was sitting there all tipsy and not thinking about anything in particular, and the next thing I know is—

—it’s about 10:00 pm and the place is packed. A song is pounding into the crowd, Gregg Allman asking a girl to look at his tattoo. I’m talking to Lucy’s best friend, Sarah. The three of us had been whooping it up on the town since noon, and we ended up at the Coalbin. We were propped up against the bar, smoking cigarettes and idly slurring at each other. Sarah turns to us, and out of the blue says, “You know, you two ought to get married after we graduate.” Lucy and I laugh, but neither one of us says anything. I can tell by the way she is looking at me that she is thinking about it. I get that feeling in my stomach, you know, like, “holy shit, this is real.”

I feel really good.

Lucy walks away, mumbling something about finding more smokes. Sarah and I remain to guard our precious barfront property.

“So,” Sarah says, “I mean it—wouldn’t it be wild if you two got married?”

“Well, I dunno. You think she—”

“Yeah,” she says, lifting her glass to examine it. “Lucy would kill me if she knew I told you, but we were talking about it yesterday. She really loves you, Pete.”

I’m feeling great now, smiling, just basking in the whole thing. I turned to the bar for another round, I’m going to buy us all another shot and toast to our future—

—the vignette ended. I snapped back to the present, wondering what was going on. The place was starting to fill up, and I was afraid that I might have done something really strange in public. But no one was staring at me, so I just shrugged and kept drinking.

Yup. I should have stopped there; you’d think a minor hallucination would’ve been a sufficient warning. I can only tell you that it didn’t even occur to me to slow down, much less stop. I was on automatic; I just nodded for another round, and there it came.

And I only nodded because I was afraid to verbally order anything for fear that a slurred request would be rejected. That’s how drunk I was, I was actually worried that they’d toss me out of that ginmill while I still had money. Hell, I heard of a bartender there who once cut off a paying customer, and he was promptly fired and run out of town.

Another pint was set in front of me. By this time I had lost the dexterity to pull exact change out of my wallet without dropping it, so I just set a pile of cash in front of me, ones mostly, and let the bartender do the work. Then I proceeded to slowly drink it away, a small green hill destroyed by a bubbling flood. The slightly blissful calm gently gave way, and I sat there only numb, watching the faces of past presidents get washed away by glassed waves.

People kept coming into the bar, smoking, talking, drinking, creating the background din that used to be so familiar. But the presence of the crowd only hovered at the edges of my awareness, providing a backdrop for more trips into the past. Support for the lead actors, if you will, because I kept slipping, thinking about old friends.

Jim lived in the room next to mine, in the run-down house we rented with a few other guys. He had a sappy—but to be fair, rather successful—way of hooking up at parties we threw. It always annoyed me; near the end of the night, he’d go into his room and sit in the middle of the floor. He would kill the lights, but leave the door open just enough so someone walking down the hall could see he was there. Cat Stevens would be on the stereo, but the real gimmick was the guitar. The biggest cliché in the world, and it worked great.

Jim would be strumming along, sipping his beer (and he always seemed to have another ready for unexpected company) and softly singing along with Cat. The inevitable girl would peek in, go “ohh, what’s wrong Jimmy?” and it would be all over. Poor girls, they didn’t even know what hit them. I’d see Jim the next day, lying on his bed looking all thoughtful.

“That’s so fucking corny, I don’t know how you get away with it,” I’d tell him. He’d just smile and give me the finger.

“Hey buddy, it works. Try it, I’ll let you borrow my Cat Stevens. But you gotta find your own guitar.”

But I had my own approach—I just got drunk somewhere and ended up with Lucy.

So there I was, sitting in the bar thinking about Jim and Lucy and Cat Stevens, when I glanced to my left—

—and saw Jimbo at the bar. He was looking back at me, just as the bartender dropped off two handfuls of bottles for us. He winked and waved. I waved back—

—and snapped out of it. Evidently I waved at the bartender, who walked on over, happy to be of service. I think I mumbled something about another round; at least that’s what I got.

I knew, in a general sort of way, that it wasn’t good to be physically acting out one’s memories. But I couldn’t really focus on the problem, since the bartender was standing in front of me with an expectant air about him, as if there were some obligation on my part yet to be fulfilled.

I looked down at the bar, and saw that my stack of money had evaporated.

“Ah,” I said, hoping he would understand this subtle response as meaning, “no problem, good sir, for I have other means.” He looked like a sophisticated sort, and I felt it safe to assume that I was dealing with a gentleman. He patiently waited until I managed to fetch the plastic, despite repeatedly dropping my wallet and knocking over my glass. And the guy’s next to me.

You know, bars should require people to check credit cards at the door, like guns and Dobermans. They just don’t mix with alcohol.

“Damn the torpedoes and put the whiners belowdecks. Full speed ahead barkeep, and keep a full one in front of me,” I said, or meant to, anyway. It probably came out like “’nut her, plea,” but he got the message. A cultured lad, like I said.

It sort of gets all jumbled again, but there was a walk to the bathroom that stands out. I don’t know why, I’m sure there were many such trips, but I can only recall the one. “Walk” is dignifying it a bit anyway; a controlled lurch would be more accurate. Like saying I “opened” the bathroom door when I’m pretty sure I body-slammed it. I remember hunching down in a corner just past the urinal for a breather; I think I fell asleep for a minute or two.

Wow. And that’s not the low point, either.

But I remember thinking that it was refreshing.

Anyway, I was in the bathroom for a while, and by the time I eventually made it back to my seat I was ready for another. God, I remember what I did next—I grabbed my glass, stood on the rungs of the stool, and hoisted my beer, offering a toast to “the good old days.” I managed to spill only half the glass on my shirt. Note to myself—open mouth, tip glass. In that order, always.

Despite this faux-pas, I bravely polished off the rest of my drink, climbed back down and looked across the bar—

—and saw Jimbo, Tom, Bobby and Merk standing by the foosball table, looking over at me and waving. Someone yelled, “Where’s Lucy?” I looked around, suddenly aware that I hadn’t seen her for some time. I turned to ask Sarah where she was—

—and got an elbow in the ribs from some kid screaming at the bartender for a beer. I fell out of my reminiscence, gasping like someone who stumbled into a pit of icy water. For a brief, lucid moment I realized how wildly drunk and out of control I was, and told myself it was time to leave. I’m pretty sure I started to head for the door. But I must’ve slipped again, because the next thing I know, I’m sitting at a table in the back, this time with a shot and another beer in front of me.

These days I can’t even think about that night without shaking my head. Hell, for all I know there were other people already sitting at that table when I plopped down on an empty chair, waving my arms around and mumbling. You ever see a drunk do that, wandering around and talking to himself? I have. I used to wonder why. I figured they were hallucinating, a mix of mental illness and alcohol, maybe some drugs thrown in for good measure.

Now I know what it is. It’s not a pure, whiskey-laced craziness. I mean, with most of them at least, things don’t just pop into their consciousness and strike up a conversation. No, they’re just talking to themselves, to their past, trying to carefully explain to a friend or relative why they zigged when they should have zagged. Put in context, I’ll bet the discussions are quite rational.

It’s pretty obvious once you’ve been there yourself.

I got to arguing with Sarah and Jimmy at the table. I tried to justify my actions, explain why I was sitting there with only shades of past friends. I explained that I wasn’t mad or too good for them, it was just too much. I had to leave it all behind, couldn’t just let go of part and move on with the rest. “It was all or nothing folks. Lucy was all, so I choose nothing.”

I knew I had said that out loud, and glanced up to see if anyone heard. Something in one of the windows caught my eye, and when I looked over … shit, it still gives me chills.

I thought I saw Lucy’s face, and those sad, brown eyes staring right at me. I looked around to see if others noticed, but if they did they were pretty cool about it. Then it was gone, but next to me sat Sarah and Jimmy, staring at me just like Lucy was.

That was it. I freaked, started yelling, “Listen, we all drank too much back then. That night. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Sarah! You were her best fucking friend and you didn’t know either! Jimmy! Where the fuck were you? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry ….”

Some guys at the table next to me had been enjoying my performance. I had noticed them earlier, watching me and grinning, but I was too far gone to stop myself. But then someone said something and they laughed, loud, and it finally sunk in that I was the source of much entertainment. I was not happy with the interruption; it ruined my concentration and caused my friends to scurry back into the dark. I turned to my audience and slurred, “Fuck you, assholes.”

They stopped laughing. One of them said something. I didn’t hear it clearly, but I got the gist of it. Things must have escalated from there. I don’t recall walking out of the bar, but next thing I remember is standing outside, behind the bar, in a dimly lit corner of the lot. I was facing one of the kids, his buddies stood behind him. A small crowd had formed and a detached part of me noticed that about six inches of snow had fallen on the ground. And I also knew, with that same oddly sober precision, that I had been in this particular corner of the parking lot before. But I pushed the thought out of my mind; I had more immediate problems.

We went through the usual preliminaries of name calling and pushing. I couldn’t say much, just another mushed, “fuck you,” and a poor attempt at a shove. I couldn’t even push that hard for fear of falling over. Then he took a swing and hit me in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe and I started feeling nauseous. I took a ponderous step forward, and swung my left fist as hard as I could at the approximate area of his face.

He didn’t move. I missed and stumbled forward into him. He just stood there, holding me up and laughing while saying something to his friends. Then the beer and that last shot gave me the coup-de-grace, abruptly unlocking my knees.

I didn’t even try to break my fall. I dropped, my face smacking the top of his knee that he had brought up, hard. Boy, I remember that clearly enough. A sharp pain in my mouth, despite the alcohol padding. Turns out that I had bitten the tip of my tongue off. It would look bad and feel worse in the morning.

I hit the ground and lay there, the wind out of my sails, the sails torn down and the masts on fire.

The kid leaned over and started screaming names at me—“crazy old asshole, what the fuck you gettin’ drunk here for? Go home, ya fuckin’ loser,” etc., etc.

Then I felt a lurch in my stomach, and the clot of saliva in the back of my throat told me that I didn’t have much time. I got to my hands and knees and lifted my head, feeling the blood, warm and heavy, spreading down my neck.

My counterattack: I leaned forward and threw up on the kid’s sneakers. That shut him up; they had been very white, very clean and very expensive, I’m sure.

He kicked me for that, how many times I don’t know. I began laughing hysterically, the booze and the pain, the memories of my friends, the memory of Lucy, all mixing inside my head. But it was his last kick that did it, a good shot to the side of my head. Thank God he was wearing only sneakers; puke encrusted as they were, at least they were soft. It almost knocked me out anyway, and I rolled over, face up, staring into the sky, watching the patterns of snowflakes and shooting stars intermingle, drifting to earth or winking out of existence.

That must’ve been a cute picture—me laying on the snow, covered in blood and vomit, a few feet away the kid and his friends swaggering and jeering, and surrounding us the bar crowd, watching me fade while laughing, talking, drinking.

Well, I had had enough, and just gave it up. I let it all come back.

Lucy was as blind drunk as the rest of us. We had just done a series of tequila shots. God, we were alternating them with small glasses of beer. You know those small glasses they sometimes give you, the eight ouncers? The Coalbin used to give you one of those with your beer if you got there early enough. I still don’t know for sure if we had a reason for getting so drunk. Probably Jimmy said something like, “Hey, it’s Tuesday.”

So we got twisted. It was cold that day—20 below, I think they said later. On the way into town that afternoon, we joked about how if we drank enough, the alcohol would keep us from freezing on the way back.

It doesn’t work like that.

They think Lucy was outside at least three hours. The cops, her sister who came up from Pittsburgh, my parents—“But didn’t you wonder where she was all that time?” they asked.

No. I just assumed she went outside to throw up, then walked home. Or at least that’s what I

told them; actually I’ve asked myself the same question for years.

Later that night, when the lights went on, I stumbled outside and saw all those people running behind the building and I went over to see what was going on.

Sarah is on her knees next to Lucy, crying and holding Lucy’s head in her lap. I don’t see Jimmy. Then I kneel down next to Sarah and look at Lucy’s face.

It is the worst thing I have ever seen. Her skin is white, chalk white. It almost matches the snow she’s laying in. And her eyes, wide open, staring, I swear, right at me. I look into those dead eyes and I lose it.

I threw up, started crying, yelling. I don’t remember what happened after that. I woke up in the hospital, lashed down with those velcro restraints—they couldn’t sedate me ‘cause of all the booze, so they just left me there ‘til I dried out. Turns out that Jimmy had gone looking for her about half an hour before they found her, but he passed out too. At least he had made it to shelter, some girl’s unlocked car. She called the police when she found him and he had to be treated for hypothermia but he was otherwise ok. Physically, anyway.

The next day I left the hospital, caught a ride back to my house, tossed my clothes and stereo into the car, and drove out of Tinman. I more or less got sober, just had one or two every once in a while, just with dinner. And I put Lucy, Sarah, Jimmy and everyone else and everything else associated with Tinman deep down inside, locked, water sealed, and to remain forever undisturbed.

Until I came back.

The kid had given me one last kick, this time in the ribs, and walked away. “You ok, dude?” someone from the crowd asked. I didn’t answer. I just lay there, suddenly struck with an idea. It hurt, but I started waving my arms and legs back and forth.

I made a snow angel for Lucy.

When the cops picked me up and walked me to their car, I turned to admire my handiwork—it looked pretty good, except for the blood.

I was taken to the hospital for some stitches on the side of my head, tape on my ribs, not much to do about my tongue. I spent the night in the local jail. No dreams came and I drifted off with a head full of a white buzz that permeated everything. That was a good thing, actually, there’s no telling what awful things would have come for me in my sleep.

Waking up in the drunk tank was an unpleasant new experience. The hangover was, naturally, horrific. I didn’t just drink too much; I poisoned myself.

Facing a county judge a few hours later was another treat that added a significant degree of embarrassment to the whole ordeal.

I was fined for disorderly conduct. Around noon a cop gave me a ride back to the Coalbin to pick up my car.

It had been towed.

The bar was open, so I went in to ask about the car. Whereupon the bartender informed me that I had yet to sign the credit card receipt for the previous night’s boozy seance’.

I eventually got my car back. By the time everything was sorted out it was early evening and I was out over three grand. That was a lot, but I was from out of town. Some things never change.

On the way back I had to stop and pull over twice; I got heart palpitations so bad I was afraid I’d faint.

I told my wife most of the story, the highlights anyway—stopped for one drink, had fifty, got beat up, etc., etc. I left out the part about the hallucinations; she was worried enough about me as it was.

That was some time ago. I haven’t drunk much since then. And when I do, it’s only during the day, only one, and preferably at or close to noon. I like to have the sun on me, warm and casting no shadows. Sometimes, every great once in a while, I’ll toast to Lucy, holding the glass up to the light and looking at a diffused sun through the pale liquid.

But I never stare too long.

They say, “never look back.” The cliche’ has a nice ring to it, but no one ever explained to me why.

I’ll tell you why—if you look back, you might see the ghosts of your past.

If you do, be very careful.

Make eye contact, and they’ll kick the shit out of you.

Ⓒ 2014 Damon Stewart