The Man In The Drink
Part 2 of 2
Did you miss part one? Read it here.
Alexander was reeling. After everything he had been through that day, to now suffer through the coming night unmedicated, to be forced to face the cruel world somber and sober without any prospect of relief. Panic began to sink in and Alexander’s desperation got the better of him. He ran. He ran to the nearest liquor store, a convenient place whose location afforded them a significant mark up. He feared five measly dollars, hard won, would not get him very far.
He entered the shop and immediately became the object of scrutiny. The clerk kept a watchful eye on Alexander as he stocked shelves and tidied up the rows of darkly filled bottles. Alexander wandered the aisles in search of the most bang for his bucks.
As he looked, wild thoughts creeped into his mind, dark thoughts, bad thoughts, the kind of thoughts that brought one into a world from which one does not easily escape. He glanced nonchalantly about the store and saw no cameras recording his movements. Although it’s true the store clerk had lavished Alexander with sidelong attention from the moment he had entered, a willingness to ignore the plights of others left Alexander’s face un-describable to the clerk. He tamped down desperate thoughts and settled on the four dollar whisky shooter in the basket by the register; not enough to dull the pain, but enough to keep him still. Not nearly enough to let him sleep through a long and lonely night.
Alexander picked up three of the shooters in one hand. This would be enough, he thought, to make it to morning. He’d have a fresh opportunity to have a tranquil night. He palmed two of the shooters in his right hand, transferring the third to his outstretched left hand as he turned in the direction of the cash register, only to find himself face to face with the mindful clerk. The clerk scowled and, without skipping a beat, Alexander strode past him to the register. He placed the shooters on the counter and waited for the clerk to make his own plodding way there. “You know these are four dollars apiece, right?”
Alexander’s face presumed innocence, “Oh, just the one, then.”
The clerk rang up the sad single bottle. “Four bucks.”
At least I can go pay my taxes, Alexander thought as he pulled out the gnarly fiver. It slipped from his course fingertips and took flight.
Alexander Rutledge paid no attention to the clerk’s physical revulsion as he absentmindedly etched the scar ridges of his cheek, nor did he notice the clerk’s outstretched hand, offering his change.
Alexander had missed the transaction entirely. Mentally, he was not even there.
With his feet planted firmly on the ground, Alexander’s far-off stare saw another five dollar bill that had once averted his attention. One he had followed much further down an alley than he had ever dared to set foot before. It was an alley he knew enough about to stay out of on any other day. He had been entranced.
The fiver had continued to swirl in the wind when all of a sudden, a foot-filled boot stomped down upon it. He had looked up cautiously then. Making quick eye contact with the boot’s owner, he turned to run away. Alexander smacked headlong into two more unfriendly faces barring his escape. The two goons took him, each by an arm. They swept Alexander away into a ratty storefront, dragging his feet as they went. The goons threw him into a chair, strapped him down, and shoved a rag in his mouth. The thug with the boots pulled a red-hot brand out of the oven with a mittened hand. “Step in our alley, you belong to us.”
The brand was shoved into the fleshy part of his cheek, searing the soft tissue and sizzling as it did so. Alexander screamed into the gag and tears welled up before streaming down his face and cooling the cruel brand a fraction of a degree. Micro spokes of steam rose in staccato puffs.
The three bullies gathered around their work and examined his cheek with a critical eye. “We need to round out the edges still,” claimed the taller of the goons.
The shorter goon with the uglier face, clearly the artisan who had crafted the thing was taken aback. “It’s perfect just the way it is, look at the way the top line parallels the line of his jaw and frames the rest of the brand. The face with x’s as eyes shows this man is alive by grace alone and the x’d eyes being our crossed dagger symbol shows the grace is ours. Labeled and humiliated with some flair and fashion. Perfect is what I’d call it.”
The other goons stared blankly for a moment at their uglier colleague before resuming their activity, unstrapping Alexander and shoving him back out into the alley. He stumbled and fell forward into a pile of rubbish.The taller goon pointed a finger in his direction.
“One year. We own you for one year. Consider yourself saved, a charity case. Bring us one dollar every day for 365 and that brand is your protection. Lapse in your payment, and we’re going to have to do this all over again…”
Alexander had passed out then and when he came to, the pain of the brand returned anew. He lightly touched his charred face and winced. He got to his feet and wandered to the nearest store front to examine his swollen face in the window.
Alexander came back to himself in the reflection of the plexiglass lottery display. He snapped up his bottle.
Again, as a rule, he did not gamble. His vices were few but serious and gambling was a distraction he could ill afford. But Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory had always been among his daughter’s favorite films and it occurred to him that if ever he was owed a golden ticket moment it was now.
He looked the clerk in the eye. “What is the largest amount you can pay out cash on a scratcher?”
The clerk did some soul searching before replying, “Legally, as much as a grand. We wouldn’t though. We would pay out up to five hundred if we had it.”
Alexander looked thoughtfully through the plexiglass, dismissing anything over five hundred out of hand. He then eliminated anything under two fifty, deciding if he was going to use his one shot at glory he was going to make it count.
He pointed to a ticket promising a five hundred dollar jackpot with three chances to win “I’ll take that one.”
The clerk rolled his eyes. “That one’s two dollars.”
Alexander was so flustered he nearly walked away, but he regained his composure enough to spot the price point on the ticket counter and indicated a one dollar ticket. That one there, then.” The clerk gave him a ticket and closed the register drawer with a click.
Too late. Through a squint of embarrassment, Alexander raised an index finger to the clerk, “Could I trouble you for a coin?”
The clerk fished a nickel from his pocket. He tapped his toe impatiently with his arms folded across his chest while Alexander scratched the thin silver layer from the ticket, oblivious to the mess.
“I won a free ticket.” Alexander looked back to the case. “I’ll try that one.” He gave the clerk a genuine smile, and neither he nor the clerk were sure if he was smiling because he was having a good time or because he was simply enjoying being an irritant to the store clerk. Both thought both. Alexander eagerly scratched the shavings onto the counter and this time the clerk cleaned them into the palm of his hand and clapped them into a trashcan.
Alexander looked up to the clerk with a grin and no confusion to the source of his enjoyment. “I got another free ticket.”
This time he savored the moment. Taking his time he closed his eyes and when he opened them they came into focus on a brightly colored ticket with a four hundred dollar jackpot and small pots of gold at the end of a rainbow. He whistled I’ve got a golden ticket to himself and pointed. “Let’s not be too greedy.”
The clerk tore the ticket off the roll on perforated edges and slapped it on the counter.
Alexander scratched the jackpot space. “Four hundred smackers if I win!”
The clerk smiled patronizingly through a squint.
Alexander scratched the winning number space. “Twenty three, my lucky number!”
The clerk tapped his fingers in quick succession on the counter, dadadadum dadadadum.
Alexander scratched quickly now, forgetting the bit of fun he had been having with the clerk and getting caught up in the excitement of coming close to something worthwhile in his day. “Twenty…three… twenty-three…” his hands were shaking as the rush moved over him, “Twenty-three!” Alexander waved the ticket in the air and danced in a small circle. “Fooour huuundred dollaaaars! Please?”
The clerk examined the ticket, opened his drawer and counted out four hundred dollars.
Alexander doffed his best Irish accent while tipping his hat to the clerk. “Tank yeh, and I’ll be on me way.” He skipped out of the store. Off to pay his taxes. He could now be free of obligation one hundred and ninety days early. For forty-two nights he could sleep, soundly medicated…
But after he paid the day’s taxes, Alexander Rutledge and 399 dollars made their way to the bar. For that one night, at least, he was accepted amongst the herd.
