The Unconventional (A Short Story) Read online

  The Unconventional

  Raen Smith

  Copyright © 2014 Smashwords Edition.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ** Please note this is a short story **

  Death visited me in the summer of 2002 on a dusty street somewhere in the middle of Afghanistan. I don’t remember the explosion or the pain or the loss of my two comrades. I don’t remember any of that. All I remember is the ringing. That’s what gets to me. The goddamn ringing.

  That was the first time Death came to see me. I was young and invincible when I looked him in the eyes and defied him. But it was the second time I wasn’t prepared for. It was the second time that this story is about. It’s about the time Death made me choose.

  ***

  My name is Archie Briggs. The date is January 26, 2007. I don’t know it yet, but today is my reckoning day.

  I slide onto the stool at Flanagan’s Bar and study the bartender’s smooth face. There’s no mistaking Brad’s my brother. We both have blue eyes, goatees, dark hair, tight jawlines, and don’t look a day over thirty. He’s already getting my whiskey sour ready like he does every night.

  Had I known what I know now, I would have had my whiskey sour with some of the good shit. Crown Royal instead of Kessler’s. But that’s the thing about life. You don’t know when your number’s going to be called so you do the same shit that you do every day. Put on the same clothes, go to the same job, order the same drink, and say the same goddamn thing you say every night in the same bar.

  “Light on the sour,” I say, even though Brad’s already got the drink made and is setting the glass down in front of me. I take a swig of the amber-colored liquid, letting it slide down my throat.

  “How was business today?” Brad presses his hands against the counter.

  “Smooth as usual.” It’s a script I follow well. “Hank’s still got a stick up his ass.” We both smile when we think about the time when we got busted for stealing a pack of baseball cards from Hank’s grocery store. Brad was twelve; I was ten. Hank peeled out of the store with a baseball bat, but he couldn’t catch us on our bikes. Hank’s now the best customer at my illegal gambling table I run in the back of my pizzeria, Archie’s Pizza.

  I take another swig and expect the conversation to move effortlessly through the usual stuff. It was cold as hell today. Sarah and the kids are doing fine. The crowd will pick up later tonight because it’s payday. But Brad does something entirely unexpected. Something entirely different.

  He slips a piece of paper in front of me without saying a word. I set my glass down, eyeing him with suspicion before I pick up the paper: United Methodist Church. 7:30 p.m. Open session.

  “What’s this?” I ask, holding the paper in front of my face.

  “You know what it is,” Brad says as he pulls the towel off his shoulder and wipes down the counter to avoid eye contact.

  “Brad, I – ”

  “I’m doing this as a brother, Archie, and a friend,” he says, finally stopping the towel. “Sarah said it was about time I grow some balls. Tell you to get some help. It’s a support group kind of thing.”

  “A friend?” I slide the piece of paper back toward him across the bar. “No way am I going there. I don’t need any help. I don’t have a goddamn drinking problem.”

  “It’s not the drinking I’m worried about,” Brad says, lowering his voice.

  “Then what is it? The gambling? You know I don’t gamble on any of those tables. Everything I do is fair and honest. Some win, some lose. Everyone gets what they deserve, and they’re all satisfied customers.”

  “It’s not that,” Brad replies with a sigh.

  “Then what is it?” I ask, tipping my glass to gulp down the rest of the drink. I slide the empty glass back to him and repeat, “I don’t have a drinking problem.”

  “It’s everything else,” he says, looking at me with disappointment. He knows I’m going to blow this off. He leans across the counter and says it quietly like it’s a goddamn disease that’s going to spread. “You know, everything that happened five years ago. It’s called PTSD.”

  “I know what it’s called. I’m fine.” I got every pamphlet on the planet handed to me after I flew back to the states. I was on a hospital bed recovering from third-degree burns on forty percent of my body and lacerations cut to my bone, unlike Gary and Jerome who traveled cold and in coffins. Every pamphlet was the same. Usually they were some shade of blue with soldiers hugging or a soldier with his hands covering his face or some variation of the statement “When your life falls apart.” Every therapist was the same. Useless as hell.

  “Come on, man. That’s like saying a camel doesn’t have humps or Peggy down there doesn’t have the clap,” he says, nodding his head down the bar to the blonde with botched red lipstick and fishnet stockings. Peggy Olsteen is a regular here. “It’s a support group for addiction.”

  “Are you kidding me? Addiction? I’m not – ”

  Brad puts his hands up. “Hey, just try it. Just once. For me. You’re not the same Archie I remember from back in the old days. I miss that Archie. The guy that let a goat loose in the middle of the hallway during the last day of school or the guy that chased Morgan what’s-her-last-name down to the docks just so he could grab her boob.”

  “You want me grab Peggy’s boob?” I ask.

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that you’re almost forty and you don’t have a wife or kids. You haven’t had a girlfriend in the last five years. You run an illegal gaming table in the back of a restaurant, which only stays open because of the money you earn from the ring. I don’t think you’re happy, man. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Are you happy?” Archie asks.

  “Just go. Once. Make Sarah happy,” Brad says, leaning against the bar again.

  “Isn’t that your job?” I throw down a five, spin off the chair and put on my jacket. Brad stares at me and then takes the piece of paper and crumples it in his hand. “See you tomorrow.” I head toward the front door and slam it open with both hands. The bell clangs a feverish, high-pitch sound.

  I would have said something different had I known better. Hell, the whole conversation would have been completely different had I known better. But the thing is, you don’t know any better.

  All I hear is the goddamn ringing.

  ***

  The streets are dark and silent except for the spotted glow of streetlamps. My ears are burning, and I can barely feel my toes in my sneakers. I’ve been walking for the last fifteen minutes back and forth on the seventh block of Richmond Street. The faint flicker of a light catches my attention.

  It’s a basement room in United Methodist Church. The window is half-covered in snow, but there’s no mistaking the light in the room is on. It’s the room where the opening meeting is being held for people unlike me, addicts. I don’t do drugs. I don’t do prescription painkillers. I’m not addicted to sex. I, on occasion, drink more than I should, but I’m not an alcoholic.

  But there was something that made me walk down this road. Maybe it was the sadness in Brad’s eyes or maybe it was disappointment in his voice or maybe it was because for once, he did something completely unexpected and different. Whatever it was, something made me walk to this church in the goddamn freezing wind with my hands shoved in my jacket, trying to conserve any ounce of heat.

  I’m standing in the middle of the sidewalk when I realize how stupid this is. How idiotic it is to go to a meeting like this wher
e real people have real problems. People I potentially know. For Christ’s sake, I grew up here. It’s a town people don’t leave. They grow up, get married to the girl down the street, and breed here for generations. The odds that I know someone here are high. and that’s the last thing I need. Poor Archie Briggs, wounded veteran, turns to addiction.

  I’m about to turn and hightail it back to the pizzeria when I hear the faint breath and footsteps of someone behind me. I step to the edge of the sidewalk and turn to see a woman walking toward me in a black trench coat and matching gloves and hat. In fact, she’s covered in black except for a bright red scarf wound tight around the lower half of her face and neck. All I can see are her big, beautiful eyes.

  “You coming?” Her voice is muffled through the scarf, but it’s clear enough to hear that it’s warm and enticing. It’s less of a question and more of a statement. She expects me to say yes.

  She keeps walking, not waiting for me to respond as she passes. She expects me to follow her. So I do, and I forget about the fact that I don’t think I’m an addict. Half these people probably think the same thing, anyway. It’s called denial, at least for them.

  I jog to catch up to her quick strides. The wind bites at me with sharp whips so I keep my mouth shut, and my head ducked down. Her black boots are laced all the way up her shins, the bow of the laces near her knees bouncing lightly with each step. I take the stairs by twos and beat her to the matching wooden doors brightened by an overhead light. I pull the left side, but it doesn’t budge. By the time I make it the other side, her black glove is already on the handle. My hand crashes against her glove and then she meets my eyes in a momentary gaze.

  Her skin is smooth and flushed a deep pink from the wind. The corners of her eyes are damp and her irises glisten beneath dark lashes. Her eyes are steady on me, curious, as she finally opens the door and says, “After you.”

  I would argue this point since I’m typically a chivalrous kind of guy, but I’m freezing, and the longer we stand out here and argue who opens what door, the odds of frostbite increases. I have pretty horrible luck so I duck my head into the warmth and dim lighting of the church foyer. Besides the two sconces lit near the door, the rest of the church is black. The smell of incense and oil seeps through the air. She follows me in, slamming the door with a shudder.

  She stomps her boots.

  I stomp my shoes.

  “What kind of fool are you?” she asks, pointing down to my shoes. Her voice is still muffled through the scarf. “And no hat? Some fucking people.” She pulls off her hat and shakes out her hair. The black wavy locks are wild and big with blue tips that look as if she dipped the bottom of her hair in paint. She pulls her scarf from her mouth, keeping her eyes on me the entire time.

  “We’re in a church,” I whisper, studying her delicate nose and the curve of her pale pink lips. Her cheekbones are high and her features are small, except for her eyes. The woman’s all eyes. They’re mysterious and a deep toffee color, the kind of eyes that hold more secrets than you can possibly imagine. More secrets than someone her age should have. I don’t peg her much over twenty-five.

  “Fuck,” she says as she makes the sign of the cross and genuflects with a smile on her face. “Sorry Father. Absolve me of my sins.”

  She stands back up, and for whatever reason, I find relief that I’m in this church standing next to a woman who’s swearing and making peace with God at the same time. The next hour should be interesting.

  I’ll look back on this moment and wonder if I should have made peace with God then. I wonder if things would have turned out differently if I’d had a little talk with God. You know, mortal man to ruler of life. Instead, I strike up a conversation with the mysterious woman.

  “Archie Briggs,” I say, holding out my hand.

  “Sloan.” She meets my hand with her glove.

  “That’s it? Just Sloan?” I ask, dropping her firm shake. “You only go by your first name? Like Madonna? Or God?”

  “Carraway. It’s Sloan Carraway,” she finishes with a bat of her eyelashes.

  “I don’t know any Carraways.”

  “I’m not from here. I transplanted.”

  “I can’t say many people find their way to Zion.”

  She cocks her head to the side as she studies me. I don’t doubt that she likes what she sees, most women do, but she’s getting caught up on something. Maybe it’s the goatee. Or maybe she’s trying to name my addiction. I let her stare.

  “How old are you?” she finally asks.

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “Well, you’re in good shape and your skin is taut. No wrinkles, but something is telling me different. Something behind your eyes.” She reaches out her glove like she’s going to touch my face.

  I would’ve let her, but she suddenly drops her hand. “Thirty-three, and you’re an alcoholic.”

  “Close. Thirty-eight. And I’m not an alcoholic.”

  Her smile falls a bit; I’m not sure at which part. She probably thinks I’m in denial.

  “You?”

  “Twenty-seven. I can’t believe you drank before you came to an addiction meeting,” she says as she turns away from me and walks toward a set of wooden stairs.

  “I didn’t exactly plan on coming here tonight,” I reply, following her.

  “Someone tried to pull an intervention on you?” she asks as we creak down the stairs. “You’re in denial, by the way.”

  “I’m not in denial.”

  “There it is again,” she says. “Regardless, it’s good you’re here. You’re going to love it.”

  “It looks like we’re the only ones here.”

  “Most everyone comes through the back way, but they keep the main doors open in case there are any stragglers. I like to pick them up on the way in.”

  “I’m a straggler, huh? You pick up random guys a lot?” I ask.

  She doesn’t say anything at first, which makes me painfully aware that I’m half-flirting with a woman who’s attending an addiction meeting. It suddenly seems completely inappropriate.

  “Let’s just say you’re not my first straggler. But you’re probably the best looking,” she says. “At least you have that going for you.”

  Relief floods over me. After all, this was the same woman who cursed the second she stepped inside a church. “You’re not so bad yourself, although I think you could lose the blue stuff you have going on with your hair.”

  “I’m a makeup artist,” she explains. “Experiment is the name of my game.”

  There’s a silent tension between us. It’s the kind of pull that makes you throw caution to the wind, the kind that gets you into trouble. It’s intriguing and almost unfamiliar to me. The only other time I had this feeling was with the olive-skinned and hazel-eyed Rosalyn twenty years ago when I was stationed in North Carolina. I met, made love to, and lost the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing in a matter of twenty-four hours. But I don’t compare Sloan to Rosalyn like I have with all the other women I’ve met. For the first time, I appreciate that she’s nothing like Rosalyn.

  “A makeup artist in Zion? I can’t imagine that’s an employable skillset here,” I reply.

  “In Zion and employed,” she affirms. “You?”

  “I own a restaurant.” I don’t tell her which one because I don’t want her to associate me with it “ain’t that bad pizza.” I switch focus to an equally unsettling subject. “What’s your addiction anyway?”

  “You’ll see,” she says. “It’s glamorous. You might even want to take me home afterward.”

  I swallow hard at the thought of taking her home. We hit the bottom of the stairs and make our way through a barely lit hallway. There’s a soft glow of light just a few feet down the hall. Addiction Meeting Room. I’m suddenly sweating at the idea of knowing someone in the room. I know half the families in town and those I’m not familiar with know me. They saw my face plastered on the news when I returned home five years ago.
r />   The room is full of folding chairs set up in a circle. I wouldn’t have expected anything else for a support group. I search the room for a guitar or an open case. I figure we would all hold hands and sing Kumbaya while half of the group members wept. I don’t find a guitar, but I do see a portable boom box with a CD case lying next to it. I guess none of the members are any good at strumming.

  Seven chairs are filled, which seems remarkable given the weather. They’re dedicated to this and suddenly I feel like the asshole that I am. I scan faces expecting to see someone I know, already playing out in my head what I will recite when it comes time for me to talk. I weigh the route of addict supporter, but I dismiss this idea quickly because I’d have to spin a web of lies I’m sure I’ll fall through. I decide to go with honesty, after all, it’s always the best policy.

  Surprisingly, all the faces are brand new. They’re smiling at me so I give a meager nod. Half women, half men. They’re a wide range of ages from twenty-something to the gray-haired man with more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei. Most of them I wouldn’t gauge as recovering addicts. They’re put together; they’re dressed and have combed hair. There’s a table of liter sodas and molasses cookies and above it, a large crucifix with a weeping Jesus, just as there should be.

  Sloan and I pick two chairs next to each other and settle in. As I hang my jacket over the back of my chair, I turn to see Sloan taking off her coat. She’s wearing a low-cut, black sweater that’s fitted in all the right places. As she turns to drape her coat on the back of her chair, I catch a glimpse of ink on the top of her right breast. As much as I want to keep staring, I feel the gazes of the other group members on me. I avert my eyes and clear my throat.

  “Thank you for braving the cold and your demons tonight. Welcome.” A plump woman with round curves like a teapot and auburn hair begins. “It looks like we have a new guest tonight so I’d like to go around for introductions. The usual.”

  I discover the usual includes name, addiction, days of sobriety, and mental state. The first five are Meth, Alcohol, Smoking, Sex, and Alcohol #2. Then all eyes are on me, the guest. Lucky me.