Man Sinister

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I came out of the three-day spree in a flophouse on Diamond Street. After I decided where I was, I sat on the bed and held my head in my hands for a while. I found my coat crumpled on a chair. There was a nearly full pint of Old Seaman in the pocket. I gagged, looking at the whisky. It seemed that then as an alcoholic I was an also-ran.

I knew then that I was finished with this kind of drinking. It was not the inevitable belief born of hang-over and remorse. It was the simple recognition that whisky had not done for me what I had hoped. The wrong memories blacked out, leaving stark and clear the very memory I’d been wanting to escape for a long time. The memory of what I had done to my wife.

I slugged the Old Seaman once to still the shaking of my hands. I wanted a shave and a bath, after the drink slid down.

I put on the coat, and turned up the collar. Then I went out on Diamond Street, walked two blocks, and caught a taxi. I rode over to Papa Joe’s house.

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