The Apple Falls Far This Time

An alcoholic meets his child self at a bar.

Robert is about to hit the maintenance portion of the evening when he sees himself at the end of the bar.

Maintenance is not an easy time of night. Gone is the hope of the first drink, when bitterness slid down his throat and a small buzz set off in his brain and he thought, this is the day it works.

Popped like a bubble, that hope. Now it’s down to the maintenance of the buzz, which, though it's not as inspiring and bombastic as he wished, at least creates a nice white noise in his skull and swallows up the darker thoughts. For now.

Robert, who knows how to recognize the stages of an alcoholic night, expects maintenance to be a couple hours of bitter monotony preceding the bliss of a blackout. He has already handed over his keys, and thus his opportunity to turn the night into something different, to the wary bartender. He expects the night to be dissolved by the alcohol and half-remembered in the morning.

What he doesn't expect is a child of about eight, decked out in blue footie pajamas and perched on the edge of a bar stool, swinging his legs above the dirty bar floor. He doesn't expect to see himself.

Robert sees the child for the first time when the socialite crowd of flitting 20-year-olds begins to disperse, long after the bells hung at the top of the steeple down the street chime for midnight. His dark brown eyes slide past rows of tired, ruddy faces, all accompanied by a tall glass. They snag, and then come to rest, on the kid, kicking his pajama’d feet against the bar and staring into his glass of beer like a veteran.

The child seems almost too clear against the early morning blur, sitting alone, spotlighted by the bare lights. It’s his incongruity that makes him stand out. A bar is an adult world, where the youngest expected member is a seventeen year old with a fake I.D. But this little boy doesn’t look like an intruder. He looks like he belongs.

"'Scuse me." With a slightly unsteady hand, Robert beckons to the bartender. He sidles over, looking bored with the antics of the downtrodden. He glances at Robert's empty glass and then his tired eyes.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m not sure I should serve you any more alcohol tonight. Do you want some water?”

"No, it's not about a drink. This is a weird-- s'there a kid sitting over there?"

"Over there? Yeah, that's the bar owner's kid. I don't know why he's down here this late." The bartender walks over to the kid and bends down, talking to him in a patronizing voice Robert can almost hear. The bartender points upstairs, but the kid shakes his head, glaring. The bartender, sensing a tantrum, gives up and walks away.

 “‘Scuse me,” Robert murmurs, glancing at the kid. “Are you real?”

The little boy slowly, almost drunkenly, turns his head. Robert wonders with a jolt of fear if that is real alcohol in the kid’s glass.

“I dunno. Are you?”

“Some’a these nights I don’t know."

The boy looks at him with a barely concealed malice in his brown eyes. “You talk funny.”

Robert, embarrassed by his slurring, casts his gaze away from the innocent child's. "It's been a long night."

"You sound like my dad. When he's mean."

Suddenly Robert is in his bedroom at his old house, scrambling in his blue footie pajamas to slam the door shut. Shutting the door helped muffle the horrible sounds from downstairs, but it didn't completely silence the yelling. The slurring. He is curled up next to his bed, his hands clasped to his ears. He is whispering something to himself to drown out the scene being enacted downstairs, as it is every couple nights.

"I'll never be like him. I'll never be like him."

As the crashing continues up the stairs, coming ever closer, Robert rocks back and forth, tears coursing down his cheeks.

"I'll never be like him."

A roar of laughter from the drunk next to him crashes Robert back into the present. Slowly, the bar comes back to him: the familiar wooden table, the feel of the scratchy velour beneath his legs, and the boy, his face stony in the low lighting.

“Hey, kid.” The boy looks up from watching the bubbles rise in his soda. His brown eyes look so familiar, terribly like his own, down to the sadness and fatigue. “What’s your name?”

“Bobby.”

There are always moments that crumble people, brushing away the years of emotional buildup that collects like silt on their personalities. These moments reveal the mirrors that exist inside every person that have grown cloudy with the passage of time. Robert looks into his mirror, cracked though it is, and through his drunken haze sees the face of his father, etched with lines and adorned with cruel, glittering eyes. He looks up at Bobby in horror.

"I'm so sorry, Bobby." He is whispering again and his voice cracks in the middle of his childhood nickname. The sensation of hot tears in his eyes is a novelty. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to end up like this. I know you’re disappointed in me. I’m disappointed in me, too. All these years, I turned to drinking because I was so worried I was going to be just like him that it crippled everything I tried to do. But look what happened, Bobby. Look at me. I ended up every bit my father’s son.”

Miraculously, as he tries not to sob, Robert sees a gradual change sweep over Bobby’s face, so childlike and expressive.

“You’re not like my father after all,” he says softly. “I never saw him get sad. He would’ve gotten angry.”

Robert only looks up when Bobby’s small hand reaches for his. “Take me home.”

On legs that try to betray him with every movement, Robert rises from his seat as Bobby jumps down from his, landing on a sticky floor that roils around Robert like an angry sea. Together they make their way to the door, Bobby’s hand tightening around his every time Robert sways, creating an anchor. Opening the doors, Robert is greeted by a rush of cool, refreshing night air, clearing his head of some of the cobwebs it accrued over the evening.

Maintenance always starts with that first drink. Forgiveness starts with a small hand in yours, tightening every time you sway, leading you away from the neon lights to the revival of the night.

 

Robert reaches the street and looks down to ask Bobby if he thinks he is going to be okay. But his hand is empty and Robert is alone, standing on his own under the starless sky and contemplating the start of a new beginning.

Author's Note

I would really appreciate any reviews and criticism on this piece. I'm going to submit it to a contest, so be harsh. Thank you so much!

Reviews

[alcarty]

The story is gritty and real. This reader was pulled along with only a few backward glances. It has a good, personal feel. Some formatting is needed, double-spacing between paras, etc. Your style of narration is up-front and to the point. I appreciate the lack of pretense. This piece should do well, and I can see it being picked up by a magazine. Good luck with the contest.