The Alcoholic
By Vincent Chapman Sr.
Polk County was known for its friendly residents, good ole' country cooking, and local taverns. Like every small town, Polk, over the last twenty years, had been bombarded with large companies. Even though the warehouses were just extensions of the main buildings in the city, they employed hundreds of residents. More than a third worked at the Budweiser Plant.
Bob White, the town drunk, was a hardworking man. Bar fights and domestic disputes with his wife of twenty years, are amongst some of the things he did while intoxicated. The alcohol had taken a toll on him. Even if he didn't drink for a day or two, you could still smell the alcohol emerge from his pores. Bob was an embarrassment to some.
"You're going to kill yourself Bob," His wife cried as she watched him down a pint of grain liquor.
"I'm…I'm not…drunk," he slurred, staggering towards the sofa.
"You need help."
Bob ignored her. That's one thing that she hated.
"Where's the remote?"
"See, you don't even care about me or yourself. All you worry about is drinking and watching television."
"Shut up woman. I'm a grown…..."
She cut him off, "A grown man that doesn't care about his well-being."
"I do."
"No you don't. If you loved me, you wouldn't do what you do."
"Do what," he asked as if he forgot what she said.
She was disgusted. Being in a relationship with a man like this would eventually make her go insane
"Bob," she sighed, "alcohol is going to be the cause of your death."
After six months of in-patient rehabilatation programs and counseling, Bob had finally stopped drinking. His relationship with his wife had taken a turn for the best and on top of that, he finally made supervisor of the Steel company he worked for. The community was stunned when they saw Bob enter the doors of the church. Some members thought they had seen a ghost, because at one point and time, Bob didn't attend. He hated it.
"What time will you be home," his wife asked.
"Around five."
"Anything particular you want for supper."
"You know my favorite."
"Bean soup it is."
The banging of steel and the humming of large machinery had echoed throughout the plant.
"Honey, I'll talk to you when I get home," Bob said,"I can hardly hear you."
She smiled to herself. Betty hadn't been this happy in months.
"Okay"
There was a slight pause.
"I love you."
"I love you too," she responded before she hung up the phone.
It was six o'clock and Bob hadn't showed up yet. Dinner was getting cold. Even though she wanted to think positive, she feared the worst. A relapse. Being late without calling was a routine that he pulled months ago when he would be at the bar.
Seven o'clock. Seven-fifteen. Seven-thirty. There was a knock at the door. When she opened the door the police was standing there. Her heart skipped a beat.
"Mrs. White?"
"Yes," she responded, looking at the officers puzzled.
"There's been an accident," he said taking off his hat.
She looked at them, lips slightly parted.
"Your husband, Bob White, was killed in a traffic accident."
"Oh no," she cried.
"Sorry Mrs. White."
"Was alcohol involved?"
"Yes."
She burst out in tears.
The officer continued, " A truck from the Budweiser plant had ran a red light, striking Mr. White on the drivers side. He was killed instantly."
Betty knew that someday alcohol would be the cause of his death.
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