“Not Once Did His Hands Shake”

Story time! Back in the college days, I fancied myself An Important Writer and wrote a ton of angsty bullshit. This piece I think is the exception (I mean, it’s still angsty - you can practically hear Alice in Chains’ “Down in a Hole” playing on repeat - but it’s not bullshit). It was originally written in 1996 and revised in 2003. Still holds up, although I just made a couple of minor edits. You can tinker until the end of time if you’re not careful. Or if you’re George Lucas.

For those of you who’ve struggled with the bottle and gotten yourselves clean - good on ya. I have tons of respect for you. It takes courage.

He walked down the street beside her, his hands thrust deeply in his pants' pockets, the sound of change jingling with each step.  He felt vaguely pleased with the evening, and with himself.  He spent the majority of the time in the restaurant concentrating on a succession of clever conversation rather than on the voice that prodded him in the wrong direction.  He had felt strong - not as strong as he would if he had a couple of drinks, of course, but what was important was that he never once felt weak. 

And he could have.  He knew he should have suggested another restaurant; he hadn't been thinking when he told her about O’Halloran’s.  When they were making plans for the evening, she had asked him for places to eat.  Old habits died hard, and the first restaurant he suggested was one of his old haunts.  Well, the bar had been.  He hadn’t actually been in the restaurant section before.  Due to the city’s smoking ban, there was a four-foot divide between the two.  Back in the day, four feet was enough of deterrence to avoid having a sit-down dinner.  Besides, if you got to the point where you needed solids, you could order from the bartender. Along with another round.

When she agreed on O’Halloran’s, he briefly considered naming another place, but thought against it.  If four feet kept him out of the restaurant, it could also keep him out of the bar.  Besides, he was a new man.  Stronger.  Empowered.  And just because he gave up on drinking didn’t mean he had to hide from his past.  That was, his thinking went, just foolishness.  When he quit smoking six years ago, he didn’t quit going to bars just because people there smoked.  Sure, at first it hadn’t been easy, but he survived in the end.  It was the same thing.  Just a different vice.

What surprised him was how large and brightly lit the eating area was.  The bar was maybe twelve feet in length, and crowded with stools, patrons, and smoke.  What little light there was came from two opaque fixtures that hovered above.  And while during the day they provided enough illumination to read the paper, they were dimmed as soon as 5:00 rolled around.  “Drunken Mood Lighting” was how he referred to it.  It was easier to keep drinking when you couldn’t see how drunk you were.  Of course, you could always check your reflection in the mirror at the back of the bar, but that only worked if your eyes made their way past the rows of alcohol in front of it.  And back then, he measured time by Johnnie Walker; the hour was late when the bottle was empty.  Who cared what he looked like?

But seated in the restaurant, he felt too open and exposed.  It was simple nervousness, really, but knowing the cause didn’t lessen the impact.  And a lifetime spent leaning against brass & mahogany cheated him of manners.   Resting his elbows on the table wasn’t appropriate, but the alternative – keeping his hands on his lap & his back rigid – seemed like overkill.  He was on a date, not a job interview.  So he compensated by fidgeting and trying to keep up with the conversation.  A couple of times he got lost in his own thoughts and didn’t hear what was said.

But in spite of this, he still managed himself well.  He didn't look nervously around the restaurant, expecting to see some blurry face shouting recognition, he didn't burst out into sporadic laughter, and not once did his hands shake.  It had been, in his opinion, a good night.

At the moment, he had nothing to say.  It could have bothered him, he could have seen the silence as awkward and infinitely prolonged, but he set any troubling thoughts aside.  He didn't need to speak.  She had enjoyed herself — she had said so after leaving the restaurant — and there was no urge to start blurting out meaningless talk.  He was content to just walk besides her, occasionally glancing at her to confirm that she was happy.

 Almost perfect, he thought, allowing himself to smile.  He knew what would make the night even better, but thoughts like that were cut off quickly.

 "I had a good time,” he said for what seemed like the hundredth time.  It was a mantra worth repeating.  It reinforced the notion that quitting drinking was the right thing to do.

 "Me too," she replied.

 He was tempted to ask her if she wanted to have dinner some other night but had the vague notion that that was the sort of thing you did at the end of the date.  Or the day after.  He knew that there were rules for these sorts of things, but he was damned if he could remember them.

 “So how long have you been at your company?” she asked.

 “Ten years next month.”  There was no reason to mention the six months unpaid leave.  “Hard to believe it’s been that long.”  Hard to believe you lasted that long, he added to himself.  “And you?”

“Oh, only six months.  I’m still new there, I suppose.  I don’t feel like I’ve settled yet.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I still feel the same way after ten years.”  Especially now, he thought.  Six months was a hell of a long time to be gone just by itself.  But to be gone for six months for the sole purpose of drying out, he might as well have been gone for a lifetime.  He wasn’t sure which was worse – the sympathetic, condescending mannerisms of his immediate coworkers, or the accusing stares of the rest of the office.  Either he was the sympathy case, almost fired for problem drinking, or he was the alcoholic who should have been fired years ago.  There apparently was no middle ground.  Weak or damned.  Take your pick.  And all the while he felt so foreign.  Everything was new, even the job he had done for most of his working career.  They had said it was like a rebirth, but in fact it was more like being dropped off in a foreign country.  Blindfolded.

 She laughed, he smiled, and his fist curled around a quarter in his pocket, digging into his palm.

 “I’ll probably switch jobs soon,” he blurted out.

“Really?”

“After ten years, I kind of feel like it’s time to move on.  You get too used to the same thing and…” Not knowing how to finish the thought, he shrugged.  “You know how it goes.”

“Well, good luck.”

He was tempted to tell her the whole story, but it would have required clarifying earlier statements.  As far as she knew, he stopped drinking years ago.  “Had a problem with it when I was younger,” he had told her, setting aside the wine list.  Which was the truth, to a certain extent.  He had been younger when he drank, and he certainly felt older nowadays.  But the date had gone so well, and if he started in with some sob story about how six months and three weeks ago, his manager pulled him into his office, closed the door, and said to pack up and go, take as much time as you need but get better before even thinking of coming back, and now that he was back, clean and sober as promised, he was some kind of freak, a leper amidst the uninfected, and all he wanted to do was stand on his desk and tell the whole sanctimonious lot to go to hell would probably be more trouble than it was worth.  Because, inevitably, there would be questions.  No, it was better to leave the story as it was. 

And, thinking about it, it was a good idea to look for a new job.  Out with the old, in with the new, the saying went.  He could find work easily enough.  He had the skills and the experience.  And he survived his first date in a sober world.  A job interview was nothing compared to that.  He felt strong.  Who needed drinking?  The counselors were right — it was nothing more than a crutch.  It was too easy to glide through life in an alcoholic haze.  Living it coherent was the challenge.

 “This is it,” she said.  They had reached her apartment building.

 "Uh," he started, his throat dry, "would you like to have dinner again?"

  "Sure," she answered.  "Call me next week."

 "Good.  Good."  He smiled.  "I'll do that."

 She dug her keys out of her purse and unlocked the front door.  "Thanks again for a wonderful time," she said, then kissed him on the cheek.  She disappeared into the building.

 He stood on the steps, his hands in his pockets, smiling.  He had survived.  That called for a celebration.  He deserved a couple of drinks.  Just one night, and then he would be back on track.  It was Friday, he didn't have to be anywhere, he could spend a little money and indulge himself.  There wasn't any reason why he shouldn't.  He walked away from her apartment, still smiling, listening to his change jingle in his pocket, and anticipating the sweet taste of bourbon.