BooksBarbecue
Back At Dawn
Chapters (39)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 1
  6. 1
  7. 1
  8. 1
  9. 1
  10. 1
  11. 1
  12. 1
  13. 1
  14. 1
  15. 1
  16. 1
  17. 1
  18. 1
  19. 1
  20. 1
  21. 1
  22. 1
  23. 1
  24. 1
  25. 1
  26. 1
  27. 1
  28. 1
  29. 1
  30. 1
  31. 1
  32. 1
  33. 1
  34. 1
  35. 1
  36. 1
  37. 1
  38. 1
  39. Copyright

She rolled her eyes, finished undressing, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door. The shower kicked on. I sat there for a minute, then stood with my drink in my hand and walked across the apartment and stood at the kitchen counter. I couldn’t believe how callous she was, and I kept replaying in my mind the way she had rolled her eyes when I had opened up to her and made a tacit plea. Where was the support, the encouragement? I was tightly wound and growing angrier by the second. I finished the whiskey and looked at the hole across the room, exposed brick surrounded by small pieces of jagged plaster. Then I took the empty glass and hurled it as hard as I could. It hit dead center, exploding against the brick. Steee-rike three! I thought. Most of the broken glass rattled down the bowels of the wall, though several shards found their way to the desk and floor.

“I’m no damn good at anything else!” I yelled at the closed door. I wasn’t sure she had heard me, so I kicked it hard to make sure she knew I was pissed.

Then I pulled out the bottle of Jack and took a hearty swig, set it back on the counter, and walked out the door.

4

I wasn’t sure where to go. I was feeling a bit dizzy from the drinks. I pulled out my wallet. I had twelve dollars. My bank account was empty save the $500 the rent check was made out for. I would be paid again in two days, but I was reluctant to borrow money against Gene’s rent. My credit card was maxed. I could afford two drinks, three if I didn’t tip.

I turned off my phone. Three minutes later, I turned it back on and stared at the display to see if I had received any messages. I hadn’t.

I walked to the Lamplighter. There were three others there, two men in suits and a female bartender I’d never seen before and who looked ten years removed from dancing at an off-the-beaten-path strip club catering to long-haul truckers.

“Hi, what can I get ya?” she asked.

“Just a Corona please.”

It was happy hour; the Coronas were only three dollars. I finished one and ordered another. I leaned back and crossed my legs and drank the cold beers, trying like hell to keep from panicking or feeling sorry for myself.