The Mick had the hollow glare of someone looking for their own importance in the reflection of others. Pat’s sole thought was to finish his drinking alone.

Pat plunked down in the pleather stuffiness of his Mercury Cougar. Both legs were seizing up on him now. It was early afternoon, but the day was shot. A couple hours until Anne and Dan are home. He started the car and lurched out of the Dovie’s lot. Traffic went screaming by, but Pat darted across Midway. This was it—Just enough vodka to settle in and pass out for a nap and then I’m done. Last run to the liquor store and it’s all over. Where is the liquor store? Goddamn Baptists with their blue laws. Pat lefted onto Belt Line and went west, figuring Addison was dry to the county line. It was muggy as all get-out. Too early for this summer hell. Pat hit traffic on Belt Line and pumped his brakes a little too hard, screeching to a stop. Take it easy. Just get to . . . what’s the next town over? Carrollton? Carrollton’s wet, just a few more blocks and there’s got to be a liquor store near there. Does Belt Line cross that way? It does. No, wait. Fuck. Just head west until you hit something.

Pat’s hand slipped on the wheel and skidded the car into the center lane. Stop it. Stop weaving. Go steady. He could take Belt Line all the way out to the airport if he wanted. Maybe drive out to AMR and piss on the hood of Crandall’s blue Brougham. Pat drove like he was heading somewhere, but this was where Dallas kind of trailed off into prairie. Shouldn’t have had that bourbon. “Bourbon and blues,” Pat said aloud to himself, and he sounded crazy. Wait, shit . . . Carrollton is dry and Addison is wet. Or is it Farmers Branch? He had gone all this way for nothing. Great job, Pat. What a fucking drunk, you can’t even find the liquor store.

Attempting some sort of sobering distraction, Pat turned on the radio. He crawled around the dial, somehow landing on an AM show-tune station, playing the original cast recording of Carousel. Christine Johnson as Aunt Nettie. My mother’s favorite. Those pipes. Pat’s left leg was quite numb now. His mind whirred over each song with a clarity only brought on by a long episode of drinking. And then the cast, the chorus, joined Nettie in a warm orchestral rise:

Tho’ your dreams be tossed and blown

Walk on, walk on.

He thought of his parents, Jack and Hannah, their chins high, their silver songs. He pictured their store and looking out the windows at the end of a storm, the rain crossing from the Bronx into Queens, leaving a wind-picked sky above Willis Avenue.