Chuck stood in the vestibule of the old family house, pulling on his Carhartt field coat. As his wife chirped at him, he rummaged in the pockets for his gloves. He grabbed his knit watchman cap and pulled it over his ears, muffling her shrill voice.
“Damn it, Chuck, are you listening? I need you to stop at Walmart and pick up some Christmas gifts for the kids. Christmas is in three weeks; in case you forgot. Get them each a few toys from the list…And it would be nice if you get me something this year and not from the damn Walmart. I think I’ve earned it, putting up with your shit,” she said.
“Yep. Got it,” he said as he opened the storm door.
A cold burst of wind hit him in the face as he stepped out into the gray, Sandusky afternoon. Fucking hell. He walked over to his F-150, took off his wool beanie, and used it to brush the fine layer of lake-effect snow from the windshield. He opened the door and climbed in, put the key in the ignition, pumped the gas pedal, and started the truck. As the heat and defroster went to work warming up the cab, he opened the center console, looked at his unopened pack of Camels, but reached for the can of Zyn pouches instead. Fuck I miss it, he thought as he popped two wintergreen flavored Zyn pouches into his mouth, using his tongue to push them into the space between his gum and upper lip.
Chuck pulled out of his driveway onto Columbus Avenue and headed toward the Walmart. I’ll get them kids a good Christmas this year. Her…As he drove, he half listened to the sports talk radio show, uninterested in the myriad reasons for the Browns’ latest loss or the need for Ohio State to fire their coach. It’s the same old shit every day, every goddamn December. Never seem to get a win. Halfway to Walmart, he passed Sportsman Tavern on Old Station Road. He recognized most of the trucks parked in the gravel lot—all the people he worked with, grew up with, friends, and enemies…old lovers. Fuck it. Just one. He flipped a fast U-turn, the rare end of the truck sliding out just enough to give him a start, and splashed through a slush puddle as he rolled into the lot.
What the hell am I doing? He parked and turned off the truck. Fuck it. Come on man…Don’t do it. He sat silent for a moment, his mind running through the reasons, pro and con. After a few minutes, as the truck temperature fell nearer to the frigid outside air, he turned the key and started the engine. Then he saw Sandy and Annie Miller pull into the parking lot. He took a breath and shut the engine down.
“Well, hell. That decides it,” he said aloud. Just one quick one, she’ll kill me if I come home drunk again.
Chuck turned off his phone, opened the console and tossed it in. He grabbed his Camels and a book of matches and put them into his jacket pocket.
##
Chuck took the last sip of his second boilermaker when he caught Annie’s gaze. She’s lookin’ at me. She smiled at him and raised an eyebrow. He checked his wallet—three crisp $100 bills, two twenties, and a few ones sat neatly inside. Shit. That paycheck went goddamn fast. Gonna be a long, cold December if I don’t ration. He put another $20 on the bar as the barkeep set down his Miller Lite and shot of Canadian Club. As he took the first sip of his fresh whiskey, he felt her hand squeeze his shoulder.
“Been a minute, Chuck,” Annie said.
He turned, looked into her blue eyes, her cheeks flush from drink and the warmth of the bar. Goddamn she’s still beautiful.
“Life keeps me busy…working a lot, deer season’s winding down…”
“And that wife of yours and your two kids probably keep you running…how are the princess and the little ones anyway?” Annie asked.
Chuck took a beat before he answered, knowing his response would set whatever trajectory the night held. He took a gulp of his beer and motioned to the barkeep for another round.
“They’re a pain in my ass,” he finally said, “You want a drink?”
“You know I do,” she said.
He pulled the fresh pack of smokes from his coat pocket and opened it. He offered her a smoke.
“I quit,” she said.
“So did I. You care if I burn one?”
“Your lungs, not mine,” she said with a wink.
He pulled the book of matches from his pocket, tapped the pack on the bar top and opened it. He struck a match and lit the grit, took a deep drag and held it in. He exhaled and sighed. Fuck, I missed that. Annie grinned at him, shook her head, reached over and pulled the cigarette from his thick hand. She took a drag.
“Well, fuck it. I guess we’re both ending up on Santa’s naughty list this year,” she said.
She handed the smoke back, her red lipstick imprinted on the butt. She rested her hand just north of his knee. He felt a shiver run through him and took a sip of whiskey.
##
Chuck woke well before dawn, the panic building in his throbbing head doing its damn best to break through and shake him from the whiskey fog. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he felt her warmth against his back, her breasts pushed into him, her hair on his neck. Shit. His mind reeled. What happened? Snippets of images came, super-eight fuzzy—them drinking, him buying rounds, her dancing…the disapproving looks. Fuck. Fuck.
She groaned and stirred behind him, her hands moving slowly to his ass beneath the heavy blankets. He sighed. No going back now. He rolled over and pulled her atop him. When they finished, Annie rolled over and went back to sleep.
Chuck got up, his bare feet cold on the stepping quietly on the hard wood floor. The streetlight gave him just enough light to see his clothes in a pile on a chair in the corner of her small apartment, a little loft in what they considered downtown, built before the Ford plant closed and developers still had big hopes and dreams. He pulled through the pile of his clothes in the chill air, found his pants, and searched his pockets for his phone, knowing what he’d find when he turned it on. Then it hit him. Shit, it’s in the truck. He walked to the window and pulled the shades open. Christmas lights twinkled through the fresh snow on the old brick building across the street. His truck wasn’t out front. She drove us here. Fucking hell. He checked his pants pockets and found his keys. At least I got them. He grabbed his wallet from his pants and looked inside—three twenties and some ones remained. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He pulled the half-pack of Camels from his coat pocket and lit one. He returned to the window and smoked, looking at the lights, listening to Annie’s soft sleeping breaths.
##
Annie dropped him at his truck sometime after 6:30 a.m. They’d said little on the ride from her apartment back to the bar. When she pulled into the Sportsman’s parking lot, she finally asked him.
“So, what now?”
He looked straight ahead at the worn hand-painted sign above the door, the light above it still on and providing illumination in the dismal morning gray light. He cleared his throat.
“Well, I been wondering that myself all morning. I’m guessing I don’t have a home to go back to at this point…I think word probably already got back to my wife,” he said.
She sighed, reached over and held his hand.
“We never were good for each other, were we?” she said, a statement more than a question.
He didn’t say anything at first. He sat on the thought for a few seconds before he summoned the courage to say it.
“Maybe we could learn to be.”
She looked at him, made a snorting sound.
“We sure click in bed. Other than that…I don’t know,” she said.
He winced, opened the passenger door, and stepped into the frigid morning.
He heard her call out, “Thanks, though. I had a good time,” as he shut the door behind him. He walked to his truck.
Somebody had puked next to his driver side door. Is that mine? Maybe…no, I don’t think so. He stepped over the pukesicle, opened the door and climbed in the cab. He started the truck, cranked the heat. He opened the center console and grabbed his phone. As it powered up, he lit a smoke, trying to calm himself before the inevitable.
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