One Last Time, by Panzareta

I sit at the bar and drink to forget. But all it makes me do is remember. There's so much 
shit in my life. I don't want to remember. I want to forget, just forget for a little while.

I remember Dad. He was a good man in a lot of ways but he drank, and when he drank he got 
mean, and when he got mean, well I don't like to think about that too much. So I take another 
drink. It doesn't help though, and I manage to fight down a shudder. Dad was... he tried, I 
suppose, but things never seemed to work out for him. Just like me.

I remember Mom. She was good, always home, 'cause Dad made enough so that she could stay home 
instead of work. So she did, but I think she worked harder at home than if she had a job. She 
was always doing cooking, cleaning, sewing... She did yard work of all sorts, stuff with us 
kids, stuff for the church.... I don't remember her ever sitting down just to relax and enjoy 
herself. She was always working.

I see that I have finished my drink, so I signal the bartender for another one. I look at the 
bright amber fluid, study it for a time. How many have I had? I don't quite remember, but I'm 
not driving, so I guess it doesn't matter. Michelle is waiting for me back at the hotel.

Michelle. God, how did we ever end up in this mess? When I first met her, she was happy and 
fun, and we had a great time partying. We dated awhile, and even though we lived together 
first, we still got married. It was a big wedding--more fun for Cheli than me but hey, I 
loved her, and I was willing to put up with almost anything to make her happy, even that 
big circus she called a wedding. The honeymoon made up for all the headache of the wedding 
though. Two full weeks in Hawaii at a really nice hotel, right on the beach and nothing but 
time to be with each other and enjoy the sun and sand and surf. 

We both worked at good jobs back then, had some savings, a good 401K, a really nice apartment. 
We were thinking about finding a bigger place, maybe even a house if everything worked out. 
But it didn't work out. Instead, it all went to hell so fucking fast that I still don't know 
what happened.

I raise the glass to my lips for a sip, and I'm surprised to find that it's full. Did I get a 
refill that fast? Or didn't I drink what was in front of me until now? I try to think which is 
the right answer but it's hard, and I just can't remember. It bothers me that I can't remember, 
and I know that I shouldn't drink so much that I can't remember. I never used to. I never used 
to drink at all, except for a beer or two after work. I know that alcoholism is a big risk for
me, 'cause of Dad. So I made sure not to touch the hard stuff, only beer. 

When did it all go wrong? I'm not sure. I wish I knew. It was all so good and not that long 
ago either. I move slightly on the barstool, and a sudden twinge in my lower back reminds me. 
As if I could ever forget... but I almost did, that's the great thing about booze. It takes 
the pain away and helps me forget. But now my back aches so bad... I take a big gulp this time 
and try to ride out the waves of pain that wash over me... I moved just the tiniest bit wrong, 
and and it all come back, colored by the pain as my memories return full force. 

See, I didn't just work construction, I wasn't just your everyday grunt. Not me. No, I was a 
demolitions expert - and a damned good one at that. I knew what was needed for a job, how much, 
and most importantly of all, how to make sure that nobody got hurt. It was just damned bad luck 
that the one time I was asked to oversee another man's project, that I got hurt. The hell of it 
is, I had made it a rule never to take over someone else's job, but this was the same company 
who had apprenticed me, helped me through my journeyman days and made sure I found good reliable
contacts, when I started up my own company. What I didn't know was what nearly got me killed. 
The same guys that I had known and trusted were only figureheads now, with some first class 
thugs running the show for *their* employer.

I was too trusting, I guess. I'd heard rumors about how things had changed with my former boss, 
but I didn't believe them. If the old man had been running the show, those fucking goons would 
never have gotten their foot in the door, let alone taken over the company, but the old man had 
gotten sick and ended up in and out of the hospital, and his new CEO was the type that was all 
fancy degrees and diplomas and not a lick of street smarts. I *knew* that up front, and it kept 
me from taking the job. But then the old man called me personally, asking this favor, "for old
time's sake." So I went ahead and took it, figuring the old man was still in charge.

I went to the warehouse that day, to double check things before the explosions and make sure 
that everything was in place. I always did that--it was one of the first things the old man 
taught me: "Check things yourself--don't take anyone's word for it." So I guess that they 
decided it would be a good time to get rid of me. To this day, I don't know who it was that 
knocked me out. I went out cold, all alone in that big place and everyone assuming I was 
already outside in the control booth. 

With the sort of luck that is supposed to attend fools and usually doesn't, I managed to come 
to and stagger out of the building right as it blew. I was knocked off my feet, and when I 
fell, I could feel by the landing that I was in serious trouble. Everything went black then.

Luckily, there was an ambulance on stand-by. The doctors all told me I was lucky to be alive.  
Which I was, considering that I had walked into a trap that was meant to kill me. 

I was in the hospital for 2 weeks with a broken coccyx; I'd pulled a bunch of muscles and torn 
some ligaments, and, well, you name it. And of course I got a concussion out of the deal. It 
took a long time for me to heal up, but I never was quite the same after that. My back hurt 
all the time, and things that used to be easy for me got hard. It took over a year for me to
finally get a release from the doctors, and even now I still walk stiffly. There's a limp as 
well but you'd never notice it unless you were looking.

Of course, Cheli was right with me the whole time. Things were still good between us, even then. 
She settled right in and helped take care of me and not a word of complaint, never. I know 
I wasn't a very good patient but I don't think I was a total bastard either, while she 
helped me recover. She never said anything to me about it, anyway.  And let me tell you, 
Michelle can put me in my place good and proper, if she's a mind to. Of course back then, 
it was all so different. All so different...

I go to take another drink but the glass is full. I don't remember signaling the bartender 
for a refill, but maybe I did. I wonder just how many drinks I've had so far. I guess I should 
stop if I can't keep count. but hell, it doesn't matter. My back doesn't hurt anymore, that's 
one good thing.

I feel so trapped. Everything went bad all at once. First my accident, then my business went 
to shit, and Michelle needed rehab... Funny, I never realized she had a problem. I just thought 
she liked her drinks, same as me. We had some mighty fine parties, me and her. But she lost her 
job as well, and that meant she had to go into rehab, and by that time there was nothing left 
for us in Chicago, so we packed a bag and came here. I mean, how in the hell could things get 
any worse?

I sigh tiredly and rub my eyes. I need a place to crash and relax, but I can't do that in our 
room. Heh. Our *room*. Just another way of showing me what a failure I am. There's barely room 
for us; how in the fuck are we gonna deal with a kid on top of everything else? I was pissed 
at Michelle for getting pregnant. Yeah, yeah, I know. I should've been careful too. But shit, 
I've been faithful to her since we first met, and I know she's been the same. It just never 
crossed my mind. 'Sides, the doctors told us to be careful about birth control for those first 
couple of months--said that she needed to be sure things were going well. I sat in on the 
couples counseling sessions; they were real definite about me being there too. They told us 
all the options for birth control; the pills and patches and shots and implants, and the risks 
for all of them. Course, I could use condoms too, or we could be celibate for a time. Since we 
both had talked about kids *someday*, the rehab counselors felt the band-aid operations weren't 
viable. I told Michelle to decide what she wanted to do, and I'd support her decision. She 
liked the idea of the patches best, so I said ok. And like a fool I didn't bother using rubbers, 
figuring that with the patches we were safe. 

So we packed up everything and moved to NYC and guess what? No job. Not for either of us. I 
did everything I could think of to get back into construction, but the doors kept slamming in 
my face. To her credit, Michelle tried getting a good job as well but once they found out about 
her rehab, they never called her back. After about six weeks, I landed a job "telemarketing".
At least that was what the man called it. It was really, well, it was really something else 
all together. But I'll get to that in a minute.

First off, Michelle started getting sick. I was worried but she said it was just stress and 
all. I offered to find a clinic so she could get a check-up, but she refused to go. I 
should have made her go, I guess. But I didn't. Another failure on my part.

I'm wondering just how long I've been sitting here. I've lost all track of time. I bet Michelle 
is worried. I hate that. That's just what Dad used to do to Mom all the time. I always 
swore I'd never do that but here I am... drinking... again...

Well, anyway, Michelle finally admitted to me that she was pregnant. Damn, but I was mad about 
it. I still am, kinda. We need so much to care for a baby. I wanted her to have an abortion but 
she was out of the safety zone by the time she told me. I got to admit, I never guessed at all.
Cheli is slim, and she wasn't working, and she was just sort-of laying around all day wearing 
my shirts, so she hid it real well. 

Anyway, when I found out, I suggested that we put the baby up for adoption. She started 
screaming at me, calling me all sorts of foul names, and next thing I knew, well... it got 
ugly. But I didn't hit her then, I swear to god I never laid a finger on her. The bad stuff 
came later. Back then, it was all yelling and screaming. Then, I asked her to at least give 
the kid to one of our families to raise, but Cheli refused that as well. It was her body, and 
her decision and I was just... she made me feel so *dirty*, like I was just a piece of meat. 
That really hurt, you know? She had never even hinted at anything like that to me before. I 
couldn't believe it. Maybe some guys don't mind being used like that, but I do.

After all we'd been through, I'd thought she was different now. That she'd grown up some. 
I knew she'd been to college but she never finished her degree. Not because she was stupid 
or anything. It was that she forgot that her real major was social work and decided to go to 
every party and good time that she could. Less than a year later she lost her scholarship, 
dropped out of college and went to work. She was a good worker, always had good jobs, and if 
she liked to party--well, she wasn't too much different from all the other twenty-something 
women, was she?

So we were going to try and raise this poor kid in a one bedroom hotel. That didn't make me 
feel any better about things. It sure as hell didn't make me feel any better about myself. 
I'd only had one job offer in all the time we'd been in New York, and it was just grunge 
work--something that I'd passed on. But beggars can't be choosers you know. So I went and 
swallowed what remained of my pride and took the job. It wasn't much but hey at least it was 
money. And it paid the rent on that damned little room, which was something. 

I look at the glass in my hand and wonder just how much I had to drink. The bartender is 
looking at me with that oh-so-superior grin of his, like he's so damn much better than me. 
I guess maybe he is at that. But he doesn't look like he's going to refuse my money either, 
so maybe I haven't had too much. Yet. And he doesn't hesitate at cashing my paychecks either. 
I need to quit this, walk away and try and get my dignity back. But I don't think so. Not 
after this job. Not this one.

See, when I took the job I thought it was just telemarketing. Which... Jesus... talk about 
scutwork... it's the lowest you can get. Or so I thought. But I was wrong. God, how many more 
times am I gonna be wrong in my life? Anyway, the telemarketing was just a front for the real 
scam he was running, and that's what he wanted me for. He said that he liked my voice. and I 
thought he meant... I dunno,I thought I sounded like everybody else, but he just grinned in a 
funny sort of way and said I had a job anytime I wanted, no questions asked. Like a dummy, I 
never thought to ask him exactly what he meant by that. And that look he had--I've seen it 
before. But I just wasn't expecting it. Not here. And for sure not now.

So, anyway, I took the job. He said, 'Come back tonight'. I didn't like that much, but I 
figured I didn't have any good reason to refuse. Not since this was the only job offer I'd 
had since getting here. I went back to our room, to tell Cheli the good news. She was there, 
not doing anything, just napping there on the couch. God, but she looked so damn beautiful, 
and I felt almost like I did in the good old early days, when things were looking up for us, 
before all the bad shit started. I never was much for this introspection shit, but I really 
wished that things could start all over again for us and most especially for the baby.

Cheli was really happy, and for a few minutes I thought things were going to be ok after all. 
But then she started talking about all the stuff she wanted to get for the baby, and I got a 
cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. She was still living in that damned dream world and not 
even trying to focus on what we needed to do to start to get out of this damned mess. In that 
minute, I wished I had never seen her or been stupid to get myself tied down like this. But the 
feeling passed right away. I managed to scrounge enough spare change for the coffee machine 
(the skinflints charged for everything, no such thing as a freebie with them,) and hurried 
back to the office.

Looking back, I wish I had wired my family for enough money to get us out of New York. But 
I didn't. And that's a mistake that will probably haunt me for the rest of my life. If only 
I had known. If only...

I signal the bartender for another drink and he comes over. He's frowning at me, says that 
I've already had more than enough. Fuck him. It ain't like I'm driving--he's got nothing to 
worry about. He acts like he wants to argue, but I lean over and grab him by the shirt and 
tell him I want another drink, or he can godamn well give me my change. Which I know he ain't 
gonna do, 'cause he's been shortchanging me, thinking I was too drunk to notice. So he agrees 
but says it's the last one. Fine by me. I need to get back to my Cheli anyway, see that she's 
ok. I worry about her. I worry a lot.

I guess I've finished my last drink now, so I gather up my change and shove it in my pockets. 
When I stand up, I'm still pretty steady on my feet, and as I walk out of this damned bar I 
don't stagger hardly at all. I try and think how I am going to explain all this to my Cheli 
when I get home. I know she already spent my paycheck on a bunch of baby stuff she put on 
layaway somewhere, but that doesn't matter now. 

I've made my decision. I'm leaving her and the baby. They can go and stay with that bitch 
Connie--she'll take them in. She wanted Cheli to stay with her anyway. She never did think 
I was good enough for Cheli, not ever. And her being a cop, she can work the system to make 
sure that Cheli and the baby get the care that they need. A single mother can do lots better 
on her own getting help than if I stay here. Cause I know if I stay it's only going to get 
worse, not better. I think I got enough money to get a bus ticket back to Chicago. Or at least 
to get way the hell away from New York. This place is bad for me--for *us*--we should have 
never come here. But we did, and she can stay if she wants. I'm getting out while I still 
have a chance to rebuild my life. Maybe in a few months, I can even get a half-way decent 
place and send for Cheli and the baby.

But it won't happen here. I look around and see that I'm standing outside our hotel. I wish 
I didn't have to go back inside, but I do. Just this one last time, while I pack my stuff 
and walk away. Cheli ain't gonna like it, no way. She's gonna pitch a fit, and I'm just gonna 
have to deal somehow.

A cold breeze blows down the back of my neck, and I shiver. I think someone just walked over 
my grave. But that's just superstition. There's no such thing. So I pull my jacket tighter 
around me and walk inside the hotel.

Just one last time.



                                                  xxxTHE ENDxxx