Nick Hassan

Jim works hard. He is trying to provide, and he does everything in his power to ensure that his family can live the lives they want to live. So if he wants to have a drink when he gets home dammit, he should be allowed to. After all, he is on his feet all day with nothing to look forward to. He wakes up early just so he has time to stare at the ceiling and contemplate the steel mill he used to work at. When he was doing something he was good at, doing something that was going somewhere, just working hard, using his hands. Then the motherfuckers up and moved to China. Leaving him with nothing but his thumb up his ass, selling cars to people who can’t afford them, scamming them, really. He stares into the popcorn ceiling that inches further and further down every night from the water, until it inevitably crushes him and his wife in their sleep, “I should really do something about that,” he thinks to himself before slipping out of bed to face the cold air of his room.

He pokes at the baby. This defenseless little guy, he’s wrapped in a plaid blanket with a shock of jet black hair falling from his small head like little spaghetti noodles, and he squirms and giggles every time they see each other. He tried out some of his new jokes and games, and each one was returned by beaming, toothless smiles and sharp, beautiful laughs. He's heard stories from his buddies about how their babies never seemed happy with them, always crying till they are back with their mothers, but something about this kid and him it's like they just can’t get enough of each other. He remembers how scared he was after the kid was born, before he had a name. He looked like a little alien. His skin was all green and purple, he almost dropped his camera till the doctor said everything was ok. He looked down at the baby sitting in his crib one last time before he left for work, and he felt a love so strong that no power on earth could separate it, and he was so glad that this little angel shared his name.

He gets out of his truck, and he can hear the baby crying upstairs. He can smell food in the stove beans, beef, tomato. Is she making chili?! He's so excited to see them, but first, he just has to get that first drink in him. One quick drink in the basement before they see him. Something to balance him out, to fix that damn hitch in his step because it’s too heavy, too empty, too dull, and it’s been driving him crazy all day. The baby shouldn’t have to see him like that. That baby's little head should only see smiles. He smiles at the thought. The basement air is cool and light. He walks softly past the converted apartment that used to house his mom when she lost her house. There is still leftover yarn, half-done blankets, and hats strewn across the floor and over the couch. The freezer smells of old meat and other processed garbage. He grabs the bottle, cool vapor swirls around it even in the damp basement, it feels good in his hand, he pours one shot of tequila, and he puts it down smooth and warm.

One drink down, now he’s warm and calm, and the colors are vibrant again. He goes upstairs, the kids are playing with the dog. It’s cute, he loves them so very much. The dog is so much bigger than them but they’ve never been safer. She’s gentle with them. She's always been gentle. There's something deep in her eyes, something more than love or care or intelligence, something deep in her soul that connects and bonds with these kids. I hope it doesn't break them too hard when she goes. There's a part of him that feels the kids drift away from him when he has to discipline the dog. But she has to be disciplined, dammit, how else will she learn, and it's his job as the father to discipline. So he does. If only she knew how to shut up at night, he thinks to himself and chuckles. The kids ask him to join, but his knees ache, and the noise of it all makes his heart thump. He needs to balance out. He goes into the kitchen, his wife is glad to see him. She gives him a hug and a kiss. She looks at him quizzically. Damn, he should have known better than that kiss, she knows about the first drink. She shrinks him with her eyes, with that look, and suddenly the food on the stove does not feel earned.

Time for drink number two! Mixed with juice it loosens his shoulders and makes him feel right just in time for hitting the couch and seeing what’s going on with Facebook, and Pawnstars, and Storage Wars, and Counting Cars, and American Pickers, and Antique Roadshow. He considers the idea that he might finish fixing the dryer, replacing carpet he ripped up after the basement flooded, shit, maybe he’ll even put up the curtains he got his wife for her birthday, and then the boys burst into the room, they’re wearing a jersey of some kind, maybe baseball, maybe soccer. They’re being reckless, they’re gonna break something of his if they keep acting up like this. Probably his tv knowing his luck. His wife follows shortly after she’s got two handfuls of groceries, and she looks tired. He thinks about helping her, but he really did just sit down, and his leg hurts so bad from that fucking fall a couple years ago. He’s getting old, the stairs are harder to climb everyday, and work has been slow. That empty feeling starts to creep in right as he finishes his drink, he stands, being careful to avoid his bad leg, and he makes his way to drink number three. He feels heavier for some reason.

Orange and purple light splashes through the heavy curtains and onto the beige rugs that certainly used to be closer to white. The scene would be something to behold if it weren't putting a mutherfuckin 'glare on his tv. He shuffles over to the window and sees the setting sun as he pulls the curtains together, filling the space once again with peaceful darkness.” Great!” He thinks. “Tomorrow approaches, and my endlessly nagging days can continue.” His family is mad at him, but he can’t remember why. It feels like he hasn’t talked to his youngest in a week, not since the boy tried to hit his mom. He had to come down on the kid pretty hard after that. How did he raise such an asshole? He wondered. His kid even had the nerve to say she was just being dramatic, and while she can be pretty dramatic, she’d have been furious with him if he didn't punish the boy. Oh well, the couch calls, maybe he will talk to his son tomorrow. He sits down in the recliner, his wife is playing that game on her phone, and she seems pretty invested. He can’t decide if it’s because she’s ignoring him or not, but he comes to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter all that much. He has a real problem with those games and the rat bastards who made them. They're pulling his wife away from him. He starts his show again. Time to try to squeeze some joy out of today. The lines on his hands and face smooth out as he drinks. He notices the hard lines of the entire world stretch and bend into cool flattened curves; he admires the subtle softness of the world. Then the noise of speech turns the lines into squiggles running up and down the wall and all through the carpet, ruining the beautiful tapestry he was looking at and leaving him like he was nothing more than a squiggle among the ugly crowd. He doesn't know who spoke or what was said, but deep in his bones, he resents them.

He doesn’t remember finishing drink four, but here he is making drink number five. He realizes he hasn’t eaten anything today, and he begins to search for a snack. He finds some ice cream and is suddenly aware of his gut, which popped up out of nowhere over the last couple years. The kids are playing a board game of some kind with their girlfriends at the table, it’s cute. He loves them so very much and is happy to see them all having a good time. He must have said something, though, because suddenly both of his kids looked quite embarrassed. He chuckles to himself and walks back to the tv room. His wife smiles at him; she looks older than he remembers, but he decides not to share that thought, and they watch their show together with the crickets chirping in the distance. He’s so warm and so happy. This is what it’s all about, this is what he wastes away at work for 60 hours a week for. God is it worth it.

Drink number six is beer now. Tastes like shit makes him feel like shit, but god is it manly, he laughs hard at that one, so hard it echoes back to him. For a moment he is horrified. Is his house empty? His kids don’t live there anymore, and they never visit, but they’re busy, and they’re working hard at school. He's proud of them, but his house shouldn’t be empty, right? He shouldn't be alone, right? The blue tiled walls of the kitchen start to buzz with an electric energy, and the tiles morph into a mosaic whose beauty mocks him. As he digs through the fridge, he can feel its eyes or its energy burning into his back, shaming him as his wife's eyes do. His wife should be here. She promised she would always be here in sickness and health and all that other shit, she swore. Where is she? His heart starts to pound, his breath shortens. Then he hears the garage door open. Right, she went out with friends from work, and now she’s home. She comes up the stairs, he gives her a big kiss, and asks about her day. Long and boring and hard as always, she seems impassioned by her night out. She's telling him about how she’s gonna change the world. He takes the responsibility of reminding her that what she’s saying is impossible and that she should learn to enjoy the life she has, like he does, and that she shouldn’t have to work so hard. She tells him that he doesn’t enjoy his life, he's just drunk. That hurt him. He doesn't know how to tell her that, so he just walks away, hurt.

Drink number seven. He doesn’t even know what he’s drinking anymore. He needs to get to bed soon. It’s quite dark in the house, the only light being the blue glow of the tv. It smells like trash and bile. He stumbles to the switch and flicks on the lights. He sees his large house, it has nothing in it but a recliner and a TV. It makes the room feel cavernous. Mountains of unfinished arguments on the edge of the horizon. Trash, empty cans, and cigarette butts spread across the fields, and a dark black thick liquid fills the reservoir. Nothing good remains, just the caverns, the scapes, the planets, the universe of his empty house. He wanders the remains of his house, and he can hear the babies crying, he can see the kids playing with the dog, he can smell the food on the stove, he can still feel his wife’s kiss on his lips, and while the memories fade, they are replaced with a haze of thoughts. He can see each and every member of his family leaving for the last time. The last person to leave him was his oldest son, who claimed he was trying to help him, bullshit, he didn't need any damn help, who the hell does that kid think he is? Doesn't he know how much was given up on his behalf. It would do him well to be fucking grateful every once in a while. His wife will never come home again. He bursts into tears, something he used to never let himself do, and now something he can never seem to stop. Thank god he won’t remember this tomorrow, he doesn’t have any room for more shame. He stumbles back to his chair, he sits, and he falls asleep.

His eyes snap open. Suddenly, he is making direct eye contact with me, it is 7:00 A.M., he speaks

All I ever wanted was to make you happy, to make your life easier than mine ever was. I gave up everything for you. I worked my life away on a shit job that meant nothing to me because you were my passion and my purpose. Please come back. Come home? I know I was distant. I know that hurt you, but I can be better.

I just didn’t know how to talk to you after a certain point. I didn’t think there’d ever be a day that I was hesitant to talk to you. I never imagined that my being afraid to talk would include talking to you. I thought you would be just like me, but you're not, you're so much more than I could have ever been, and I’m so proud of that, but it scared me, and I ran from it, and I’m sorry.

I had completed everything I ever needed to do in this world. You were my purpose, my family, but I was so busy taking care of things for you that I never got to know you. I was content to die knowing that I had set you up for your future. And in that feeling I slipped away and I left you and I’m sorry. I will be better because, I love you so very much, and I just want to get to know you again. I'm so excited to hear your story and to tell you mine. I was content to die surrounded by you. I don’t think I can do it alone. I’m ready to be your dad if you’ll let me.