Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 35

There was a jackhammer in his head. Sanford couldn't remember much about the night before, but after learning about himself, he realized he didn't want to. He remembered dropping Sadie off at home. Him not getting out of the car. Her looking back at him with concern. Then he came to where he was sitting outside of now: The Peekskill Pub.

He had gotten drunk—he'd known that much—in an attempt to paralyze his father, or whoever the killer was inside of him.

It could be Eric.

He had passed out in his van and realized how stupid that was. The police knew who he was by now, and they must've known his address, his license plate, and certainly his creepy van, which was a rolling billboard for who he was. The last thing he remembered was a shaky walk towards it, after stumbling off the wagon and out of the bar he was in.

Memories from the night fused in small meaningless chunks. First, it was the bar, dimly lit and poorly decorated with sports memorabilia. A football jersey from the New York Giants hung over the bar like a flag. The jukebox sat in the front by the kitchen door and spun Summertime by Janis Joplin. Sanford remembered sitting tucked away in the far corner of the rectangle bar; a fake potted plant sat next to him. Its plastic leaves dangled over his drink. Whiskey was on the menu, he remembered that as well; Whiskey and...?

Tequila.

The taste in his mouth made him want to vomit.

He'd been clean for six months, carrying around a chip for each milestone like a blue ribbon.

The barstools around him were filled with sweaty, overweight slobs. Fat hung over their seats. The air was warm like stale breath.

Why did I come here? That was the question he asked himself as he sat in that bar with his whiskey, barely aged a year.

The news on the TV in the corner of the bar had chimed in with a breaking report from the local world. Sanford heard his name and then saw his face plastered across the eighteen-inch screen. The anchorwoman, with her hair in a foot-tall perm, announced the lead suspect in the case that had a small city on edge.

And surprise, surprise, guess who?

He sat with his baseball cap on and pulled it down to his eyebrows, hoping the bartender—being the only one who actually looked him in the face—wouldn't notice the comparison to the madman that flashed on the screen. But he was preoccupied, as was the rest of his clientele on that gloomy Monday night.

"Sanford Crow," said one of the drunkards, barely able to sit on the stool. "What a dumb fuckin' name!"

The other drunks around him laughed and agreed. Even Sanford laughed. It was a dumb fucking name—a name his father bestowed on him, along with a few other unfavorable traits.

As he sat there, with his barely aged whiskey, he had a thought, or a fantasy more like. He pictured it as his last drink as a free man. It made perfect sense, only he wished it would've been a better whiskey; he bought what he could afford. Suicide was always his answer, but maybe getting caught on purpose was the best way for this to end. At least then he could still have a relationship with Sadie, through long, handwritten letters, and visitations through plexiglass. There's no death penalty in New York. He'd be locked away and left alone.

To do what, though?

I could write.

The daydream of sitting in a cell and writing his story slowly became intoxicating, morphing into another pipe dream. Without thinking any further, he took his hat off, brushed his hair back, and let his wild eyes shine.