Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Eighteen - Ezra

Two missed calls from Dad. I see his name on my screen and it's all I can do to not call him back. Every part of me just wants to hear my father's voice. I want to be a kid again, sitting on his lap while he reminds me that everything's going to be okay with an affirming pat on the back of my neck and a gentle squeeze of my knee. Because telling yourself those things just isn't the same – we always know when we're lying.

I park in the lot outside The Drunken Sailor and turn my Honda off. The old junker barely works, but I got it for a fraction of what I sold my truck for. In the long run, the sacrifice was worth it. That is, if I can keep this car running long enough to make enough money to survive.

Stepping out of the car, I lock it behind me and meander inside. When I open the door, the icy evening wind slams into the bar with a howl.

I don't know if that bartender from the other night – Amy – is working tonight, but I hope she is. I could sure use a friendly face right about now.

Hand in my pocket, I finger the little bottle of pills – the only thing that keeps me sane. The only thing that keeps me alive, yet pulls me closer and closer to death every day.

Inside, the bar is abuzz. I sit down on one of the empty stools and scan the room for Amy. When I don't see her, my shoulders slump and I ask the bartender for a scotch on the rocks. He pours and I drink the whole thing in one fell swoop.

After an hour drinking in solitary silence, I start to think Amy isn't going to be here. Slapping a bill down on the bar, I turn to leave just as she bursts in through the door. I decide to stick around for a little while.

"Ezra!" she says when she sees me. "From the other night, right?"

I offer a smile. "Hey. Yeah. Didn't think I was gonna catch you today." Beneath the bar top, my knee bounces as the effects of the alcohol and pills kick in. Vision blurred, I blink and take in a slow breath.

She cocks an eyebrow as she takes someone else's order. "So, you just came here to see me?"

"Well, that and to enjoy the best scotch in Chicago." I raise the empty glass in mock salute.

Smiling, she grabs the bottle and tops me off. "We'll have to get a tab started for you."

I nod, drinking. "Sounds good to me."

"So, what's new?"

Clearing my throat, "Not much. Just performing here and there."

"Performing?"

"Guitar."

"Oh? Where at? Are you cheating on us with another bar?" She winks and I laugh.

"It's this really open place downtown. It's got a great view." I almost laugh at the ridiculous description. What would she think if I told her the truth? "You'd like it." I swallow the scotch, antsy and restless. Sweat beads on my forehead and I wonder if its nerves or the drugs in my system.

"Maybe I'll come see you play sometime." She smiles.

"I'd like that."

And this is me, digging myself a deeper hole than the one I'm already in. The things we do so we don't have to be alone.

A week on the streets and I'm already starting to look (and smell) like everyone else out here. I crave a good, hot shower. Then, out of the cold blue, I remember Elaine. She said she worked for this place – a shelter – called The Sanctuary. When I find it thanks to good ol' Google Maps, I wander in half-intoxicated by a mixture of painkillers and cheap beer, which makes it easy to ignore the humiliation of walking into the soup kitchen with my dirt-covered skin and unwashed clothes.