by Jason Banks
“Do you have the credit card you used for the reservation?”
“Yeah, I think I can handle that one,” Max admitted, reaching into his wallet to discover that his MasterCard was currently in the possession of his sister back in Colorado.
Max scowled. “Well daaammn-nnnngg it gosh darn it,” he swiftly corrected himself before another curse word would escape his angry wide-open trap. “Actually, no. My daughter took it from me this morning as a compromise for not contributing to the swear jar.”
The lady scoffed. “Hmmm. Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Hey, is there any other way to pull up my information?” Max pleaded. “I’ve really had an awful day.”
“So long as you haven’t forgotten the phone number you placed the reservation under, I suppose we aren’t completely without luck. But I do have to update your profile with a valid credit card that is on your person.”
Max willingly obliged. “Of course, thank you for understanding.”
While he relayed his phone number to the front desk employee named Barbara, Max slid his Delta AMEX SkyMiles card from its slot and pushed it across the marble counter top with two fingers.
Within minutes of refreshing his reservation profile with the hotel, the bellhop led Max up to his suite on the tenth floor. Once he slid his key-card into the handle, the door opened allowing a cool breeze from the crisp refrigerated air to welcome the surface of his perspired forehead. Upon walking in, the cozy atmosphere welcomed him inside as he tossed his suitcase onto a chair in a corner of the sitting area. Max tipped the bellhop with a ten-dollar bill and sent him on his way, before closing the door and shuffling to retrieve his iPad from the suitcase.
Max tapped through the screens to open his email on the tablet as he rested his butt on the edge of his large, comfortable mattress top. The message Melanie sent just ten minutes prior popped up first in the inbox and he pressed the attachment to open up an image of the letter from Bechtel and Associates. His blood began to boil progressively as each word sank into his brain—all the while trying to comprehend why the Baxter’s thought it was necessary to try taking away the only other gem of his life. A world without Lily was a universe Max did not want to consider. Upon reaching the end of reading the correspondence for himself, in a fit of rage, he let out a loud roar while forcefully chucking his iPad into the wall on the opposing side of his room. The device shattered on impact and small pieces of hardware dislodged from the now broken unit before it fell to the bronze carpeting.
He threw the palms of his hands into his face as he traipsed into the sitting area where he was greeted by the allure of a large variety of different hotel sized liquor bottles on the other side of the miniature fridge’s glass pane door. It was then when Max realized he forgot to ask the bellhop to remove all alcoholic beverages from his room before leaving. But since he was in such a pissy mood, and rightfully so, he completely forgot to take necessary precautions which would maintain his longstanding sobriety. The demons inside Max fought long and hard inside his conscience as he battled the dilemma of fancying a drink—or many—or calling his sponsor of the greater portion of a decade to talk it through. A slight hum escaped from behind the refrigeration unit as it switched on to maintain its constant cold temperature.
After the horrible news he was inundated with not even an hour ago, Max paced from one end of the room to the other, mumbling incoherent nonsense to himself with each step. The fact of the matter was, this was the first major temptation of easily accessible alcohol he was enticed by in three whole months—since the night of Brogan’s death. And he realized this was the first time he’d be able to consume it privately without the responsibilities of caring for a child at the same time. That very definition of parenthood swarmed the recesses of Max’s brain while fighting the urge to throw away all his hard-earned years of sobriety. Then out of nowhere, the notion of why Brogan’s parents deemed it necessary to fight over Lily’s custody became inherently clear to him. It was the fact of his alcoholism which made him appear to some as an irresponsible parent. He knew from experience that the subject of addiction, no matter how many years without a sip, remained a taboo subject to the masses. Since Max couldn’t even begin to fathom his life without Lily, it was this motivation he needed most to refrain from giving in and ruining the great strides he’d made after all those years.
***
“Hi, my name is Maxwell and I’m an alcoholic,” he announced to the moderate crowd gathered around in a circle.
The group greeted him in unison. “Hi, Maxwell.”
Max drew in a lengthy breath. “I suppose this may seem ridiculous, that I come to Seattle for some soul searching and a new place to call home, but then wind up in an AA meeting not but two hours after landing at Seattle-Tacoma Airport. But well, I got some bad news in the taxi on the way to my hotel and I checked in very distraught and distracted from my normal routine. I usually always request the bellhop or another hotel employee to remove all liquor from my room if there is any.”
He continued his spiel after pausing to sigh, resting his hand at the side of his head. “But this time I forgot, and I almost plunged from the wagon with all my dignity bursting at the seams. This has been the hardest year for me, the first one since I quit almost nine years ago. I married the man of my dreams, we had a kid, we traveled the world together when I wasn’t traveling it myself for business, he died three months ago, left me all alone with a seven-year-old autistic daughter. I know what some of you are thinking- spoiled pretty boy in his tailored Armani sport coat and Yves Saint Laurent jeans shouldn’t have a single thing to cry about. But you know what? Having money is one thing, but having a life is a completely different playing field. And in the end, we all suffer the same for those of us who used to take out our suffering on the bottle.”
Tears gently fell down his left cheek as he wiped them away with the corner of his turned-up palm. “Thanks for letting me share.”
After the meeting came to a wrap, Max approached the refreshments table to pour himself a cup of stale liquid caffeine. Next to the tall stainless-steel percolator was an assortment of baked goods ranging from cookies to brownies and surprisingly enough, French macarons. Taking one glance at the Parisian inspired treat, Max let out a thunderous scowl. Meanwhile, an average height gentleman wearing a violet gingham check shirt with thinning brown hair and bearish qualities came up from behind him, startling Max to no end—almost spilling his cup all over his white shirt.
“You know, I’ve never known anyone to come here for the shitty coffee,” the man snickered, reaching out to shake Max’s hand. “Hi, I’m Trevan.”
Max gasped. “Hi, I’m...”
Trevan smiled. “Maxwell... yeah I’d remember that name from anyone who could pull off an outfit of that caliber half as good as you do.”
“Well, okay thanks I guess?” Max replied.
Though he smiled in return, he wasn’t completely sure how to respond if it were sarcasm or genuine positive feedback. Was this the way people in Washington State treated others they didn’t know from Adam?
“You’re not alone, you know?” Trevan stated.
A look of confusion paled Max’s face. “I’m not alone in what way, exactly?”
“Having wealth and a whole list of problems, including the whole drinky-poo thing,” Trevan snarled.
“Well how refreshing, somebody who gets it,” Max offered back. “And you’d know this because...” he drew out the emphasis on his last word.
“Because I own every BMW-Volkswagen dealership on the west coast from Lynden to Carlsbad,” he affirmed, taking Max’s right hand to gently caress his palm. “And not only do I have a penchant for a well-aged scotch, if I’m not careful, I sometimes wake up to find myself twenty to thirty grand lighter in some overly priced Vegas digs.”
Max replied with an earnest look. “Ahhh, well then you have me beat by a mile. Gambling never was my thing.”
“Well what is your thing?” Trevan inquired w
ith a half grin forming deep within his dimples. “Perhaps it’s more than just substandard coffee? Somewhere like my buddy’s new line of Starbucks Reserve roasteries?”
“Wait, you’re friends with Howard Schultz?” Max replied, shocked as if he were in the presence of royalty.
Trevan nodded. “Mmmm pretty much, yeah,” he confirmed. “I suppose if I weren’t, I wouldn’t have putted a few holes with him every now and again. Or ever been invited to his fancy get-togethers every holiday season.”
“Wow, that’s really awesome,” Max admired. “He’s like one of my all-time idols in the business world. Second to that of Larry Page or Oprah, of course.”
“So what do you say we blow this popsicle stand and I take you for some real coffee?” Trevan offered with a wink.
Max shrugged his shoulders modestly. “It wouldn’t hurt any to replace this tin can tasting shit,” he laughed. “Besides, it’s better for us than Vodka.”
“True, but hey—at least Vodka is made of potatoes. Potatoes are vegetables. Vegetables are healthy, right?” Trevan smirked, taking Max by the arm to lead him outside.
Underneath a storm cloud cloaked sky, Max watched the man who was overtly trying to flirt with him minutes ago wrap up a text message on his mobile device. He was unsure of how he felt, being taken out on what Trevan would probably call for all intents-and-purposes—a date. But he knew it certainly beat the alternative of spinning madly into a downhill spiral of drunktown inside his hotel, while ordering anything deep fat fried or crispy from room service down below. Besides, there was a small part of him that welcomed a little greeting as he kicked off his trip in the greater Northwest. The lifestyle of Seattle folk seemed far opposite of what Max was generally accustomed to from both Denver, or the northern suburbs of Indianapolis.
“With that, Sir, my driver shall be peeling out from around the corner any minute now,” Trevan admitted.
“Your driver?” Max inquired.
“Oh yeah, I haven’t taken public transportation in at least five years,” he stated coyly. “Nothing so much as even an Uber or Lyft thingy.”
Max raised an eyebrow, impressed yet also sort of turned off by the smug snobbery. “Hmmm, then I guess I shouldn’t tell you how much I used to spend in Uber fees back in the day of my occupational adventures.”
“Oh it’s okay,” Trevan stated. “I don’t have anything against anyone for using them,” he rectified.
“Well that’s a relief. I was about to grow concerned about where some stranger was really taking me, if not a coffee shop,” Max retorted, motioning his hand across his forehead in a dramatic sigh of relief.
Trevan shook his two fingers in correction. “No, Sir. Coffee shop is underselling the experience you’re about to have. This is the original Starbucks Reserve and Tasting Room. It’s the creme-de-la-creme of all cafes on the Western seaboard,” he smiled. “Just you wait and see.”
“Oh for the love of God, that was terrific,” Trevan cried out, rolling onto his naked backside.
Maxwell agreed. “Wasn’t it, though?” he said, catching his breath.
While the both of them positioned in the bed to stare at each other straight in the face, Trevan reached for his sport coat to retrieve a rectangular silver container of sorts. As he tossed his blazer back onto the floor, a couple personal items flung freely from his side pocket and landed underneath a nightstand. He opened the end of the case to reveal four dark brown cigars and slid a thick match from the opposing slot.
“You’re gonna love this one,” Trevan insisted, igniting the match to light up both tobacco sticks.
“Oh yeah?” Max replied, taking hold of the first lit cigar with his curled fingers.
Trevan inhaled significantly while shaking the match to put it out. “You’ve never had a real Cuban before, have you?”
“I guess not,” Max chuckled. “I know, what kind of millionaire am I that I haven’t smoked a genuine cigar before, huh?”
“Your words, not mine,” Trevan bit back. “I’m just saying, these are practically fresh from Castro’s butthole itself.”
“Well since you put it that way, I guess it makes me feel so much better. I don’t typically like to give a gent a rim job,” Max said, choking on a plume of the heavy gray smoke. “At least not on the first date, that is.”
Maxwell took in a couple more puffs. “But I must admit, this is very smooth.”
As Trevan wrapped his free arm around Max’s bare torso, he took notice of the crumbled tablet a few feet down from a giant gash in the wall. “Well there goes your incidentals,” he laughed. “How in the hell did that happen?”
“You know when I told you about my horrible ex in-laws trying to take away my daughter?”
“After that fuck fest we just had,” Trevan began, inhaling another puff of his cigar, “I hardly remember your name at all,” he finished. Meanwhile, a gentle cloud of smoke exited his nostrils and danced across Maxwell’s face.
“Well, that’s why I almost lost my shit earlier and gave way to this suite’s mini bar to fuck up my progress.”
Trevan let out a sigh. “Yeah well, you don’t actually think any of us in AA haven’t slipped here and there, do you?”
“Actually, not me. No, not at all. Not in several years. My husband…” Max choked on those words. It had been several weeks, yet by force of habit, his brain failed to register the great loss and how he should appropriately refer to Brogan. He continued, “Brogan forced me to realize what path I was headed down and pretty much gave me the ultimatum that if I didn’t dry up my thirst, I wouldn’t be a part of his future, and I wouldn’t have our seven-year-old daughter in my life either.”
Maxwell handed Trevan the cigar and used his arms to prop himself up to his side of the hotel bed. He thought to himself and counted his lucky stars that he didn’t end up backsliding and ruining his perfect sobriety. That wouldn’t have boded well for his plans of relocating to the Washington coast with Lily, and perhaps Melanie if she would agree to begin a new chapter right along with them. It certainly wouldn’t look suitable for this ridiculous custody battle, for all intents and purposes—robbing him of the only other thing which connected Brogan’s soul to the physical world. It was bound to be an ugly case, especially since he already donned the whole, “recovering alcoholic” title. Who knew what judge would preside the fight against Brogan’s vengeful parents? He knew that was already a ding against him. It was part of the reality which he fought hard to swallow the previous day when Melanie broke the awful news once he arrived at the hotel.
Max raised to his feet and paced toward the adjoining bathroom.
“Where ya going, handsome?”
Max looked over his shoulders with a scowl. “Umm, to pee? Do you have any strong opinions about that too?”
As Maxwell finished his business at the shiny porcelain throne, he slid a pair of black designer briefs back around his waist. He splashed some cold water into his face from the ginormous marble sink. He glanced at the image of his refreshed visage in the mirror, but on the inside grew immensely disgusted at what he saw. Perhaps it was guilt, for this was the first time he’d slept with another man since Brogan, and not but a mere few months since his passing. But on the other side of the token, maybe his feelings were advising him to stay away from the dark path which may lead to screwing up several years of sobriety. Max pat-dried his face with a fresh towel and returned to the bed.
“Look, I have plans later and I have to get ready for them,” Maxwell said, outstretching his open hand. “I probably shouldn’t have done this in the first place. But I did,” he paused to take in a deep breath.
“And it was some of the best you’ve ever had,” Trevan interjected.
“And I really shouldn’t be around you. I mean you seem like a nice guy, but I can’t be around somebody with the mindset that backsliding back into the bottle is ever a viable option.”
“I didn’t say that,” the man with piercing brown eyes said in his defense, starting to p
ush himself up off the bed. “I said that everybody relapses.”
It took everything inside him to keep from bursting out in a fit of rage at the man who would be summed up as a mistaken one-night stand. Maxwell drew another deep breath as he paced around to the side of the bed Trevan was occupying. He lifted the man’s plain tan chinos off the carpet where he saw two objects which must have fallen from one of Trevan’s pockets. The first appeared to be plastic photo sleeves which go inside a wallet, front facing with a photograph of a tall brunette woman, two children of varying ages and man standing alongside— which if not Trevan himself was an identical clone of some sort. No matter how incriminating the photograph was, the yellow gold wedding band was sure to confirm Max’s immediate suspicions that he’d invited the wrong company into his life. No defined number of breaths could then keep Max from spewing his real emotions then.
“You’re fucking straight?” Max bellowed throughout the entire hotel suite, hopefully confined by soundproof walls.
Trevan appeared to fake his response. “Ummm, no. What makes you say that?” He said, raising both arms above his waist.
The anger inside Max made him want to shoot flames from his nostrils. As his face changed shades to that of a red pear, he scooped the items from the floor and flashed the evidence in the man’s face. “And married to… to a woman?”
“I can explain, it’s not what it seems man.”
Max scoffed, revealing the ring in between his thumb and forefinger. “It seems pretty clear to me, so I’m just some fuck-boy you were planning to use by cheating on your wife with?” He chucked Trevan’s implicating possessions across the room so hard, they landed on the cobalt suede couch in the suite’s sitting area. “Is this some kind of sick joke to you?”
Trevan attempted to speak in his defense, but Maxwell was still foaming at the mouth, if he were a canine, he’d clearly prove rabid.
“No, no, no, ohhh no sir, you don’t get to speak. You know what?” Max continued, pointing his free hand in the direction of the main door. “You do, however, have the liberty of getting the fuck out of here and never showing your face in front of mine ever again.” He instructed, shoving his other occupied fist holding the pants, into the man’s bare chest. “If I am in public and you see me, you’d better find yourself out of my line of sight very quickly. Because if I see you ever again, I will kick your ass into the next Sunday.”