The Safety Expert

by Doug Richardson

  “What was that...” said Ben.

  “Let’s get upstairs, Ben. Don’t want the girls to see you like this.”

  “Yeah, right...” Ben said, not sounding the least bit sauced. “Musta closed my eyes when... Sorry.”

  With that, Ben stood and gripped Alex’s hand and pulled her to him.

  “Bad timing,” said Alex.

  “Just wanted to say I love you, Sara.”

  Ben clutched Alex’s head, kissed her forehead, and walked with one sneaker on, one sneaker off, out of the kitchen and made a sharp left turn up the stairs.

  Sara?

  Drunk or not, Ben’s utterance made Alex’s sense of betrayal feel nearly complete. She didn’t follow him upstairs. Instead she paced the kitchen for five minutes, rummaged in the downstairs bathroom for a double dose of Excedrin, and chased the caplets with some Sunny D and the dry remnants of Ben’s burnt raisin toast.

  In those last hours before daylight, Alex made lunches, brewed coffee, weighed her marital options, plotted and replotted how and when she would eventually lock horns with Ben. But mostly observed and listened to the strange conversation that was produced from her sleeping husband’s dreams.

  “Go Stew,” was what Ben kept saying between fits and mumblings. Most of his words were indecipherable. But every so often, words would find articulation with both emphasis and subtext.

  “Props,” said Ben. “S’all just props. After Sara I mean…”

  “Move on... move on, move on! We’ve all moved on and on and on. But where we goin’, huh? Where’s it all supposed to lead...”

  “Wife’s a hottie. Not my wife. Your wife. Hot hot hot hottie...”

  “Ssshhhh. Alex don’t know about Sara and Sara sure as shit don’t know about Alex. I mean, really Stew. How the hell could she? Right? Right? I am right!”

  After that, Ben uttered a laugh so creepy, from a place so unholy, deep in his solar plexus, that it exhausted the very last lick of Alex’s curiosity. She unfolded herself from the chenille-covered chair and in a final tender act, quietly closed every shutter in the room before disappearing into the walk-in closet.

  All the while, Ben kept right on dreaming.

  And inside the dream nothing had really changed since his fifth Cadillac margarita. Not the time or the location or the characters. It was just Ben and Bob at the bar inside The Sham Rock. Only the roles are reversed. Ben pours while Bob consumes tumblers of liquor, paying with handfuls of crumpled cash. The conversation itself is abundantly genial, bordering on familiar. It’s as if Ben is having a chat with a long-lost pal. An old buddy who somewhere between shakers of lime juice, Triple Sec, and Jose Cuervo, morphs into a youngish Stew Raymo.

  “What’s with the margaritas?” asks Stew. “How ’bout one of those Ice Breakers?”

  “Sorry,” said Ben. “Don’t serve ’em anymore. Not since it was Prague ’88. And that was, jeez, how many restaurants ago?”

  “Gimme a Jack and Coke, then.”

  “Go Stew,” smiles Ben, mixing a quick cocktail for his friend then pouring the Cadillac margarita for himself. Tumbler, rocks, no salt.

  “You thinkin’ of drivin’ home, pal?” asks Stew.

  “Nope. You’re calling me a cab.”

  “That’s because driving wouldn’t be safe.”

  As if cued, each man points his index finger at the other and says in comic unison: “Safety first!”

  There follows a brief pause, after which both men explode into bellows of laughter. When it fades...

  “Okay, okay. If I call you a cab then you call me a cab,” says Stew.

  “How’s this? I’ll call us both a cab.”

  “Drink to that.”

  And they do. It’s presently as collegial as a frat beer-bonging race. Ben and Stew gulping their liquor until their glasses are dry, then slamming their tumblers on the bar.

  “Go Ben.”

  “Go Stew.”

  More laughter follows. Then as Ben shakes up fresh margaritas with his left and pours Stew a Jack and Coke with his right...

  “Hey. Where’d Bob go?” asks Stew.

  “Best friends come, best friends go,” says Ben.

  “You and Bob?”

  “Me and Sara.”

  “That’s right,” says Stew, revealing a hint of sorrow. “Man needs a best friend.”

  “Alex says if I want a best friend that I should get a dog.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “Allergies.”

  “Cats, too?”

  “Hate cats. You?”

  “Hate everybody.”

  “Well, that says it all, huh?”

  Stew raises his drink in a toast. Ben clinks glass with him. But this time, there are no laughs. There is no competition for either man to be first to the bottom of his glass.

  “I have an idea,” says Stew. “I could be your best friend. You could talk to me.”

  “Naw. You’ve got Pam,” says Ben.

  “Sure I do. But you ’n’ me. We got history.”

  “We do go back a ways, don’t we?”

  “Right here,” says Stew, his arms held out wide. “It all started right here.”

  “Was the Ice Breaker,” says Ben. “I did that, didn’t I?”

  “Shoulda never served me that drink.”

  “You were sick all the way back then, huh?”

  “Know what? You should come to a meeting with me.”

  “Alcoholics Anonymous?”

  “V.A.,” says Stew. “Victims Anonymous.”

  “You’re kidding me. There’s a twelve-step program for victims?”

  “Hey. If they got a twelve-step program for Trekkies. They got a twelve-step program for you, friend.”

  “I’m not a victim,” insists Ben, drink down, both arms braced against the bar and leaning.

  “Sure you’re not,” winks Stew.

  “I’m absolutely not,” insists Ben.

  “Get a good look at yourself lately?” grins Stew. “Makes me wonder what happened to the other guy.”

  Ben raises his right hand to examine his scraped fist, only to find a young man’s skin stretched over a neat row of pink knuckles. Next, he touches his face and gets no feedback from a single cranial nerve. His fingertips, though, report to his brain stem that he’s touching some kind of silicon mask—the kind employed by Hollywood makeup wizards. His nose feels crooked and these bloody, crusty welts have sprouted around his eye. Lastly, his fingers find his gums, discovering teeth so loose that a simple sneeze would send them to the floor like marbles spilling from a broken jar.

  And when Ben wheels to check his reflection in the mirror behind the shelves of liquor bottles, he screams at what he sees.

  Ben awoke from his nightmare to a bedroom cast in mostly grays. Following the relief that comes with the realization that the bad dream was just that—a bad dream—Ben lay in bed and stared at the ceiling until his eyes resumed their ability to focus. Tiny shafts of sunlight filtered through cracks in the shutters. Each one was closed. Unusual, thought Ben. Alex hated when the shutters were closed. She claimed it made the room feel claustrophobic. In fact the only time the shutters were ever shut was when Alex figured Ben needed the sleep.

  He could easily have remained still and returned to the dream. Not necessarily by sleeping. But analytically. That idea was erased the moment Ben moved his neck muscles in order to get a look at the clock on his nightstand. Whatever time it was, Ben didn’t care a whit after the chain reaction of pain that started at his left ear and radiated all the way down to his kneecaps. It was as if every joint in his body had turned cripplingly arthritic overnight. And his muscles, too. They ached from the seeming gallons of poison Ben had poured into himself the day and night before.

  “Christ,” Ben moaned, startling himself.

  Ben was unaccustomed to speaking aloud when there was nobody to hear but himself. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and forced himself upright. Any moment now, he thought. First, the pain would r
ush to his skull. And after, he would surely feel the need to puke. It would prove the perfect one-two punch, finishing with a haymaker of a hangover. And though it had been a good long while since Ben had punished himself so—years, in fact—the memory of what to expect remained as intact as his own name.

  So he waited.

  Surely, the pain in his skull was there. Yet it wasn’t anything compared to the soreness inside his body. Nor did the urge to puke come readily. That’s when Ben took some account of the day before. After he had purged himself completely in the men’s room at his office, he couldn’t recall eating anything whatsoever. Had he been drinking on an empty stomach? Usually, at such a moment Ben’s mind would instantly summon scores of esoteric safety trivia. Presently, the subject was: The Dangers of Drinking Too Much Alcohol; sub-header: Empty Stomach. But the best Ben could muster were snippets of some Swedish study... something about blood alcohol levels being inhibited by proteins, fats, and dense carbohydrates.

  “Blah blah blah...” said Ben to himself as if bored by his own obsessive recall.

  He stood slowly, allowing for the aching twinges to shift within him, re-radiate and suggest that a return to a horizontal position might prove more comfortable. Ben ignored his body’s better judgment, instead choosing to spy on what kind of day it was by peeling open one of the wooden louvers that covered the window above his bed. Through his protective squint, Ben registered a sunny, cloudless sky. Tilting his view downward, he caught a glimpse of the neighborhood mail carrier returning to the sidewalk via the driveway.

  “What the hell to do,” Ben said to himself, no more consigned to his next move than he had been the day before. Before turning away from the window, something made him look once more. And yes, just as his instinct had subconsciously confirmed only a split second earlier, Ben spotted his Volvo parked right next to Alex’s car.

  “Jesus, no,” said Ben. “No no no no no...”

  Ben thought back to yesterday morning. As if in fast-forward, he ran through everything until he was seated at the bar in The Sham Rock, chitter-chatting with Bob, ordering another shaker of margaritas and... blank. But for the lousy, ugly dream, every scintilla of memory, every etch, every sound, every thought, from the last “Go Bob” up to the second Ben awoke only moments ago... all of it appeared to have been erased.

  Blackout.

  He spun and looked at the clock. 11:52 A.M. Despite the clanging of thunder beneath his skullcap, Ben did the third grade math. Nineteen hours in the dark. Nineteen hours unsupported by any recollection. Sure, he had slept off some of it. But not all of it. Worst of all, he had driven drunk. Not just the legal definition of driving while intoxicated. That number was .08 percent of blood alcohol. As Ben stood at the bedroom window, his kidneys continuing to filter the poison in his veins, his bet was that he was still in violation. That meant at the time he had driven, whenever the hell that was, he was well beyond the law. Beyond inebriated.

  Shit-faced for sure.

  The thought of having driven so awfully drunk just added to the queasiness that resonated from his core.

  “Dumb fuck,” Ben said.

  What followed, though, was that oh-so-human feeling of relief after having dodged a deadly bullet. Luck had been, again, on his side.

  Ben forced himself to shower, shave, then dress, trying impossibly to organize his thoughts, let alone the next hour of his life. Working wasn’t an option with his brain on the back burner, so he would have to call Josie and make up another lame excuse for pushing meetings or canceling another factory walk-though. Most importantly, he had to find Alex and start his laundry list of mea culpas. Surely, she had seen him the night before, smelled him, possibly assisted him without his even remembering a lick of it. But Alex certainly wouldn’t forget. Not for a long time. If there was a marital doghouse, Ben had hammered his own out of splintered wood and furnished it with barbed wire and thorns.

  First things first. He needed food to protect his stomach lining from the fistful of Excedrin he desperately needed to wash back with a gallon of electrolyte-loaded Gatorade. Soon, the aches in his joints would marginally subside, the fuzz in his brain would evaporate, and options would appear.

  Ben’s plans lasted as long as it took for him to descend to the first landing above the front-door entry. There, standing at the bottom of the stairs was Alex, hair pulled back under a white fleece cap. She held a matching down parka. At her feet were two suitcases and a stuffed backpack. For a queasy moment, neither knew what to say.

  “You going somewhere?” croaked Ben, before rolling his eyes at the stupidity of his assumption. “Or maybe I should ask if I’m going somewhere?”

  “Van Gores just bought a place up in Mammoth. Invited us up for the weekend. Thought it would be a good idea to take the girls after school.”

  “It’s Tuesday,” said Ben.

  “They’ll bring their homework.”

  Ben squeezed the bridge of his nose. As if that could possibly quell the pain under his dome.

  “I owe you an apology,” began Ben.

  “Please. I really can’t right now.”

  “My cell phone got doused and I couldn’t call —”

  “Ben. I have something to say, so—”

  “I don’t know what you saw last night... or what I said. Just want you to know that I understand what a mistake I made—”

  “Please!” said Alex, her voice as sharp as a fresh axe. “I’ve been rehearsing this speech I’ve had. Over and over, Ben, okay? I really need to say this, so please...”

  Ben answered by holding his hands up in surrender and seating himself on the landing. He rested his bare feet on the steps, his elbows on his knees, and cradled his head in his hands.

  Alex took a deep breath, but didn’t move her feet from first position. Once a ballet dancer, always a ballet dancer, thought Ben, who used to marvel at how long Alex could stand, stock still, heels together, toes at ten and two o’clock. Her style was always about having more patience and steely resolve than just about anybody else.

  “You broke a promise, Ben. You broke the promise that you wouldn’t pursue this... this... sick agenda with this crazy man who you think did something—”

  “I don’t think, Alex. I know.”

  “Ben, please.”

  “He came to me, Alex, okay? My office! Okay?”

  “How’d he find you?” she said, voice full of rancor.

  “Don’t judge me,” said Ben. “You don’t have a goddamn clue what I’ve been through the last... months! Not to mention the last twenty-four freaking hours!”

  “I talked to Danny Dhue. You said you were going to see him. You promised to see him and get this under control—”

  “And what’s he gonna do?” asked Ben. “He’s gonna give me another exercise where I can learn to both contain myself and eat more shit.”

  “That’s what life is, Ben. Stuffing things and moving past them.”

  “And sometimes... sometimes you find out what’s behind you isn’t exactly over.”

  “What’s in the past needs to stay in the past.”

  “You know what? That sounds all well and cheery.”

  “It’s true.”

  “It’s a goddamn Hallmark card!”

  “Ben—”

  “Sometimes the past sneaks up behind you and kicks your ass. Ever think of that? Sometimes the past moves in right next door to you.”

  “I said, Ben—”

  “Or you find out the past is living thirty miles away, okay? Thirty fucking miles! He’s breathing the same air. Living it up while I’m welding another lid on another emotion which, in order to move on, is more shit I have to swallow.”

  Alex still hadn’t moved a millimeter.

  “Can I say what I’ve been waiting to say? Please?” asked Alex.

  “Right. Sure.”

  “It’s unsafe, Ben. All of this. Unsafe for you, your well-being. Unsafe for your family.” At last, Alex broke from her dancer’s pose and eased to the bottom
step. “Don’t you care about us? Your family? Or were we just props for you until you finally discovered that your past life is more important that your present?”

  “That part of your speech?”

  “Comes with a big finish. You want the big finish?”

  “Sure. Bring it.”

  “I’m taking the girls to Mammoth. We’ll be back Sunday night. That should give you enough time to gather what you need and get out.”

  “This is our house, Alex.”

  “It’s my house. In my name, paid for by my trust.”

  “Got a speech for the girls, too?”

  “They’ve already lost one father. Maybe, after you work out whatever you have to work out—maybe you can see them. I don’t deny they’re gonna want to see you. We’ll work something out as long as you’re not in jail.”

  “You talked to somebody, didn’t you?” Ben stood. “About yesterday. Who did you talk to?”

  “I’m leaving now.” Alex reached for the door and began to swing it open.

  “Hey,” complained Ben. “Don’t I get to make a speech?”

  She was already lifting the luggage when she stopped and twisted a quarter turn.

  “In fact,” said Ben, descending two steps. “It’s not a speech, really. Questions. Just a few. You can answer or not.”

  Alex shrugged, but didn’t release the handles of the suitcases.

  “First question,” said Ben as he lowered himself one more step. “Why don’t I have any close friends?”

  “I thought I was your friend.”

  “Male friends,” corrected Ben. “Guys have guy friends. They play cards. Smoke a few cigars. Tell sex jokes—”

  “Complain about their wives. Yes, guys. I don’t know, Ben. Never really cared for that kind of man. Maybe that’s why I liked you.”

  “Liked me. Right. That’s my second question. You liked me more than you ever loved me. Yes? Come on.”

  “Did you love Sara?”

  “Yes?”

  “And me?”

  “You first.”