Dodger

by Dan Gallagher

14

  IT'S A REAL PAGE TURNER.

  I grip the paperback tightly and sit on the couch, wide eyed. I took some Pepto Bismol for my stomach and drank a cup of hot tea for my nerves, but the more I read the more I really only want one thing and that's a big old bottle of Jack Daniels to upend into my gullet.

  It's that bad.

  Not the writing. The writing is beautiful. The writing flows off the page. But what she wrote. God, what she's written.

  It's everything.

  The words I said, the words Kara said, the vernacular I used, the phrases I uttered. Even though our names are now Joe and Emily, anyone who knows anything about us will know it's us within ten pages. Loose representation, my ass.

  It's almost like she found a map of my brain and was able to navigate it like Lewis and Clark. She's the Sacajawea, the Captain Kirk, the Amerigo Vespucci of my head.

  And it's scary as shit.

  All the me dodging the bullet stuff is accurate. Colleen's cunning attempt to seduce me is spot on. The Good Day America interview might as well be verbatim. Even my limo ride home with Phil Jinx is documented.

  Wait, I never told her about that.

  What the hell?

  She's changed things around a bit as her character is now named Ellen and isn't a reporter but a random girl Joe meets at the bar and spills his guts to. After drinking and talking all night they proceed to her place to smoke some super terrific pot, and Joe gives birth to the fateful idea of Ellen pretending to be his girlfriend to make Emily jealous. She's slightly smitten with Joe so she agrees. They pass out, and Joe's none the wiser that Ellen likes him.

  It's a dandy little plot twist.

  The night at Snakepit, or Dungeon in the novel, Joe and Ellen succeed in making Emily jealous but instead of not hooking up they do and Joe is thrust into the middle of a good old fashioned love triangle. He deals with it by spilling more of his guts to Ellen.

  Lots more.

  Fuck me. She put in Brian Night.

  Holy shit. The night at the Pick Me Up.

  Oh no. Not the birthday calls.

  God help me.

  All the drinking and blasphemy and fucking and yelling and fighting and remorse and agony is captured in this little opus, a testament to the pain I went through, a diary of disaster, a play by play of poison. It's raw and emotional and powerful and makes me want to jump off a bridge. Did it really go down like this? Did I really behave like that? The self loathing and crying and acting like a spaz... was that really who I used to be? Wallowing and whining and feeling like a complete piece of shit? It all seems like a million years ago. And the drinking... my God. I was drunk all the time, drowning, dying. It's a miracle I'm sitting here at this moment.

  Reading this.

  Christ.

  Joe, the poor bastard, is torn between two girls whose names both start with E. Emily's the girl he's been gaga over for two years, and Ellen is a sympathetic soul who could be the savior he needs. Whatever will he do?

  Bang them both, of course.

  As art imitates life Emily gets ahold of Joe and of course, they hook up. Joe is torn even more as he tries to decide if he should tell Ellen.

  And of course, he doesn't.

  Instead, he gets drunk as shit and goes out in the neighborhood kicking over garbage cans and newspaper machines. A squad car rolls up and the cops draw their guns and they're about to take him out when one of them recognizes him as the Dodger. They take him home and even though he's belligerent and crying like a baby the cops let him off the hook. He's a hero. Duh.

  He evaluates things and decides to end it with Ellen. He calls her and spouts some crap about how Emily is his drug, oh wait I did say that, and how he'll never forgive himself if he doesn't see where it goes with her. Ellen understands... but tells Emily anyway. Not only that she and Joe had sex, but that the whole thing at Dungeon was an act. Emily's devastated.

  So in a gut wrenching scene that includes Joe using the good old phrase 'all my love turns to hate', she says she never wants to see him again and storms out. Now Joe's devastated, and he stays that way for months.

  Then June first rolls around. She had to keep it the first, didn't she? Alas, Joe gets hammered yet again on Emily's birthday, and initiates ye old drunk dial.

  Only this time, she answers.

  They meet, instantly reconnect on that magic level only they two know, and fall back in love once again. And that's how it ends. With Joe and Emily together. Me and Kara.

  The happy ending I always wanted, and actually got.

  I still want to marry her. And with ten thousand dollars, it'd be a lot easier.

  But this book... this book may cause a problem.

  I throw it across the room.

  Aside from champagne and the single dirty Martini I had last night, alcohol has not passed through these lips since my birthday in July... which is why I almost gag on impact as the cheap gin someone left in the freezer barges its way down my throat. I manage to hold it in, and celebrate with some more.

  Then dial Paiger.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Hemingway.”

  “Jim.”

  “Who else? That was some story, Paiger, I gotta say.”

  “So you liked it?”

  “Ha!” I swig again. “Yeah, I loved it. I especially love the part where you describe, in detail, the intimate conversations and moments that Kara and I shared... oh wait, that's the whole goddamn book! Jesus, Paige, how could you do this to me?!”

  “All right, just calm down. Have you been drinking?”

  “I just started!”

  “Well, stop. You've worked so hard to clean yourself up, and you'd be a fool to throw it all away over this.”

  “Over this?! You've ruined my life!”

  “Oh, I think that's a little dramatic.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. How is this, in any way, going to ruin your life?”

  I sigh. “Paige, what am I supposed to do... when Kara reads a book by you... about me and her?”

  There's a long pause before she asks, but she finally does.

  “Wait... you never told her?”

  I groan. And drink. “Of course not. Why would I tell her?”

  “Because you're in a relationship and the foundation of that should be honesty?”

  “Oh, whatever! You could've told her, and you didn't!”

  “No, but I wrote a book about it.”

  “Ahh! You're the devil, I swear to God!”

  “Jim, just tell her. And show her the book. You'll have the money and anonymity to soften the blow.”

  “She's gonna break up with me. Or at the very least, kill me.”

  Paiger sighs. “Look, she's going to find out soon enough. It'll be easier coming from you. And if she dumps you... well, you're too good for her, anyway.”

  I laugh. “Thanks, thanks a lot. That really, really helps.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “I'd be disappointed if you didn't.”

  “How did you remember everything, everything that I told you, while you were so goddamn wasted?”

  Another long pause. Then:

  “I wasn't wasted, Jim. I was faking.”

  Kaboom.

  “What?”

  “I wasn't drunk. For every two or three drinks you had, I had maybe one. If I was drinking rum and cokes, they were cokes. If it was beer, it was non alcoholic. If you saw me do a shot, it was probably water.”

  I sit back on the couch and tip the bottle. Almost gone. I stare at the remaining gin and suddenly realize how easy it was to just drink my life away, to surrender all hope of a normal existence and journey down the path of self destruction, to make booze the end all be all of everything. As long as I'm drunk I don't have to feel. It's easy breezy never having to care or be cared about.

  But then there were the times in between, when I was suspended in a balloon, when someone really special would enter my life and I'd chan
ge just like that. Joy wrapped around me and happiness ensued... only the longer I tried to make it last, the quicker Liquid Lucifer would return and ruin it. Ruin me. The joy couldn't last forever, they were just moments that passed. Eventually the balloon would pop and all the good air I sucked in would blow out and it's back to being me, back to where I started, back to yearning and burning and churning with disgust. New job new place new problems new life, a revolving door of guilt and shame, a to go order of heartbreak and agony. New friends new enemies new girls. New pain. Back to the bottom of the barrel, and the bottle. Whoever doesn't believe that humans are creatures of habit needs to have their fucking head examined.

  A year of sobriety is nothing compared to the twelve year love affair I've had with this potion, the magic elixir, my number one numbness enhancer and all around memory wiper. All the hurtful words I've laid upon my loved ones, all the damage I've done to my body, all the bike wrecks and skateboard spills, all the goddamn drunk dials. All forgotten with one tip of the bottle.

  It's good for what ails ya, yes indeed, and now that we're together again I can continue my downfall and fully fulfill my destiny of pain and loneliness.

  “Jim?”

  All thanks to Paiger.

  “Yeah, I'm here. Just... letting that sink in, I guess.”

  “I'm sorry. But I couldn't retain all the information if I was drinking. I needed to stay focused.”

  “Focused on getting me drunk so I'd spill my guts.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You used me.”

  “Well... of course I did. We used each other. Didn't you know, Dodger? That's how the world works.”

  And there it is.

  There goes the gin.

  “I want the money tonight.”

  “What?”

  “The ten grand. I want it tonight. I want it when I tell Kara. That's my only shot at keeping her around.”

  “You think she'll stay with you because of the money?”

  “You said it would work!”

  “I said it would help. But she's a woman, Jim. We're unpredictable when it comes to matters of the heart.”

  I nearly throw my phone across the room.

  “Fine,” I say, now tipsy enough to tip over myself. “But this is my call. I want the money. Tonight.”

  “Fine.”

  Beep. I sit up, exasperated.

  I need a cigarette.

  My walk to Walgreens is short but feels long as hell and I can't wait to get that sweet little filter between my lips. Marlboro Marlboro, wherefore art thou Marlboro? I tap the pack twice and unwrap it feverishly, lighting up with the desperation of a crackhead. Upon first inhale, I nearly cough both my lungs out. Rusty pipes. I try again and it's much smoother, and the nicotine settles back into my lungs sweetly, safely, sentimentally. I feel better.

  But what... do I do?

  I consider my grisly options. Tell Kara. Don't tell Kara. Talk to a lawyer. Don't talk to a lawyer. Take the money. Don't take the money. Kill Paiger. Don't kill Paiger.

  Hmm. Kill Paiger.

  I journey to the liquor store and pick up more alcohol and beers, all the way thinking about how good it would feel to wring Paiger's scrawny pretty little neck. No matter what I do or say Kara's going to leave me, for I've lied and lied and violated her trust beyond belief. Why didn't I just tell her the truth to begin with? Why did I think I could hide something that was so obviously meant to be known? And not just by Kara, but the whole world?

  I'm a fraud.

  I'm a louse.

  I'm a liar.

  I'm the Dodger.

  And soon enough, I'll be a murderer.