An Advent Calendar - 19. Door#19 - Poem#2

Poem#2

Darlene Love’s Christmas is playing in the background. Andrei grips the glass so hard it hurts. He welcomes the pain. It tethers him to life, tells him it is good to feel. The whiskey though, the whiskey says ‘let go’, to drink himself into alluring numbness. One day at a time. That has been his mantra for over two years now—two years of being sober. When it all began, he thought it was just a phase, thought he could stop anytime he wanted, if he wanted; relied on Rue to make it right, and never, never faced the truth: I am an alcoholic.

Andrei’s other hand is clutching a crumpled sheet of paper—Poem#2— hidden in his coat pocket.

Baby,

Today I finally will go

To catch the train to—Idaho.

With dawn two hours yet away,

Baby, I really can no longer stay.

Honey,

I am the one, who hinders you,

Who stops you to admit what’s true.

I was an idiot, now you pay.

Honey, I really can no longer stay.

Darling,

Without me, you must take this road,

Let others help you bear the load.

They told me I am in your way,

Darling, I really can no longer stay.

Andrei,

I hope so much that this is right,

And it will make you start to fight

And if you still want me one day

Just call and I’ll come back, my love, Andrei.

I will never change my number.

When Andrei pushes the glass away, it’s with a little too much force, and some whisky dots the polished wood of the bar. Smiling sheepishly at the bartender, he quickly dabs it away with a napkin. The man takes the glass without a word, and pours the whiskey into the sink with an exaggerated flourish. “Another one?”

“No thanks.” Andrei gets his wallet out. “What do I owe you, Paul?”

“It’s on the house.” The bartender rinses the glass out, polishes it until it gleams, and then gives it back to Andrei. “When do you have to be at the train station?”

“In forty minutes.” Andrei grabs some more napkins, wraps them around the glass, and pockets it. “Thank you, Paul. For everything.” He looks around the bar. “I can’t believe you’re working here.”

“I’m where I’m needed.” They look at each other in understanding. “And…did your poet tell you where he went to?”

“Idaho.”

“Where?” Paul eyebrows are almost touching his hairline.

“Idaho.” Andrei grins. “Rue always said that when he drove around with no destination in mind.” Then he looks at his phone, hops from the barstool, lifts his hand in a short wave, and is out of the bar without looking back.

Darlene Love: Christmas