High Beams

I ran the red light. Not what I normally do, granted, but today I was late. Late, late, for a very important date, I couldn’t help but think, out of habit from watching Alice in Wonderland forty million times in the past four years. I knew that if I didn’t hurry, Shirley would kill me. This month alone, I’d missed our son Liam’s Christmas pageant and a parent-teacher meeting Shirley asked me to attend. I couldn’t miss his fifth birthday party, too.

I was supposed to have picked the two of them up half an hour ago to bring them to Chuck E. Cheese, where fifteen other kindergarteners were waiting. Yesterday, when I promised my excited son I wouldn’t be late, Shirley had pulled me aside and said, “This is important to him, Jason.”

“I know that,” I grumbled. I hated when she told me what to do, what’s important. Three years of marriage had completely demolished any desire I might have had to sit back and let a woman control my life, and now that the divorce was official, I was happier. And, if you asked Shirl, just as unreliable as I’d been when we were married. I couldn’t even tell you how many times I promised Liam I’d try harder, do better, not let him down. He was still so little, but I could already tell he knew what I said was empty. I didn’t necessarily mean to lie to him. I have just always sucked at prioritizing.

I knew, if I didn’t get there quick, they’d leave without me. Shirley assured me of that, the day before. So I ran the damned red light.

Immediately a symphony of red and blue exploded behind me like a thousand angry firecrackers. I cursed loudly as the siren picked up, and obediently pulled over.

The cop sauntered up to my window. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked.

I hate when cops ask that question. Plus I was already pissed, sure that I’d let my kid down yet again, so I snapped, “No doubt you’re gonna tell me.”

The cop hesitated, then said, “You ran a red light back there. License and registration, please.”
I handed it to him without looking at his face. I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. “I’ll be right back with your ticket,” the cop said before walking away.

I looked at my watch. 5:43. The party had started thirteen minutes ago. I slammed my hands against the steering wheel, cursing again. Okay, so whatever. I’d buy Liam some new Hotwheels, a container of new Leggos. I’d take him to the zoo, the arcade, the movies, wherever he wanted to go. I’d make this up to him. No problem.

The cop came back and handed me my ticket. “You have a nice day,” he said, almost snidely, and it was all I could do to keep from flipping him off. I drove off again and was at a safe distance before I picked up speed. Out of spite, I flashed my headlights at the first car I passed, a blue Hummer H2, to warn him of the upcoming cop, feeling a bubble of vengeful glee as I did so. Take that, I thought, and continued on my way to Shirley’s.

Her car wasn’t in the driveway. I cursed for a third time in ten minutes, did a U-turn, and sped off towards Chuck E. Cheese. Maybe, if I was less than half an hour late, I could repair the damage with a single present or trip. Maybe Liam would be having so much fun right now, he would forget. Maybe, just maybe.

Naturally, traffic was backed up for a good mile before Chuck E. Cheese. I couldn’t believe my bad luck. Did the universe want Liam to hate me? “C’mon, c’mon,” I groaned, resisting the urge to honk and cuss. Whoever said patience was a virtue clearly didn’t have a son whose mistrust hung between them like a veil.

A good ten minutes later, the source of the back-up could be seen. A car accident, surrounded by police cruisers and a couple of ambulances. Both cars in question were so totaled, I couldn’t see how anybody could walk away from it, and morbid curiosity insisted that I slow down to look. What was left of a navy-colored Hummer had apparently T-boned a rusty Ford Taurus.
It suddenly felt like someone had reached down my throat, yanked out my heart, and forced me to swallow it. That piece-of-shit Taurus, even in its devastating state, was unmistakably Shirley’s piece-of-shit Taurus. I swerved over to park on the shoulder, and ripped myself from my car, hurrying closer to the accident, speechless…

“Sir, you can’t stop here,” a policeman said, holding out his hands. I paid no attention. Beyond him, I could see a policeman wrenching open the door of the Hummer. The driver spilled out, blood dripping down his face, but conscious. With him, a couple of empty beer bottles rolled out and shattered on the pavement. Paramedics were removing something from the backseat of the Taurus—a piece of me ripped away as I saw my little boy’s face. His eyes were closed, his body slack, and the look on the EMT’s face couldn’t be plainer. It was the undeniable, polished face of death, the flip-side of life’s coin. Just yards away, they were wheeling Shirley on a gurney. A paramedic was checking her pulse as they hurried to the ambulance, shaking his head.

The Reason.

The door to the bar swooshes open, and in stumbles a man who looks like he’s already had a few too many. With him rolls in a rush of cold air, like a cool sheet being flicked above you and settling down over your legs. You can’t help but roll your eyes at this man. Pathetic, you think, taking a gulp from the drink before you.

Of course, you’re here, alone. So who’s the pathetic one? There’s a reason why you’re alone—or maybe a thousand reasons—but does it matter? Being alone is like a brand on the flank of a cow. It’s there, despite why, despite how the cow feels about it.

Besides—and this is the really strange thing—you can’t remember, exactly, why you’re here alone. You know you’re pissed about something. You only ever go to bars when you’re angry. You usually remember why, though. Not tonight. You can’t remember where you were an hour ago, what you did this morning…you just have a burning desire for more beer. Which in itself probably accounts for your lack of memory. Oh well. As long as you keep drinking, who cares about the reason?

The drunk man looks blearily around the bar, sees you, comes over. His stride is uncontrolled, the signs of booze breaking it up, jerking it around; his hip lightly knocks against someone seated at a table. They curse at him, looking over their shoulder, but he pays no attention. At first you think maybe he’ll walk by, but no, he’s clearly making a beeline right for you. You grip your drink a little more tightly, setting your face into a scowl. Maybe if you look like you’re bad news, he’ll take the hint and back off.

No such luck.

“I gotta tell you the truth,” the man says, sinking into the seat beside you. You can’t help but be impressed with the way he just wilts.

“I doubt that,” you answer, not even looking at him.

He studies your face, eyes sunken. A bead of sweat trails down his temple, and he’s breathing a little hard, as if he ran to this bar. As if he’s been running, trying, for another life. There’s something distinctly familiar about the way his lips form his words, the way his hand rests on the table. Was he a client of yours, at one point, perhaps? Maybe you know him through your wife? God help you keep track of her friends…even now, you can’t remember a single one of their names…it even takes you a moment to remember your wife’s name. You set your drink down, thinking you should take it easy. For some reason, thinking about your wife makes you agitated, though you’re not sure why. Did you two have a fight? Is that why you came to this bar? It’s possible. It wouldn’t be the first time alcohol made you completely forget about an argument, so that the next day you acted like everything was fine while she gave you a mysterious silent treatment. Yeah. You should definitely take it easy.

“Listen,” the man says, concentrating to keep from slurring his words, and you look up again. You’d almost forgotten he was there. “It’s not what you think, man…you just gotta listen to me.”

You look around. The exit is directly behind him. You could just get up and leave, but who knows what this guy will do? He might reach out and punch you, for all you know. Besides, despite yourself, you’re curious. And it’s not like you can think of a better place to be. You’ll give him a chance. “Go on, then,” you grumble.

“Yesterday, I talked to her, you know? We just talked. It was okay, everything was okay, and we thought we’d go out to lunch together or something, you know?” the man says, rocking back and forth on his stool a little, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps rambling on as such, about a woman you don’t know and their lunch date. You zone out after a few minutes. Maybe this guy’s just drunk and lonely and needs someone to vent to. Hell, maybe he even thinks he knows you, owes you something. Maybe you’re nothing more than a pair of ears to him. So, what? You’ll humor him. After you order another beer, of course.

“…completely innocent,” the man is saying as you tune back in. “I swear. We weren’t planning nothing. Believe me, man. Please believe me.” He’s staring at you intently, pleadingly.

“Okay,” you answer flatly. “I believe you.”

He blinks. “You do?”

“’Course I do,” you respond.

He sits up a little taller, and continues, far more animatedly than before. Yeah, you think. He definitely just needs someone. Who doesn’t? Wouldn’t you grab at the chance to talk openly to someone, without fear or judgment? Maybe you should try stumbling into a random bar one day, drunk, and chatting up the first person you see. And, damn, the things you’d probably end up saying…you’d probably bear your soul. Confess to every wrong you’ve ever committed.

“And today, dude, I still wasn’t planning nothing,” the man says. “I just got up, showered, you know…thought about stopping by, just to say hey…I mean, hell, I’ve got a wife, kids, you know? I wasn’t gonna do nothing…but she answered the door in this sexy little shirt, hair all mussed up, and invited me in…”

Your interest peaks. This isn’t just some random story. This is getting juicy.

“And I regret it,” he rushes on, “man, I regret it so much. It was never supposed to happen. I…I just…” He runs a hand through his hair, which is dark and wild, messed up by a gust of wind. Or by cheating on his wife, you think. He’s stammering, grasping at the air for words, and finally says, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t apologize to me,” you say. “Talk to your wife about that.”

“But…” He looks confused. “You’re not mad?”

“I don’t even know you,” you tell him.

“What? Ethan…”

You freeze. “How do you know my name?” you ask, the question that preps your world to fall apart.

The man just stares, and suddenly has no more words.

Like a flash, realization hits you. You remember everything in a bright, vibrant explosion: walking along the sidewalk, shuffling through the slush, rummaging in your pockets for your key. Entering your house, seeing your wife, and this man—this man—the best man at your wedding, your best friend…how could you have forgotten? How can denial have blanketed you, blossomed around you, formed who you are and how you think…?

Denial breaks like glass. You watch as your fist lashes out, severing the delusion, pummeling the reason and connecting with betrayal’s jaw.