Part 5

The basement of St. Andrew’s Church had the too-bright phosphorescent bulbs that Fitz swore turned people into zombies. The rows of tables and stern metal chairs stood vigil in a mostly-empty room meant for the dozens smoking outside. When Louisville passed the smoking ban, one more thing went wrong in the lives of its drunks. Three percolators against the wall pumped thick, black coffee with a sound that reminded Hector of the thing living in his sink. It was one of the last warm days of autumn, but the coffee promised strength and comfort even if it came with a little unnecessary heat. It smelled great.

Hector slid into a chair near the percolators and nodded at the thin black man who did the same.

“Joseph,” he said.

“Hector.”

They shook.

“Hey,” said Joseph. “You’re one of Mike’s, right?”

“Hm?” Hector scratched at an armpit, tilting his head to the side.

“Mike’s your sponsor, right?”

“Oh. No. Friend of a friend of his.”

“Ah.” Joseph nodded solemnly.

“Why?”

He leaned forward in his chair, lowering his voice confidentially. “No one’s seen Ray for weeks. You know Ray?”

Hector nodded. And instead of picturing the man grinning with missing teeth, his trucker cap pulled low over his forehead, clad in flannel and denim as when he first met him, Hector pictured him kneeling in a pile of broken, green glass, his hands against an alley wall, weeping as an oily shadow-man put its fingers into his back and lovingly held his spine. That was Ray as he last saw him.

“Anyway,” Joseph continued. “We’ve been worried.”

“Damn right,” came a grating voice from behind. A vicelike grip landed like talons on Hector’s shoulders and squeezed in some sadist’s idea of a massage. “Need to get his ass back to the meetings. Just like you.”

Hector, still cringing, looked up into the mustachioed, balding head that smirked down at him. “Heya, Mike.”

“’Heya,’ nothing. You staying, or just here for the coffee?” Mike jerked out a chair, planted one foot in the seat, and posed like a superhero. Some men are just waiting to choke on their own virility.

“It’s warm outside.”

“Air conditioning, then.” When Hector nodded, Mike simply shook his head. “Try getting yourself a good t-shirt instead of wearing them sweatshirts all the time.” He snorted at himself, then frowned the next moment as he flipped his own “serious” switch. “Listen. I know you’re not one of us,” the one of us sounding pregnant and thick with the fraternity of Those Who Survive The Harrowing (i.e. alcoholics), “but you can still come more regular if you like. ‘The only requirement for membership—‘”

“’Is a desire to stay sober,’” Joseph and Hector finished.

“So sayeth the Big Book.” And Mike nodded as if the laws of science weren’t so true. “Anyway,” he said, sliding his footstool back in place, “I’d better go rustle up the folks outside. Nice seeing you, Hector.” He gave Hector a too-hard slap on the shoulder, turned to strut away, then turned back. “And if you see the Padre, you tell him to give me a call, okay?”

Hector would have reminded him that “the Padre” didn’t like to be called that anymore, but the man had already made his exit. Mike never did anything halfway.

“Who’s ‘Padre’?”

Hector turned back to Joseph, then glanced at the percolators. Still not done. “The friend. Of Mike and mine. Used to be Father Clancy. Now just Clancy.”

Joseph nodded somberly again. “Shame.”

“Yeah.” And thinking about Father Clancy only got him thinking about Ray again. About the greasy darkness that dared to imitate the silhouette of a man. About how its head tilted back in ecstasy as it milked Ray for all the misery he was worth. About watching the blood from Ray’s knees trace the sharp edges of the broken malt liquor bottles. “Happiness is fleeting.” He didn’t know why he said it out loud.

“Doesn’t have to be.” Joseph looked down at his lived-in crosstrainers.

Hector ran a hand through his dark mane, jerked out a tangle, and said, “Yeah, I think it does.”

Joseph lifted an eyebrow.

“If we weren’t always chasing happiness, we wouldn’t be doing anything at all. I mean, that’s the point of life, isn’t it?” Hector had spent the better part of his crazy years trying to explain himself. He got used to it. He leaned forward like Joseph, waving his hands like a magician’s misdirection. “Point of life used to be to procreate. That was happiness. Only now we want to live on through our ideas. We want to be remembered. Look,” he said, gesturing at Joseph, who sat up attentively. “Take our generation, for instance. You want kids?”

Joseph smirked. “I have kids. Two.”

“Not what I asked,” Hector said with a smirk of his own. “Do you want them?”

Joseph frowned, said “Go fuck yourself,” stood, and walked away without getting any coffee.