Reminders of Him

Carpe Diem.

---

CHAPTER TWO
LEDGER
I’m pulling my truck into the alley behind the bar when I notice the nail
polish still on the fingernails of my right hand. Shit. I forgot I played dress-
up with a four-year-old last night.
At least the purple matches my work shirt.
Roman is tossing bags of trash into the dumpster when I exit the truck.
He sees the gift sack in my hand and knows it’s for him, so he reaches for it.
“Let me guess. Coffee mug?” He peeks inside.
It’s a coffee mug. It always is.
He doesn’t say thank you. He never does.
We don’t acknowledge the sobriety these mugs symbolize, but I buy
him one every Friday. This is the ninety-sixth mug I’ve bought him.
I should probably stop because his apartment is full of coffee mugs,
but I’m too far in to give up now. He’s almost at one hundred weeks sober,
and I’ve been holding on to that one-hundredth-milestone mug for a while
now. It’s a Denver Broncos mug. His least favorite team.
Roman gestures toward the back door of the bar. “There’s a couple
inside harassing other customers. You might want to keep an eye on them.”
That’s odd. We don’t normally have to deal with unruly people this
early in the evening. It isn’t even six o’clock yet. “Where are they sitting?”
“Next to the jukebox.” His eyes fall to my hand. “Nice nails, man.”
“Right?” I hold up my hand and wiggle my fingers. “She did pretty
good for a four-year-old.”
I open the back door of the bar and am met with the grating sound of
my favorite song being slaughtered by Ugly Kid Joe through the
loudspeakers.
Surely not.

---

I walk through the kitchen and into the bar and immediately spot
them. They’re hunched over the jukebox. I quietly make my way over to
them and see she’s punching in the same four numbers again and again. I
look over their shoulders at the screen while they giggle like mischievous
children. “Cat’s in the Cradle” is set to play thirty-six times in a row.
I clear my throat. “You think this is funny? Forcing me to listen to the
same song for the next six hours?”
My father spins around when he hears my voice. “Ledger!” He pulls
me in for a hug. He smells like beer and motor oil. And limes, maybe? Are
they drunk?
My mother backs away from the jukebox. “We were trying to fix it.
We didn’t do this.”
“Sure, you didn’t.” I pull her in for a hug.
They never announce when they’re going to show up. They just
appear and stay a day or two or three and then head out in their RV again.
Their showing up drunk is new, though. I glance over my shoulder,
and Roman is behind the bar now. I point to my parents. “Did you do this to
them, or did they show up this way?”
Roman shrugs. “A little of both.”
“It’s our anniversary,” my mother says. “We’re celebrating.”
“I hope you guys didn’t drive here.”
“We didn’t,” my father says. “Our car is with the RV in the shop
getting routine maintenance, so we took a Lyft.” He pats my cheek.
“Wanted to see you, but we’ve been here two hours waiting for you to show
up, and now we’re leaving because we’re hungry.”
“This is why you should warn me before you drop into town. I have a
life.”
“Did you remember our anniversary?” my father asks.
“Slipped my mind. Sorry.”
“Told you,” he says to my mother. “Pay up, Robin.”
My mother reaches into her pocket and hands him a ten-dollar bill.
They bet on almost everything. My love life. Which holidays I’ll
remember. Every football game I’ve ever played. But I’m almost positive
they’ve just been passing the same ten-dollar bill back and forth for several
years.

---

My father holds up his empty glass and shakes it. “Get us a refill,
bartender.”
I take his glass. “How about an ice water?” I leave them at the jukebox
and make my way behind the bar.
I’m pouring two glasses of water when a girl walks into the bar
looking somewhat lost. She glances around the room like she’s never been
here before, and then when she notices an empty corner at the opposite end
of the bar, she makes a beeline for it.
I stare at her the entire time she’s walking through the bar. I stare at
her so hard I accidentally overfill the glasses and water goes everywhere. I
grab a towel and wipe up my mess. When I look at my mother, she’s
looking at the girl. Then at me. Then at the girl.
Shit. The last thing I need is for her to try to set me up with a
customer. She tries to play matchmaker plenty when she’s sober, so I can’t
imagine how bad the tendency might be after a few drinks. I need to get
them out of here.
I take the waters to them and then hand my mother my credit card.
“You guys should go down to Jake’s Steakhouse and have dinner on me.
Walk there so you can sober up on the way.”
“You are so nice.” She clutches at her chest dramatically and looks at
my father. “Benji, we did so well with him. Let’s go celebrate our parenting
with his credit card.”
“We did do well with him,” my father says in agreement. “We should
have more kids.”
“Menopause, honey. Remember when I hated you for an entire year?”
My mother grabs her purse, and they take the glasses of water with them as
they go.
“We should get rib eye since he’s paying,” my father mutters as they
walk away.
I release a sigh of relief and then make my way back to the bar. The
girl is tucked quietly into the corner, writing in a notebook. Roman isn’t
behind the bar right now, so I’m assuming no one has taken her order yet.