Page 90 of Emmett
“Okay,” I finally concede, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my dirtied pants.
Without further argument, I follow the orderly to the elevator and step inside, letting it take me away from the only place I actually want to be right now. He’s alive, and I have to let that be enough.
I sit in my car, not bothering to turn it on or to run the heat. Instead, I just stare at the building, watching the comings and goings of the people inside – including the Texan. I’m not sure how long I sit there, staring. Long enough that I begin to feel a chill and I finally remember that I no longer have my sweater with me. It’s on the street outside of a shitty bar where no one can be bothered to help someone when he’s fuckingdyingin front of them.
As if on instinct, my hand grips the gear shift and I push the car into drive as I peel out of the parking lot.
•
Al’s Bar isn’t more than ten minutes from the hospital – though I sped back here nearly as much as I did on the way to the hospital.
It’s a run-down building; small, the only signage reading ‘BAR’ in flickering neon lights, with another lit sign below it indicating that the business is still open. The single window at the front is caked with dirt around the edges as if it hasn’t been cleaned in years, and there are only a few cars parked along the sidewalk, leading me to assume that most patrons either walk here or take a cab.
Among the row of cars sits a white Silverado with the Texan standing at its side, reaching into the bed of the truck.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him as I approach.
Pulling a nine-iron from a caddy bag with a loud sniff and a clearing of his throat, he tells me plainly, “I’m gonna fuck up an old guy’s bar. The fuck areyoudoin’ here?”
“I came to ‘fuck up’ the old guy, I suppose,” I shrug.
He considers for a moment, turning the club over in his hands. He hands it to me with a firm nod. “Alright, then.”
Giving the club a few practice swings while he pulls another from the bag in his truck, I follow the cowboy toward the nearly-empty bar, letting both my rage and my fear simmer beneath my skin.
As the Texan’s club makes contact with the glass door, shattering it, I follow suit, taking aim at the dirty window next to it. The long-forgotten memory of my mother and sister singingAve Mariaplays through my mind as we enter the bar together, swinging our clubs across the table tops, sending glass and melted candles flying across the room. A prayer that I’ve recited both in song and desperation more times than Iwould ever be able to count. The last prayer that I recited before I was loaded into my father’s SUV and left on my grandparents’ doorstep.
The Texan vaults behind the bar to smash the bottles behind it while the building’s owner, Al, cowers near a wall. Swinging the club above my head, I make contact with the light fixtures, bringing a few of the rusted ones to the ground. As they fall, I abandon the club, picking up a chair instead to hurl it across the bar. The Texan shouts obscenities as he raises his foot to kick the beer taps, knocking them out of place.
By the time we’ve finished, both of our clubs are broken and discarded on the floor. Shattered glass crunches beneath our feet, covering nearly every square inch of the floor. Tables and chairs have been snapped and splintered. The wall of bottles behind the bar has been shattered in its entirety and the owner has run off, along with any patrons that remained when we entered the building.
The two of us silently step out of the bar into the freezing night air, heading back toward our vehicles with heavy breaths and our appearances disheveled. The cowboy turns to face me with a curl of his lip. “I still don’t fuckin’ like you.”
“The feeling is mutual, brute.”
A chime sings from his pocket and he reaches for his phone to check the message that came in. “Shit.” He hurries toward the cab of his truck, pulling open the door and climbing inside. “Listen,” he says to me, hanging his elbow out of his window, “you give a shit about the kid?”
“I do.”
“Then leave him the fuck alone.”
With that, his tires squeal against the asphalt as he tears away from the bar at a speed that brings a cold sweat to the back of my neck.
I move to sit on the ground, resting against the side of my car as I stare at the destruction that I helped to create; an accurate depiction of the wreckage left inside of me.
THIRTY-SIX
Emmett
10 years old
“And the birthday boy gets a strike!” Dad shouts, holding his hand up for me to high-five him. My palm smacks against his with a loud clap and he pulls his hand away to grab me another slice of pepperoni pizza. “Are you cheating?”
“Uh-uh,” I say with a hard shake of my head as I stuff the end of the pizza into my mouth, “I swear!”
“I think he’s lyin’,” Uncle Davis says as he drops back into his seat, resting his leg out in front of him. “Hang him upside down and tickle him ‘til he pukes.”
“No!” I laugh. “I’m not lying!” From behind my dad, I can see the last of my friends leaving, and it’s starting to get dark outside, but I don’t want my party to be over. I put down my pizza on top of the table next to my dad and I grab onto his hands, bouncing up and down. “Can we stay for one more game? Pleeeeease?”