5/4/12

One Eye Opened
By Tim Tobin


Kate took my hand, just my index finger. Our precious little girl was just a year old and taking her first awkward steps. She would take two or three steps and plop down on her bottom. Then she would stretch her legs straight and try again. Same result. I knew she had to learn but I went to her, stooped and held out my hand. And this gentle, soft, and oh so tiny, hand grabbed my finger and pulled up. She stood and tried again. And when we took a walk, when she went up the stairs, when we crossed the street, when we went to the park, my hand was always there to protect and encourage.

She was around ten when holding Dad’s hand was no longer cool. Sure I understood but I missed the feel of my daughter’s hand. From then on a sophisticated young woman shook my hand with firmness and confidence. We shook on her graduation from high school, when she was accepted into college and when she graduated and when she got her first job. The touch of my child’s hand still stirred my heart.

***

“Sales and orders are down,” my boss explained.

“The economy is very bad. The board has made some tough choices. We are downsizing the company to avoid bankruptcy. Yes, some stores will close. Unfortunately, your store is one of them. Yes, yes, I know how long you’ve been with the company. And no, there are no openings in the other stores.”

I was fifty years old and out of work but I felt flush. My separation package was twenty-eight week’s pay, one for every year of service. I had unused vacation pay, my 401(K) and unemployment insurance. And my wife Marie was an Administrative Assistant. Her paycheck would pay for the groceries. We even took a family vacation with Kate. She asked if she could give us a hand. We declined.

My professional accomplishment could help a lot of companies. So, I mailed a hundred resumes. Not a single response.

I went to see a head hunter. Sure, he told me, I can find you a job for ten grand, up front. His office was full of middle age men reading want ads.

I called friends and acquaintances. Everyone understood. Everyone was polite. But no one could help.

Our nest egg dwindled quickly. No more vacations until I find something. We economized and slowed the burn rate. But everything went up. Gas, electric, Internet, phone, cell phones, groceries, fuel. We tried to refinance the house, lower the mortgage payment. With no income? Yeah, right.

We economized some more. We dropped the land line and fell back to dial-up Internet service. We switched to pre-paid cell phones. Marie could no longer chat with her mother and sister. Kate always called us. More offers of that helping hand that were declined.

I met a friend for a beer. He had been out of work for four years. Really tough he said. About seven pints later I staggered home. Lucky I didn’t kill anybody driving. Marie looked at me.

Booze turned out to be a big help. I couldn’t solve my problems so why think about them? Being drunk was a help to Marie too. She didn’t have to listen to me complain about how unfair life was, how bad that jerk in the White House is, how screwed up Congress is, what a joke my old company was.

Marie left one day. Went home to good old helping-hand Mom. I was welcome to come if I quit drinking. With my wife and mother-in-law? I’d rather be dead. Dead? Suicide? Don’t have the guts. Can’t think of a way without pain. No pain when I drink.

I hit sixty. Still two years to collect Social Security. Won’t be enough. 401(K) gone. House worthless. Me? Worthless. Can’t pay the mortgage. Dunning letters. No, the bank could not help me.

Foreclosed. Evicted. Lived in my car. Homeless. Sixty-years old.

Desperate, scared? You bet. So, the husband, father, mid-level manager, drunk and failure panhandled. Will work for food. That strategy was a success. Oh, sure. Will drink for tips was more like it.

My new home was a cardboard box with a stolen blanket. Winter was coming. Will probably freeze to death. Painless? Can’t wait.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow. All a drunken stupor. Eat? When I can rifle some garbage cans. My teeth? Rotten and falling out. Who needs teeth? I can gum garbage.

***

A voice. Far, far away. Go away. Don’t want to talk. Scram. Got a bottle?

“Dad?” the voice was nearer now. Just a drunken dream. Leave me alone! Please, just let me die.

More insistent, “Dad! Wake up.”

One eye opened. Kate. Seeing me like this. Smelling me like this. No, No, No. Please go way, please, please. My heart broke and my body convulsed. Water, on my lips. Can I have a little bit more, please? I’m sure I didn’t say it out loud. But there was more.

I sat and drank the water. My little girl was there, giving me a drink. How many times had I done that for her? She offered me new clothes. How may times had I dressed her? She handed me a real hamburger. How many times had I fed her baby food? I gummed the hamburger. My throat and my stomach burned like fire. Need a drink. Kate, please. Have you seen my bottle?

And then she stooped down to my eye level.

She smiled and offered her hand.

Decisions. Get up or wallow. I wanted to wallow. A drunken failure of a man, a husband, a father. If I stay, it will be cold soon. Freezing. Death. No pain.

Kate took my index finger and pulled. Her touch was gentle, soft. My baby, my daughter.

I stood.


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Mr. Tobin holds a degree in mathematics from LaSalle University. He retired five years ago from L-3 Communications after more than forty years as a project manager and software engineer. His speculative stories appear in Separate Worlds Magazine, Marco Polo, The Moustache Factor, Burial Day Books, Rainstorm Press and Micro Horror. His western stories and poetry appear on the Rope and Wire web site. Darkest Before The Dawn has published his crime stories.