The Bourbon Buzz

He’s allowed to leave the base — even after his display, they don’t bother with a tail; he looks every inch the broken man that walked out of the hospital after they took his children away.

Leaving the taxi to get into a bar he’s never heard of, he takes a detour, and pulls out a disposable cellphone, leaving only a code as a message.

It’s a solid hour later when his phone rings, and by then, the bourbon buzz has him feeling thick and slow.


“You called me.”

“Nu-uh. My phone just rang. That was you.”

“You called me first. Had me call you back. Was it just to witness you being a fucking idiot?”

“I’m drunk.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Wait–wait. Wait.”


“Help me.”

“…excuse me?”

“Help me. Not for me. Not for me, man. Do it for her. You’ve got to help me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She had the babies. She had them. They were mine. They didn’t bother checking with me about the whole situation, and while she was on fertility drugs, she and I made love, and those little ones are mine, and I can’t do it anymore. I watched her fall in love with them. Please. God, please help me.”

“And you’re sure I won’t just hang up, call them, and tell them that you’re losing it?”

“You hate them, too. Please. Please.”

“Give me a little time. Don’t die in the meanwhile. I’ll be calling you.”


“I already said yes.”

“It’s too big to say once.”

“Fine. Finish getting drunk. When you wake up two days from now and you’re sober and not hungover, we’ll go over this again.”


“I’m hanging up now.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

The disconnect was loud enough to be a response all its own.

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