It always hit like a rogue wave of pure, unflinching emotion in the morning. It was usually Larry Cook's first response to grab the bottle, and now, without that trick in the wheelhouse, Larry truly felt dead in the water. Jack's death had brought it all to a head. He was years younger and seemingly had his shit together; but here he was, dead as a doornail, and Larry was still very much alive.
He didn't miss the bastard as a deckhand—if that's what you could call him. Jack had always lived more in his head, even before the writing connected. But he continually washed his troubles away with his concerns one too many a time and left this overrated party far too soon.
Was it suicide? What did it truly matter? He was fucking dead, and as Larry walked into the dingy kitchen the sight of that ballcap upon the cluttered kitchen table was enough to flood the momentary waterworks.
Larry hadn't quit drinking because he desired to collect stupid slaps on the back or plastic chips. He just knew at this moment, after his roommate’s sudden departure, he just might be so inclined to take the quick ticket out of this shitstorm with him.
Larry reflected upon all the shit he would rather forget as he went into his old and only true friend’s room. He viewed that clusterfuck of a desk where many a night his friend had spent endless hours listening to music, typing away like the madman people envisioned him to be.
"You know, dude, they say the definition of insanity is doing something a hundred times and expecting a different result,” Jack had said between the bourbon and Cokes. “Well, writers do something half of their existence just in hope for that one acceptance that changes everything. That seldom, if ever, happens. We aren't simply the definition, we are the goddamned archetype."
There was always a sadness within Jack’s damned words that Larry could never stand and that is why, although friends for way too many years, he could not bring himself to read those words. The page lay there upon the computer screen, untouched as the day Larry found him slumped over in his old chair.
There Are No Fish Left In The Sea.
So, I guess I will call it a day, go sit at my station at the bar.
Watching the sunset and wishing I wasn't chasing down memories instead of spending it with you.
It's another chapter's close and another pathetic goodbye.
I’d rather have found happiness than publication.
A blowjob beats a papercut any day of the week.
Larry read the lines and had to laugh, for Byron his friend was not.
The picture of that venomous bitch sat smiling at him. You could take a room full of women, and old Jack would most certainly find the worst and most insane of the lot by default. And Liv was certainly the worst. Larry had to bear witness as she destroyed all that was left of Jack. Because, unlike the rest, she was the cruelest; for she gave that most wicked delusion of hope.
Jack penned his best work about her and, ultimately, he would document his demise. She was a whirlwind of trouble as she took joy in breaking others. And Jack, despite his ultra-harsh exterior, was too gentle to endure the truths of her venom once fully exposed.
Larry couldn't take the silence, let alone the emptiness of this fucking tomb. So, although he hated humans by default, here he was at Pearl's; kicking back the beers, and largely trying to ignore the yuppies who wore their matching t-shirts. They spoke as if they were local, when in truth—much like Larry—they were all considered “Arabs”: the lovely term the locals coined for anyone whose family tree forked and wasn't rooted into this swampish soil’s earth for many generations back.
The music was shit, but at least it drowned out all the pointless conversations. Too bad air didn't cost like gas; then half these fucktards would be turning blue. Of course, so would Larry. But that moment of silence as they all slowly expired would be priceless.
As always, Larry sat near the window that viewed the parking lot and showed any new victims headed through the door. And although he knew he was not hallucinating, he had to almost shake his head as the Porsche pulled into the parking lot. Larry knew the car well. It belonged to that windbag prick, Frank Murphy.
Larry was also not shocked to see he wasn't alone, but who he was with: that five-foot, eleven- inch Amazon, Liv. Larry waved the bartender over for another round and simply sat stewing within his rage as he heard that steel door slam.
Liv, upon noticing Larry, quickly took a seat in a corner booth.
Frank, as always, was lost with his head planted firmly up his own narcissistic ass. He simply nodded to Larry, ordering himself and the she-demon’s drinks, then quickly making his way back to the booth.
Larry stewed as the time slowly passed.
"Hey Beverly, you got any ice?"
"Well, of course we do, old man,” the bartender quickly replied. “You know that. Why, what's up?"
"Just wondering. Hand’s really bothering me. Old Uncle Arthur is really kicking my ass. Probably all the yeast in this fucking beer."
"Aww, you poor baby,” Bev said as she headed off. “Hold on. I will get you a bag of ice as soon as I get a chance, baby."
No sooner had Bev abandoned her station, Larry killed his beer and decided to say hello to his old friends.
"Hey pal, how are ya?"
The oh-shit look in Liv’s eyes was priceless as Frank only blurted out, "Now Larry—"
Larry quickly socked Frank and let loose every bit of frustration he had pent up within him.
He truly lost count of just how many times he had unloaded on good old Frank.
Liv screamed, pelting Larry's head in return as she partially climbed the booth’s wall, trying to get free.
Thankfully, some jackass pulled Larry off Frank.
"Get the fuck out here, dude! He has had enough!"
Everyone huddled around the Carolinas’ most notorious writer. Apparently, his bark was all he had.
Bev looked befuddled as she appeared from the kitchen door, the bag of ice in her hand.
"Larry, what the hell happened?"
"You know, sweetheart, it turns out that punching a worthless bastard in the face really gets your mind off the pain in your hands,” Larry said as he quickly exited the bar. “Oh, and give that ice pack to Hemingway over there. I think he could put it to far better use."
As he sat at that same kitchen table across from that old ball cap, he poured his old friend’s whiskey, awaiting the cops and a shuttle to the Iron Bar Hotel.
He got a text from Frank instead:
So I guess this means we won't be exchanging Christmas cards anymore huh gramps?
Larry didn't respond. Frank understood the reason for the beating and, unlike most modern pussy beta males, took his medicine even if he couldn't simply keep his mouth shut.
Well, he was one of the few southerners left.
It's strange; some people owned books upon a shelf, Larry had a shelf full of friends left behind by Jack—the maddest of the old-school editors.
And as the pain in Larry's hands set in, so did the words his old friend had spoken:
"Writers are the goddamned worst, Brother! They will sap you of your energy, bleed you of everything, giving not an ounce of sympathy in return."
"Dude, if they’re so fucking terrible, why give everything to them when they clearly are killing you?"
Jack laughed, looking into the glass as if looking into a crystal ball.
"Well bud, I never had kids, or anyone much worth mentioning for that matter. And for the simple fact that even the worst writer I have encountered cannot compare to the coldness of bitter lovers scorned. And no matter their opinion of me, they’re my family. Somebody has to steer the ship, so why not that said person be me? It's not like I will ever have a life or anything."
Larry drank that night with the memory of an old friend and dedicated fool to something that never showed him an ounce of love in return. Dedication to one's art Larry would learn was nothing to be admired, for its reality was far more rooted in sadness.
The bottle would soon be empty as those pages of his all-too-soon departed friend. He penned his epitaph long before his last breath’s expulsion from worn out lungs and a far too fragile heart.
Larry left that ball cap upon the table for the rest of his days as a reminder of a good friend, chased dreams, and, ultimately, lost causes.
The End
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John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Off The Coast Magazine.
His work has been featured here at the Dope Fiend Daily, Piker Press, Fearless Poetry Zine, Fixator Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Spill The Words, Lothlorien Journal Of Poetry.
He is also the co-author of The Mirror Masks Nothing along with Kevin M. Hibshman from Whiskey City Press available on Amazon.
His work is always unfiltered.
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