Next Door Neighbors

"Hi, who are you?" She asked the long-haired, bearded man, who was holding a half-empty bottle of Four Roses bourbon.

"I'm George," he shook her hand faintly, then had a long sip of bourbon. "Want some?"

She refused his offer with a quick shake of her head. She closed the door behind her—careful to prevent it from banging loudly and subsequently waking Robert up—and rushed to the bedroom to leave her luggage; in the bathroom, she held her head under the faucet for several minutes, simply letting the cold water run down to her eyes and face.

As she raised her head and stared straight into her eyes in the mirror, water still dripping off her skin, she finally realized why the man had looked suspiciously familiar, when he had first greeted her.

She looked at the bathroom door, momentarily thinking of locking it, wishing nothing more than to simply remain in the bathroom, for as long as possible. She dried her face up on a clean towel, drew deep, nerve-calming breaths. Eventually, she had recollected herself enough to go back out and face one of the men from the dive-bar.

"You alright?" George asked, leaning on under the kitchen's doorway, seemingly waiting for her.

"Yeah, I'm..." She sighed. "So, you are Robert's drinking buddy?"

"Life's a cruel bitch, ain't she?" He chuckled dryly, again offering her a hit of bourbon—which, once more, Lana refused.

"Have you... Does he..." She mumbled, her words barely audible.

"I didn't even know it was you," he smiled cruelly. "I knew he was married, and had some difficulties in that said marriage, but... hell, I didn't know half of it, did I?" His glare moved momentarily to Robert, who remained unfazed by their whispering, his snoring occasionally clouding their voices. "You poor, poor son of a bitch," George remarked, shaking his head in clear disappointment.

"Shouldn't we..." she cleared her throat. "How about we continue this outside, on the balcony? Let's give him some peace."

"He'd probably sleep through World War III," George shrugged his shoulders, "with as much as he'd had to drink, but, I could use some fresh air, sure."

They stood next to each other, George's back leaning on the outer wall of the apartment, still taking often hits of bourbon, while Lana leaned on the railing, occasionally stealing glimpses of the neighboring condominiums and the deserted night street below.

"What has Robert told you?" Lana was the first to break the silence.

"I'd imagine everything the poor bastard knows about his marital problems, as well as his financial issues... he's one fucked son of a bitch, you know. But, hey," he raised his shoulders, "he's your husband, you ought to know, right?"

"He never talks to me; not anymore. I..." she sighed heavily. "He only drinks... nothing else."

"And why do you think that is?" He pursued; he shook the empty bottle and frowned. Without a word, he stormed back into the kitchen, and quickly returned with a new one.

"You're worse than Robert," Lana remarked with some disgust.

"Obviously," he nodded. "Robert's still an amateur, Lana; five beers, three shots of tequila, and maybe a couple glasses of this," he raised the bottle in his hand, then had a long snort out of it, "and he's out cold, sleeping like a baby—drunken baby, but, still.

"I'm a fucking pro," he winked at her. "I've been a barfly for most of my adult life, I've drunk heavyweights under the table; the second bottle is always the best, though. I know that by the end of it, I'll either be ready to be tucked in and allowed to pass out till afternoon, or, I'll be more than willing to burn the whole world down. It's one or the other."

"Which one is the most common?" She asked, quite horrified.

"The second," he admitted, with a lowered gaze. "But, I can't help it; don't worry, though. We still have some time," he lifted the bottle with a smirk.

"So, what do you do? Robert told me you're a writer, but..."

"He spoke the truth," he nodded, with a sorrowful smile. "I'm a barfly, first and foremost, and write on the side; it's gotten me some decent paychecks. Enough to see me through my drinking, let me maintain a small apartment near the dive-bars. Don't need much else.

"By the way," he said, quickly changing topic, "you were gone with Stan, right?"

"How did you know?!" Her jaw dropped.

"Intuition," he shrugged his shoulders. "I took a shot in the dark and... bam," he clicked his fingers as if pulling an invisible trigger. "Anyway, I'm not going to tell Robert; the poor fuck doesn't need to know. He's got a lot in his head as it is.

"Learning what you've done—the bar, for example—will be the last nail on his coffin; he'll just pull a trigger, blow his brains out. And it'd be a shame; he's quite the great guy, actually. Not a very good drinking partner, but, hey, we can't have it all!"

"Why him, though?"

"Pardon?" He raised his eyebrow.

"Why did you choose him as your drinking partner? Aren't you supposed to be a lone drinker? Being a barfly and all?"

"Ha," he chuckled, genuinely. "I may be a loner, and I do like drinking in solitude, but, that doesn't mean I'm anti-social, or, that I have to drink alone. A barfly is simply someone spending his days and nights on a bar stool; sure, most of us are loners, usually because drinking is a sacred business.

"At any rate, you probably know Robert's my accountant; hired him, when I got my first good royalty check. Thought I could use some financial advice; he really helped me, too. Made sure I invested the money properly; now, I'm living off interest. It's not much, not by a far chance, but, as I've said, it gets me through.

"So, when I first saw misery in his eyes, when I began seeing signs of internal degradation in his gaze, I... I thought it was my time to chime in, offer a helping hand. Did I do good? I have no clue," he shrugged his shoulders. "I just did the best I could. Seems to have helped him, somewhat; at least, I'm seeing him joke and laugh again."

"I don't understand how..." she paused; what was there to add?

"Look, maybe, it's just a phase, you know? Or, perhaps, he had simply repressed something inside of him for years, decades, and it suddenly reemerged, quite violently. I don't know."

"I can't help him; I mean..." she admitted, her voice coming out too hoarse.

"Well," he sighed heavily, "you could always stop fucking Stan, for starters. It'll give you a far better chance to focus on Robert, instead. Let you focus, you know?"

"I don't know, anymore, I... yes, you're right, but..." she pulled her hair, moved her glance to the empty street.

"You don't know anymore, huh? Feeling torn in two? One part wishing to be with Robert, the other eager to run away with Stan to some faraway paradise?"

"No, I..." she protested, but, it faded away right quick. "I do want to be with Robert; help him out of this... situation. I just can't, I... it's too hard, too... I don't know!" She burst into tears, hiding her face inside her palms.

"Alright, alright," George shook his head with a faint, sad smile. "Don't cry; look, we all make mistakes. I've done enough to last me three lifetimes and I still have a few years ahead of me, to commit even more.

"I'm not judging, alright? I do like Robert and I'd hate to see him get hurt even worse, but... it's your life. I'm not going to give you advice, nor am I going to encourage you to choose; you have to find it in you to do so.

"Just, make sure to hurry; Robert's a ticking bomb—at some point, he'll just explode and things'll turn to shit—and Stan... well, he's a peculiar cat in his own way."

"What do you mean?" She glared at him sternly, albeit with watery eyes.

"About whom?"

"Both."

"You've seen Robert; he's not cut out to be a drinker, man," he pointed his thumb at the wall. "He won't be able to take much more of this lifestyle; eventually, it'll drive him insane, cause him to do something really fucked-up.

"As for Stan," he paused for a long time. "Don't really know what to say; I've only seen him in some of the bars I frequent. Sometimes brings girls there to... you know. Sometimes he just... talks to the guys, us barflies; doesn't say much, but... it's just something about his aura, you know?"

"You don't like him, huh?"

"I don't like most people," he corrected her. "But, that's not the point; he just gives off a... I don't know. Something about him feels wrong, that's all. Maybe, I'm mistaken, though; clearly, you know him far better than I, so... who am I to say?"

"What do you know?" She insisted. "There's something you're not telling me."

"Nope," he shook his head with a smile. "It's not like Stan's my friend and I'm trying to protect him, or anything; I don't give a fuck for the guy. I don't really have a reason to conceal anything from you; hell, I'd probably give you all the dirt on the guy, had I any, just to convince you to stay with Robert.

"I do like your husband," he said sterner. "And it's really rare, me liking another human being."

"Yeah... you like him, because he drinks with you."

He burst into laughter; "everyone drinks with me! I've drunk with hundreds of people, shared beer and bourbon with probably a thousand guys and girls over the years. I don't like someone, just because they have a drink, or twenty, with me.

"I'd be a lousy alcoholic, if all it took to like someone was to drink with them; I'll pretend to like them, sure, so I can bum some drinks off of them, but, that's all. Pretend."

"You mean, cheat them, play them," she told him harshly.

"Call it that, if you want; call it whatever dirty name you can think of! It's still pretend; it's what we all do, to keep our sanity, to maintain our relationships, to impress other people. People pretend to be something they're not, or pretend to feel, or think, things they don't, just so they'll be more liked; whether it's for material gain, or just the emotional satisfaction of being well-liked, or something entirely different, makes no difference whatsoever.

"We still pretend in order to gain something we wouldn't, were we ourselves."

"You're insanely bitter," she remarked, repulsed.

"Oh, you know my publisher?" He chuckled. "I'm a realist, not bitter... I just see things as they are, and call things the way I see them; people don't like it, because, most people prefer not to be called on their bullshit and therefore do not call other people's bullshit, either.

"Doesn't make it non--bullshit, though; just makes it polished bullshit. Bullshit people eagerly believe—even if they know it to be false—just to avoid unnecessary complications."

"I just don't see it..." she whispered to herself.

"See what?" He asked, bemused.

"What Robert ever saw in you... he used to be one of the most cheerful persons I've ever known."

"Well," he shrugged his shoulders and had a long hit of bourbon. "Behind the widest smiles hide the worst mental torture."

* * * *

"How are you feeling?" Lana asked Robert, who was sitting heavy and low on the kitchen chair, holding on to his mug of coffee.

"Wonderful," he said in a rusty voice.

"Why did you drink so much last night? What do you gain out of it?"

"I forget," he said earnestly.

"Forget what?" She asked, her voice abruptly rising in volume and pitch.

"Everything," he replied simply. "How things are going straight to Hell; my work, our marriage... my whole damn life."

"Robert, honey, I..." she reached out for him; he merely accepted her touch due to sheer exhaustion. "Don't know what to say; I mean, yes... you said some things the other day that were really hurtful, and it really pains me seeing you in this condition, in...

"In a constant stupor, wasting away everything you've accomplished; I mean, look at you! Skipping work, because of a hangover!"

"No, Lana," he shook his head, "I didn't stay home because I'm hangover; I've gone to work with brutal hangovers before. I stayed home, simply because there is no reason to go to the office.

"Don't you get it? Most of my clients are either bankrupt, or hiding from me to avoid paying me! Why should I go to the office? To chase flies? I'd rather leave them in peace; they're more productive and useful than me."

"Stop talking like this, I... you mean, you've no work left to do?"

"Finally, you get it," he nodded with a frown. "It's been like this for weeks now; began few months back, kept getting worse and worse... and, rock bottom has finally been reached. The only one still able to pay me is George and... well, he was never my wealthiest client.

"My share is miniscule, compared to what I used to earn; it's hardly enough to let us continue living like this."

"It's alright," she squeezed his hand and a dark cloud engulfed her mind, when he did not respond, "we'll find something; maybe, I'll go out and get a job. Or, we'll move someplace else; sell the apartment, find something smaller, cheaper... Hell, we can even move abroad."

"Ha," he chuckled once, dryly, "so, you're willing to give everything up? That's it? Eager to leave everything behind, start anew?"

"As long as I'm with you, yes," she said determinedly. "As long as you promise to get sober and get yourself together, we'll figure out a way to make it; don't you think us two being together will be enough?"

"I don't know anymore, Lana," he said sorrowfully. "I really don't know; I thought it would, but, now... now, doubts are creeping up in my mind."

"Robert, honey, why? Aren't we... yes, I remember what you told me the other day, but, you were drunk, out of your mind, out of..."

"No, Lana," he interrupted her abruptly. "Alcohol brings forth one's real thoughts, desires, fears... when you're drunk, you're as real as you can get."

"So, they were all true?!" She raised her eyebrows and fell back on the chair, hopelessly confused and terrified.

"Yes... maybe, with a hint of exaggeration, in order to illustrate a point, but, all in all..." he paused, closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Then, he sipped on his coffee and gagged.

"I see..." Lana mumbled, and lit a cigarette, smoking it slowly and solemnly.

* * * *

"Well, that's a... quite unexpected," George said, when Lana sat to the stool next to him and ordered a gin and tonic. "This morning I was drinking with the husband, now with the wife... who's next?"

"I just came by, because..." she paused, when her drink arrived, to have a sip. "I think we need to talk."

"About?" He shrugged his shoulders and gulped down his drink, immediately ordering another—the bartender just picked up the bourbon bottle from underneath the counter and refilled the glass. "Make it a triple, man!" He protested. "You enjoy rushing towards me every five minutes?"

The bartender filled the glass up, then set the bottle down and returned to some other patrons sitting at the far end corner of the counter.

"So," he said, after a long sip, "what can there possibly be, we didn't talk about the other night?"

"I want you to tell me everything Robert has told you," she demanded. "I can't help him, if I don't know the details. All he's told me, is that everything's gone to Hell."

"Well, that's all he talks about with me, too..." he shrugged his shoulders. "It appears we know the same things."

"Bullshit," she barked at him. "You're his drinking buddy; the first real friend he's had in more than a decade. He must have opened up to you; if not for anything else, out of desperation."

"It appears to me," he fired back at her, "you really underestimate him; he's not a loner. He had more friends; he was friends with most of his clients. Robert wasn't a cold-stone accountant, boldly looking for ways to make money. He was intimate, personal... he got personally invested. People tend to react positively to that kind of attitude; most of his clients avoid him, not because they do not want to pay him, but, because they can't, and maybe even feel some shame, considering how much he's helped them throughout the years."

"Fine, whatever," she continued, distressed. "Be that as it may, he must have mentioned something to you, something... more than just abstract sobs about the dire situation he's in."

"You don't really get people, do you?" He smirked, which instantly raised a passionate desire within Lana to slap it off his face. "It goes like this," he said, ignoring her fiery glance. "That man loves you; with all his fucking heart. However, right now, he fears you'll become miserable, due to how things have turned out; and he doesn't want you to suffer.

"He's willing to take the bullet, be the one having to take care of the mortgage, the debts, the poverty. He doesn't want you to go through all this shit; hence, he decided that it would be wise to make you leave him, to...

"To anger you, so to speak, in order to save you; I did tell him he was being a complete moron, but, he wouldn't listen. That's why he drinks; because, he feels he has to let you go, to protect your happiness. Well, that's one of the reasons.

"He's also horrified he might have already lost you; he complains about how you never really talk anymore, let alone have sex, how, often, he feels like a stranger in his home. That helped with his decision, and with his picking up the drinking."

"I thought you introduced him to drinking."

"I just offered a helping hand, as a professional; he told me once, when I went to his office to look through my finances, about his troubles. I invited him out for a drink, to help him relax. One drink turned into plenty and it all thus began... besides, I wouldn't say he has a problem.

"He just drinks to cope with his decision; to gather up the courage to do what he feels must needs be done; that's all. He's a fucking weird cat, I'll give him that; but, good-hearted. Maybe, just maybe, he focuses on the wrong things."

"What do you mean?"

"You tell me," he gave her a wide grin.

"I don't understand..."

"Look, he tried to make you leave, so you wouldn't have to go through the shitstorm that's coming; he wanted to protect you from the storm the only way he could come up with: sending you far away.

"And he did, in a way..."

"Right..." she nodded, and a frown distorted her face.

"Good, we're finally getting somewhere," he sighed, drained his bourbon, and snapped his fingers for another round. "You're not drinking," he remarked, after his glass was refilled.

He clinked his glass against hers, and had a long hit.

"You've got to drink for a toast," he told her. "It's bad luck, if you don't."

"Fine," she sighed, had a short sip; the soft taste of her drink was pleasurable and she was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to drink it down. She restrained herself, pushing the glass slightly away.

"Terrified of what may happen, if you get drunk?"

"No, I just..." she stopped, finding herself with nothing to add.

"Alright, your call," he drank. "So, did you get everything you needed to know? Was I able to shed some light into that mystery that has been tormenting you?"

"No," she shook her head. "Are you sure there isn't anything else you're hiding from me? The other night, I got the impression you... know a lot more than you let show."