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Pushing the cart away from the beer racks, I start heading for the liquor shelves a couple of aisles over.
Brett’s not a bad guy. He’s cocky as a motherfucker, but he’s a fighter like me…
Or well, like I was.
The shit that comes out of his mouth is as natural as a sermon is to a preacher. It’s only that he’s like a fucking rabid dog sometimes. He doesn’t know when to leave people the fuck alone.
“Interesting. I tried that when my girl got knocked up but it didn’t work out so well,” he says as he follows me to the liquor.
Behind me, I hear the thumping of skin on skin. Fucker is probably slapping his fucking washboard abs.
“Great,” I say and keep my eyes forward.
I don’t need to look into another person’s eyes and see the fucking pity I always get.
Pity is what got me to where I am now. Pity for myself and how fucking shitty life can be.
Stopping in front of the rum section, I grab a couple bottles of the cheap shit, along with a good bottle of the expensive stuff. Cheap goes with the rum and cokes, expensive is for when I need to black the fuck out.
Brett bangs his cart off mine while he grabs a bottle whiskey and the squeaky wheels grate on my nerves.
“What have you been up to for the last couple of months, man? I haven’t seen you since—” he starts to say before I quickly cut him off.
“Nothing, relaxing and making decisions,” I say.
What the fuck? Does he not take a hint?
“What kind of decisions? Like the ones that usually take me the longest are which shirt I need to wear in the morning,” he says, and I finally look at him.
“Hey man, I know it’s probably a style thing and all, but wearing a hat and sunglasses in this dim and gloomy store is like a cry for… something…” he trails off as I turn away from him.
“Yeah, it’s all about fashion, Brett,” I grunt out.
“Well, I guess so. Hey, I know that Reaper’s been trying to get ahold of you and shit, but he hasn’t been able to. So I wanted to show you what’s set up for Friday,” he says as he pushes a cellphone into my hands.
There, staring back up at me, is a picture of Tommy with a grinning smile. He looks so young and fucking happy.
“Chase has set up a small invitation only tourney for some of the up-and-coming guys at his gym. He’s calling it the Tommy Babson Invitational. Wants to do it as an annual memorial for…”
Memorial. Tommy.
Pushing the phone back into Brett’s hands, I leave the cart behind me as I walk away.
“It starts Friday at eleven. I’ll let Dale know you saw it,” Brett calls out after me.
Slamming the door to my Jeep shut, I have sit for a few moments before my hands are steady enough to put the key in the ignition.
Whether it’s from the lack of alcohol in my system, or the steady stream of pictures showing the aftermath of a semi-truck crossing the median while the driver was asleep at the wheel, destroying a little foreign-made car, I’m not sure.
But I can’t catch my breath.
I feel my lungs rasping deeply.
Shit.
I think I’m having a heart attack.
Right here in the middle of a liquor store parking lot.
