Not a Drop

If someone asked you what the devil looked like, what would you say? A big, scary monster? Red horns and covered in flames? Or does he look like what you want him to look like? Money? A certain website late at night? Or . . . a bottle of beer?

A bottle of beer . . . that was how the devil appeared to Richard Carter. Having been sober for 17 years, the fear of his past addiction returning had faded; it had ebbed so much, in fact, that when Richard's recently made friend, Zackary Smith, invited him and his wife to the club, he joyfully accepted, seeing it as an opportunity to socialize. The thought there'd be alcohol there hadn't even crossed his mind.

Richard's wife, Marcie, however, instantly pointed this out to him. "Do you want to tempt yourself?" she fretted, looking into her husband's eyes. "Everyone there will be drinking."

"Oh," Richard frowned, just now realizing this. "Uh . . ." he stared at Marcie, whose expression was full of worry. "It -- it will be fine."

"Are you sure? Is it worth it?"

"Don't worry, Marcie," he caressed her arm. "I'll just have water or something. Besides, this is a good chance for us to hang out with our new friends."

"Ok," she nodded, understanding his logic but still nervous.

"Hey," he smiled ruefully, pulling her into his arms. "How's this sound? You can be my monitor, make sure I behave myself."

"Oh yeah?" she grinned.

"Maybe, just maybe, I could be rewarded later . . ."

Her smile grew larger. "Is that so?"

"Just a suggestion . . ." he replied smoothly.

"There's a slight possibility." She tilted his chin downward and brought their lips together.

Later that evening, as they drove to the club, Richard's hands were tightening and untightening around the steering wheel. Alright, he thought to himself as he got onto the highway. Richard, prepare yourself. You will see people drinking tonight. You will be tempted. Resist. Remember 17 years ago, what you did . . . he shook his head in anguish, still pained by the memories. Never again. I promised Marcie I'd never have a drop for the rest of my life.

Richard thought he had mentally prepared himself enough by the time they got there, but as soon as he stepped out of his car at the valet, he saw a man standing nearby with a girl in one hand, a beer in the other.

He studied the brown glass. He remembered the feeling of cold condensation against his calloused palm. The rim of the bottle on my lips . . .

"Richard," Marcie tugged on his arm, noticing what grabbed his attention. "Let's leave."

"Oh, babe," he turned to console her. "There's no need to worry. I got this."

"But why tempt yourself?" She shook her head angrily. "Honestly, we should have never come here."

"What, and be social recluses our whole lives?" His tone matched hers. "I can't keep running away from my past. I've grown strong enough over the years. I can say no when I want to."

"Not a drop . . . please . . ." Her voice melted on the final word. It sounded so young, so innocent.

It brought him back to all those years ago when he was the kind of man who grabbed a beer within two minutes of getting home from work. All that screaming I did . . . all that broken glass . . . I thank God she didn't take the kids and run.

"Not a drop," he vowed.

"Alright," she seemed assured now. "Let's go find Zackary and . . . what was his wife's name again?"

"Uh . . . Katherine, I think."

"Katherine, right," she nodded, remembering.

They headed inside.

It wasn't anything close to a rave. There was no blaringly loud music, no flashing lights, no drunk, hollering twenty-year-olds. This was a classy joint, sophisticated and matured.

Groups sat around at booths and tables, conversating at appropriate voice levels. Waiters and waitresses hurried around while a jazz band played in the corner.

"This place is nice," Marcie commented, hooking her arm through his.

"Very," he agreed, admiring the place.

He tried not to focus on the bar, the shining bottles and glasses on shelves for all to see.

"Hey, y'all!" They heard Zackary's voice to their right.

They turned and saw Zackary and his wife smiling at them, gesturing them over.

"Glad y'all could make it!" Katherine hugged Marcie in greeting.

"Likewise," Richard said. "Thanks for inviting us."

"Anytime," Zackary said. "Hey, here's a menu." He handed Richard one.

Richard froze. He stared down at the menu, the atmospheric lights reflecting off the laminated plastic. So many options . . . cocktails, liquor . . . his eyes scanned for it. Beer . . .

"Richard," his wife jolted him out of his trance.

"You okay, man?" Zackary asked.

"All good," Richard nodded quickly, setting the menu down on the table before them. "Just checking my options."

Marcie frowned at him.

At that moment, a waiter appeared. "Hello, there. Are y'all ready to order?"

"Yes, we are," Katherine nodded. "I'll have a glass of . . ." she proceeded to name a red wine Richard thought was French.

"Oh," Marcie said, "I'll have that as well."

"I'll have two beers for myself," Zackary told the waiter, and then he said to the group, "Want to take advantage of Happy Hour, you know?"

"And for you, sir?" the waiter asked Richard.

"Oh, uhm, just water, thank you."

"Water?" Zackary laughed. "You sure, buddy?"

"Just for now," he ducked the question. Not many knew about Richard's sobriety, about his troubled past . . . I try to forget, myself.

Zackary shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat, brother."

Richard sighed in relief.

For the next hour and a half, they actually had quite a lot of fun. They laughed at each other's jokes, shared their opinions on global topics . . . It wasn't until Marcie left for the restroom that the devil struck.

He struck in the form of a question. "Hey," Zackary said while Marcie was gone. "Since I'm driving, I decided I shouldn't have this," he gestured to the remaining beer bottle on ice. "Would you care for it?"

Not a drop . . . "No, uhm, no, I'm good, thanks though." Richard felt as if a boa constrictor was wrapping itself around his heart. His chest felt so heavy, it felt like a ten-pound dumbbell was sitting on it. I haven't felt this weight in 17 years.

"You sure?" Zackary was oblivious to the mental warfare going on in Richard's mind.

"I -- ugh --" Richard's eyes fixated on the bottle laying in the metal ice bucket. It's just one bottle. Can't do no harm. "I suppose one beer can't hurt."

It felt as though he had tunnel vision. He knew this action was wrong -- he knew he would regret it later, that the guilt would be overwhelming -- but in that moment, he didn't care about the consequences. Here and now was what mattered. This stimuli . . . this momentarily bliss of dopamine . . . Richard reached forward and took the beer out of the bucket.

He stared at it like a lover.

He rose that chilled bottle to his lips. It was right as that poison touched his lips, that it flowed over his tongue and down his throat . . . that was when Marcie returned from the restroom.

She froze at the sight of her husband downing half a beer in one go. Not a drop . . .