Alex's Cocktail

Trigger Warning: Extreme Prejudice - “I’m coming, I’m FUCKING COMING!!” Lumbering my way down the steps, I curse to myself as the doorbell rings for a sixth time. Who in blazes would come calling this late on a Monday?

I wrench the door open, ready to deliver an earful to the poor FedEx person who has the misfortune of delivering to me tonight. Somehow, I’m greeted by something even worse. Long, unkempt hair, a ratty t-shirt and faded jeans. The strong stench of cigarette smoke. A bristly beard covering most of his face.

“Bloody panhandlers! Why can’t you just stay in the streets where you belong? Do I look like a FUCKING donation basket?”

I’m about to slam the door shut when he thrusts his foot into the doorway.

“I’m here about your daughter, mister.”

The bewilderment clearly registers on my face. “I don’t have a daughter.”

Clearly stronger than he looks, the man shoves me aside as he muscles his way into the house.

“Exactly.”

I suddenly notice how well-kept his hands are. Smooth, manicured, the nails painted a cherry red. It is the only part of him which seems well-kept to me. Dumbfounded, I turn around and watch as the dirty man saunters his way into the living room leaving smudges of mud on the floor.

No, not saunters. More like … struts. Swaying his hips, each step measured, he walks like a Hollywood, red carpet actress on her way to win an Oscar. I haven’t seen a man walk like that since, well …

Sputtering, I follow him. I have half a mind to grab the handset and call 911, but he turns and looks at me, his hands on his hips and an eyebrow raised. “Don’t even think about it.”

With a sigh, he sits down on my armchair, crossing his legs.

“Well? Aren’t you going to offer me something to drink?”

I just stare at him, dumbfounded. A tiny voice in my head recognizes that if this weirdo really wanted to hurt me, he wouldn’t be taking his sweet time with it. And with my physical fitness having peaked about 30 years ago, I decide to play it safe.

“What can I get you? Tea? Coffee?”

The man smiles. “Vodka with a splash of cranberry juice”. He winks at me impishly.

His words send a jolt through me, shocking me more than anything that’s transpired so far. Although I’m standing exactly where I was 2 seconds ago, I feel as though an invisible hook has dragged me 3 years back.

Those words … No, it can't be.

For the first time, I’m looking at the man in genuine fear. “Alex?”, I say uncertainly.

The smile disappears from the man’s face, his features suddenly becoming foreboding. “Nope. But I knew her well. Very, very well.”

Unable to stand his piercing gaze, I turn and make my way over to the kitchen, trying to disguise the panic threatening to erupt from my chest. My hands shaking, I fix up 2 cocktails, line the rims with lime wedges, and make my way back to the living room.

I set the glasses a little too hard down on the table, and some of the drink sloshes over the sides. Muttering a few words of apology, I reach for a stack of napkins.

The unkempt man watches me mop up the mess, his eyebrow raised, waiting for me to say something. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to meet his eyes.

“How did you know him?”

The man tosses his hair over his shoulder. “I met her on the corner of 1^st and Oak Street, a couple years ago years ago”.

My hands start shaking again. “What was he doing there?”

He leans forward, ignoring my question. “The money you gave her lasted only 3 months. She spent the next 2 years living on the streets, in and out of homeless shelters.”

Defensively, I start to speak up. “He could have – “

“Stop. Just stop.” A fire comes into his eyes.

“You broke her. You rejected who she was, and it destroyed her.” 

But I fight back. “There was no place for his kind in my family”.

The fire in the man’s eyes dies down, to be replaced with incredulity. “I always thought Alex was exaggerating when she talked about you. But Jesus, you make even my father look like a tolerant ally."

Leaning back into the chair, he continues. “She was the most broken person I’d ever me, but a voice told me that we belonged together”. The anger returns to his eyes.

I’m confused. “Belong together? What, like brothers? Seems a little excessive”.

The man answers me coldly. “No. As lovers”.

Reflexively, I cover my ears. “I don’t want to hear it”.

“What – "

“I SAID I DON’T WANT TO FUCKING HEAR IT!”

I get out of the chair point a trembling finger at the man.

“YOU PEOPLE RUINED HIM! YOU PEOPLE RUINED A NORMAL BOY AND FILLED HIS HEAD WITH DRESSES AND LIPSTICK AND GOD KNOWS WHAT OTHER FEMININE SHI – “

I stop, take a deep breath, exhale loudly, and sit back down.

“I wanted a son. I wanted a man. I wanted my boy to behave like a fucking boy. If that’s a crime, sue me to Hell’s end. And your own father too, while you’re at it.”

But instead of getting angry like I expect, the man looks at me with something I haven’t seen in a long time.

Pity.

“But It hardly matters now, though, does it?”, he whispers.

“It hardly matters what you wanted her to be, or how you wanted her to act, does it?”

He leans in again. “It doesn’t matter, because she died of an overdose 2 weeks ago.”

It takes a few seconds for that to register.

“She died having completely lost her faith in you.”

“But she didn’t die alone. She had me with her until the very end. She died holding hands with someone who really cared for her”.

I look up at the man, my chest hollow. “You came here to tell me my son was dead, even though I kicked him out of the house and never looked back. Why?”

The smile he gives me, equal parts mirth and anger, sends my stomach plummeting even before he answers.

“Because now, you get to live the rest of your life knowing that you were responsible for your daughter’s death.”