Time to face the music

Grant struggled to fight back the tears as he looked at a faded picture of him and his two boys. They were posing in front of a Christmas tree, surround by open presents. His oldest son, Grant junior, was ten. He was holding a new bike with a smile as bright as the North Star. He always reminded Grant of himself when he was that age. Smooth caramel colored skin and dark brown eyes that were mysterious. The younger son, Robert, name after Grant’s father, was also smiling even though he was missing his front teeth. Robert resembled his mother, Kim. He had her beautiful mahogany skin, wavy hair, and cute dimples. Every time he looked at Robert’s face, Grant was reminded of the beautiful wife he once had. May she rest in peace. That picture was the last time he was truly happy before his life fell apart.

      Swallowing hard, Grant put the picture back in his shirt pocket and looked up at the circle of people that were staring at him. These set of eyes belonged to the only people in his life that he didn’t feel judged by. Still, speaking his truth was hard no matter the audience. He pushed out a breath and said, “Hello. My name is Grant. And I’m an alcoholic. It’s been a hundred and fifty-two days since my last drink.”

      “Hello Grant,” the others said in unison.

      Grant looked down like he was searching for words. Then he finally uttered, “This last week was the first time since joining AA that I didn’t have an urge for a drink. I never thought that would be possible in a million years. My demons had control over my life for so long, I forgot what is like to be back in control. I just wanted to thank everybody here for the support. I don’t think I would have made it without you guys.”

       “We’re proud of you!” One man shouted out, with a few others verbally agreeing. 

       “Hang in their brother!” Another man shouted, followed by claps and cheers.

        The encouragement he felt every time he spoke was like another building block in the foundation of a life that he desperately longed for. He allowed himself to be happy and smile for a moment. A smile that was hard to come by over the last fifteen years. He took a seat in one of the plastic little chairs and looked around the small musty little room that looked like an elementary school cafeteria. And he watched as the others spoke their truths too.

        The meeting broke up and Grant went to a table that had coffee and pastries on it. He poured himself a cup of black coffee and took a sip as his sponsor, Jesse, came over.

         “I’m glad to hear you’ve gotten past the urges. That means you’ve conquered the addictive part of your disease,” Jesse said in a southern drawl. Jesse was a funny looking guy with hair everywhere, except on top of his head. The years of hard drinking left his white skin permanently stained and tattered like he’d been in the sun too long.

         “Yes. I feel like I’ve come a long way,” Grant said locking eyes with Jesse.

         “You have,” Jesse replied with a pat on the back and a smile, “But now comes the difficult part. Making amends.”

         “I know,” Grant responds with a grimace.

         “I saw you looking at that picture of your boys. You think you’re ready for step 8?” Jesse asked.

        Grant had a slight hesitation before nodding his head.

       “Good. You got a location for those boys?”

       Grant pulled out a piece of paper with the address on it and showed it to Jesse.

       “Now listen. Things didn’t get fuck up overnight, so don’t expect to fix it overnight either. Understand?”

       “Right,” Grant said kind of half ass believing the words that just came out of his mouth.

       “And just remember, I’m here for you. If the urges come back. If the shit gets too heavy, don’t hesitate to call me, day or night. I got you, buddy.”

       “Appreciate that,” Grant said as they hugged it out. 

        Grant leaped out of bed that next morning with the enthusiasm of a little kid on Christmas day. Since his kid hadn’t scene him in years, he wanted everything to be perfect. So he took extra care to get himself dressed that morning. A nice clean shave with a splash of Old Spice to smell good. He combed his hair until it was perfect. He put on his best outfit that was fresh from the cleaners and still in plastic hanging on the back of the door. And two drops of Visine in both eyes so his vision would be crystal clear when laying eyes on his boy for the first time years.

       The first kid Grant decided to meet was Robert. He was the youngest, and Grant thought he might be easier of the two to approach. He followed his GPS to a rundown apartment complex in a sketchy neighborhood. Before Grant could even open the door of his raggedly old Honda Prelude, there was a dope fiend waiting to greet him with his hand out. Grant pushed past him as he stepped over the liter filled parking lot covered in crack vials, wine bottles, and used condom wrappers. This was a neighborhood that the world ignored. That police didn’t patrol anymore. Jehovah’s Witness is not knocking on your door. And pizza is not getting delivered to this place. Grant couldn’t believe what he was seeing, so he double checked the address again. He was in the right spot. He looked around until he found the door number. Stepping over a homeless man at the bottom of a flight of stairs, Grant made his way up. Pacing nervously back and forth at the front door, Grant took several deep breaths before he finally summed up the courage to knock on the door.

       “What’s up,” this older guy said who looked like he forgot how to use water and soap.

       Granted tried peeping through the door into the living room as he said, “I’m looking for Robert Norwood. Is he here?”

        The guy’s bloodshot eyes looked Grant up and down before he yelled out, “Rob! Some nigga is out here to see you.”

         Robert stumbled to the front door and Grant was in shock. The son who was the spitting image of his mother was barely recognizable. That beautiful mahogany skin looked old and cracked like a worn out leather couch. And that skin was barely clinging to a skeleton like frame. His eyes looked void of life and sunken into his face. And the smell, good god. The horrible stench that emanated from Robert’s body was so awful, it forced Grant to breath thru his mouth to keep from gagging.

         “I ain’t buying anything you selling!” Rob snapped leaning against the door.

         “Robert, it’s me. Your father. Grant,” he uttered in a soft compassionate voice.

          Robert turned to the other man and laughed, “Whatever you scored the last time is strongest shit yet. This fool talking about he my father.”

          Grant stepped closer and said, “I am your father. Don’t you recognize me, son?”

        “Hard to recognize somebody you ain’t seen,” Robert joked as he turned to his partner and shared and hysterical laugh. Then he motioned for Grant to turned around as he said. “Let me see your ass from behind. Cause that’s the only thing I remember about my dad. The back of his head as he walked out the fucking door,” Robert joked again.

        A tear began to roll down Grant’s cheek as he said in a cracked voice, “I’m so sorry son, for everything that happened.”

        Robert’s face got serious for a moment as he leaned closer and studied Grant up and down. Then he stepped back and smiled, “You almost had me motherfucka. My father,” Robert started laughing again, “No way my punk ass father would show his face. You a funny guy. Who put you up to this?”

        Grant’s mouth flew open, but no words came out.  

        Robert turned toward his partner and said, “You did this, didn’t you, Greg?”

        By the time Grant found his words, Robert was laughing himself silly while slamming his door close.

        Grant didn’t know what to do. He started to knock on the door, but he could see through the blinds that Robert and his friend were lighting a crack pipe. He headed down the stairs but stopped halfway. Looking back over his shoulder he wondered what happened to his son. How did he end up like this? He lowered his head with the prevailing thought running through his mind, if only I had my shit together. 

        Grant went back to his meager room at the Salvation Army with a heavy heart. Alone with only his regrets to keep him company, Grant sat on the edge of a twin bed and stared at that picture of him and his boys. His first instinct was to get a bottle of liquor and escape into his own world like before. But he knew the dark place that would take him. He never wanted to return there. To him, death was a better option than going back there. So he laid in his bed and cried off and on all night.

       That next morning Grant awoke to find his other son, Grant junior, on his mind. This gave him hope that he still could be redeemed. With his parents gone, wife dead, family that distance from him, and no friends to speak of, Junior was all he had left in this world. So he repeated his preparations like the day before. Got himself cleaned up and smelling good. And off he went.

        He pulled up to Junior’s house on a sunny afternoon. Junior’s home was the antitheses of Robert’s. He lived on a nice block with beautiful houses that were well kept. All the lawns were immaculate and the hedges were neatly trimmed. He drove down the block and was waved to by everyone he passed. He pulled up to the last house on the corner to find a little boy and girl in the driveway shooting hoops. Grant parked on the curb and made his way up to the front door as he smiled and waved at the children. Could these be my grandkids, he thought to himself. The life that had been zapped out of him the day before had been restored as he pressed the doorbell with excitement.

       The door swung open and a handsome young man with a well-groomed goatee and a clean fade stood tall in the doorway. His butterscotch eyes stared at Grant for a second. And then those eyes got bigger as he said, “Oh my god. It’s you.”

       Grant smiled and opened his arms, “Yes. It’s me, Junior. Your father.”

       “You got a lot of fucking nerve showing up at house!” Junior snapped with a menacing scowl.

       “Son…”

       “Don’t call me that! You gave up the right to call me that a long time ago. What the hell are you doing here?” Junior said as he stepped closer with his chest poked out and his fist balled up like he was ready to take a swing.

       “I’m in AA trying to put my life back together. I’m finally sober and I’m staying at the Salvation Army shelter. I…. just came to apologize for how my actions have effected your life,” Grant said with pleading eyes as his heartbeat quicken.

       “What are you sorry for? Huh?” Junior quickly retorted.

       Grant was caught off guard as his mouth was moving but no words came out.”

       “Let me help you find your words. You sorry for walking out on me and my bother and leaving us to be raised by the state. You sorry that we got passed around from foster home to foster home. That we were used and abused. You sorry for not bothering to pick up a phone to see if your kids were alright. You sorry that your baby boy is a drug addicted. How about you sorry that I wake up every night from nightmares from all the shit I’ve been through. Is that what you sorry for?”

        Grant bowed his head in shame. Tears began to fall as he said, “I know I screwed up. And I’m sorry for all it.”

        “Why was that bottle more important than us?” Junior asked with his eyes shooting darts.

        Grant knew it was finally time to reveal the truth. But he didn’t like talking about it. Because talking about made him relive it again. But time to face the music. So he took in a deep breath and exhaled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out that picture. Then he locked eyes with Junior and said, “The night we took this picture on Christmas, I had to go into work. A call came into the firehouse at two in the morning. I put my gear on like normal and hopped on the fire truck. I was thinking at worst I might have to pull a cat out of tree or unlock some old ladies’ car. But no, it was a three alarm fire. We pulled up to this old two story house and a hysterical woman ran up to me saying her little boy was trapped on the second floor. I was first through the door with my axe in hand. The house was covered in flames. I rushed to the second floor yelling at the top of my lungs. I got to the bedroom and part of the door frame had collapsed. I looked through and sitting on the floor in a fetal position was a little boy your age. These innocent set of eyes looked at me. And without a word being spoken, those eyes said, save me,” Grant said shaking his head, “I started swing the axe to create an opening, but the fire had weakened the floorboards. And they collapsed under me. My guys pulled me out and the house went up in flames. The boy didn’t make it. And from that day forward everywhere I looked, even in my dreams, I saw those innocent set of eyes staring at me,” Grant swallowed hard, looked down, and revealed, “I drank so I didn’t have to see those eyes.”   

          “You had two sons at home that needed saving too,” Junior replied.

          “I know. And I’m sorry.”

           The little girl from the driveway ran up and stood next to Junior with her arms around his waist. She looked up at him and asked, “Who is this daddy?”

          “Nobody,” Junior said coldly as he closed the door.

          Grant left Junior’s house devastated. His soul was crushed. He spent years trying to crawl out of a dismal hole, only to get knocked back down again. And this time, alcohol couldn’t mask the problem. Because he quickly came to realize, he was the problem. Everything he touched turned to shit. As he looked up at the sky, he wondered what was the point of going on. What was the point of living another day? Nobody wanted to be his friend. Family disowned him. He lived a loveless existence. He thought about calling Jesse, but he couldn’t face him. He didn’t know how to tell him he fucked up again.  

          When he got back to his room, he sat at his desk and wrote out a letter,

To whoever reads this. I’ve destroyed everything in my life. Nobody is better for knowing me. No one loves me. I have no reason to keep living. I’m going to the Golden Gate Bridge. If one person on the way says hello. If one person on the way acts like they care. If one person on the way just smiles at me I won’t jump. But knowing my luck that won’t happen. Goodbye.



           Grant left the letter on the bed and started the long walk to the bridge. Person after person passed him, but no one spoke. No smiles. No waves just as he figured. He made it to the bridge just as the sun was setting. It was an Ominous evening. An overcast with lighting in the distance filled the greyish sky. Every time the thunder went boom, he nervously shivered. Grant’s bloodshot eyes looked up at the heavens hoping that god would stop him. But god had turned his back on him too, he thought. He looked out at the horizon for what seemed like an eternity. His life flashing before his eyes. The minutes slowly ticking away. Stepping over the railing, he looked down on the fierce ocean currant below as he saw the ships in the harbor rocking back and forth as they passed by. All of sudden the Otis Redding song, Sittin’ on the Dock by the Bay popped into his head. So he started singing the relevant tune. Closing his eyes, his breaths became quicker and quicker. He stepped to the edge. His arms opened as he had excepted his fate. He relaxed and let go. But his fall was stopped. He looked over his shoulder. It was Junior holding a fist full of his shirt.

          “Maybe I was meant to save you,” Junior said pulling Grant into a hug.

                                                  The End