Downtown Beirut pt. 5

Previously: Animal’s wanted by Internal Affairs and he’s flailing. He stops by Downtown Beirut and meets Kristen.

7

Animal stumbles into Downtown Beirut. It’s too early for the regular crowd, so the place is empty except for Kristen, the bartender, who’s wiping down the counter with a rag that stinks of bleach.

Animal slides onto a stool, his movements heavy and uncoordinated. He’s already drunk, his face flushed. Kristen looks up, her expression neutral but cautious. Lots of sad sacks come through the door. She doesn’t know Animal, but she’s seen his type before—guys who carry their anger on both shoulders, a weight they can’t put down.

She puts a tumbler of whiskey and a bud down in front of him.

“Read my mind,” he mumbles.

He stares at the whiskey for a while, deep in thought. Or about to pass out. Kristen has a hard time telling the two apart sometimes.

“Rough day?” Kristen asks, her voice neutral but not unkind.

Animal doesn’t answer right away. He finally takes a drink, the whiskey burning its way down his throat. “Rough life,” he replies.

She doesn’t answer, just goes back to wiping the bar down.

Animal laughs, a short, bitter sound. “You ever feel like no matter what you do, you’re always the bad guy, always the one who’s wrong?”

“I try not to be,” she replies.

“Easy for you to say,” he mutters. “You’re not the one with a target on your back.”

“Target?” This is the sort of thing that worries Kristen. Downtown Beirut is tiny. When fights break out, there’s always a lot of collateral damage. If it’s not too bad she can use the bat and break things up. Or one of the other patrons will toss the guys out for her. She’s not had to call the cops yet, but, she thinks, the night is young. And this guy has an edge about him, a sheen of barely suppressed anger.

“Don’t worry, little lady, I’ll protect you,” he slurs. She hates that, stupid fucking drunk clichés, she’s heard them all, but she can’t ignore them because too often its a segue to aggression.

But maybe not with this one, she thinks. Maybe it's not anger he’s holding back, but something more like sadness. She walks to the other end of the bar and pulls him a glass of water. He doesn’t seem to notice when she puts it down in front of him.

“I’m a cop,” he says.

“Okay,” she replies.

He stands up and leaves a twenty on the bar. He barely touched the whiskey, and didn’t touch the beer at all. He looks like he’s about to cry, she thinks, with surprise.

“Hey,” she says as he heads to the door. “Find someone you trust you can talk to. It helps.”

He pauses. “What, like a professional?”

“Sure.”

He continues out the door. “Good idea”, he says.

Animal finds himself standing at a payphone outside a liquor store a few blocks away. He feeds a dime into the slot and dials Dr. Mackenzie's office.

The phone rings once, twice, three times. Just when he’s about to hang up, she answers.

“This is Gloria Mackenzie,” she says, her voice crisp and professional.

“Gloria, it’s John,” Animal says, his voice tight.

“John… Angelo? What’s wrong?”
“It’s some fuckin’ bullshit, Gloria…”

“John, please call me Dr. Mackenzie, You sound drunk. And I’m on my off hours. I was just heading home. Call me tomorrow and set up an appointment, okay?”
Silence from John.

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“Wait,” he says. “You said to call you but now you’re giving me the brush off?”
“I asked you to keep coming in for sessions, and I meant it and I still mean it now. Call tomorrow and I’ll find time for us.”

More silence from Animal.

“Goodbye, John.”

“Can you… I need to be not cleared for duty, Gloria. I need you to get me off the streets.”

There’s only silence. Then, a dial tone.

Panic floods up Animal’s throat. He crashes the handset onto the cradle with enough force to shatter it. His hand starts bleeding.

“FUCK!” he yells as loud as he can. He turns and sees an NYPD cruiser heading up the street towards him. He turns and walks as fast as he can in the opposite direction.

By the time he reaches his parents’ apartment building, he’s sweating and out of breath. He doesn’t want to face them, doesn’t want to hear his father’s venomous words or see his mother’s pathetic despair. But he has nowhere else to go.

The fire escape is rusted and creaky, the metal groaning under his weight. He climbs slowly, his movements careful but unsteady. Halfway up, his foot slips on a rung, and he grabs the railing just in time to stop himself from falling. His heart pounds in his chest as he looks down at the alley below.

He lets go.

However he lands, he thinks in the half second of freefall, whatever damage he does to himself, he probably deserves it.

He hits hard and lets out a cry of pain. No one hears, comes to a window, and looks down in concern. No one notices and calls 911. No one sees him at all.

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Continues weekly.

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