I'll Get You Your Whiskey.

A short story by Robert Cormack.

“Fatherhood is great because you can ruin someone from scratch.” Jon Stewart

Walking along the street the other day, I saw this elderly man lying in the gutter. He was wedged between a car and the curbing. One hand, purple from the cold, was reaching for his cane on the sidewalk. He was wearing a duffle coat, somewhat old, but his pants had a crease and his shoes were Florsheim wingtips. As he reached for his cane, wisps of his hair blew in the breeze, and his nose was red. It was a deep red, a tired red.

“Are you okay,” I asked.

He looked up at me like I was crazy.

“I most certainly am not,” he said, still trying to grab his cane.

I bent down and got him back up on his feet.

“I just meant, did you break anything,” I asked.

“Would I be standing like this if I’d broken something? Help me to my house. It’s just over there.”

All the houses looked like that. I doubt any of them were under a million. The one he was leading me to now was likely closer to two.

He was pointing to a red brick Georgian with white columns and a flagstone porch. You half expected to see one of those metal jockeys standing there. All the houses looked like that. I doubt any of them were under a million. The one he was leading me to now was likely closer to two.

“Well, come on,” he said. “Get my cane. I haven’t got all day.”

I grabbed his cane and led him up the flagstone walk to this big white door. He reached around in his duffle coat for the keys. “Put your hand in there and see if you can find them,” he said. “My hands are numb.”

It was late March, coming up to Easter. I’d been thinking about Easter. It’d been three months since I worked last. I’d said to myself, “You’ll have something by Easter,” but I wasn’t even close to finding a job.

I’d been contacting most of the advertising agencies. Nobody needed a copywriter, least of all an unemployed one. Imagine being in your early thirties and nobody needs you. It was depressing and I probably looked depressed.

As for why I was in this neighbourhood, I liked wandering through rich areas. I imagined someone coming out of their house, seeing me, and striking up a conversation. At the end, they’d say, “Give me a call sometime. There’s always a place in my organization for a fellow like you.”

He didn’t even say thanks when I found the keys in his coat pocket and opened the door.

It never happened, of course, any more than it was going to happen with this old guy today. He didn’t even say thanks when I found his keys and opened the door. He walked in, hung his cane on the bannister, and took off his duffle coat.

“What’re you standing there for?” he said.

He flopped his hands at his side and shook his head.

“Young people,” he said, shuffling through these French doors into a living room. There were two beige couches facing each other in front of a white marble fireplace. The rug was worn, but good quality, as were the drapes, the antique furniture, and a humidor the size of a racing trophy.

“Is that door closed?” he said. “Something’s blowing through here. Close the goddamn thing. How many times you gotta be told?”

He was opening an ornate cabinet. It contained a number of crystal decanters with glasses hanging on the inside of the doors. The decanters were mostly empty. So were the liquor bottles on the shelves below.

“My daughter was supposed to go to the liquor store,” he said. “You got family?” He kept moving bottles around, putting some of the empty ones on top of the cabinet. “Toss these in the garbage, will you?” he said.

He went over and sat down on one of the sofas. The glass coffee table was covered in magazines and newspapers. “Toss all this shit, too. What are you waiting for?”

“Where’s your garbage?” I asked.

“In the kitchen,” he said.

I got a tumbler out of the cupboard, filled it, brought it to the living room. He was trying to untie one of his shoes.

I gathered up the newspapers, magazines, empty bottles, and took them out to the kitchen. The garbage can was already full. I stacked the newspapers and magazines next to it, then put the bottles on top. For some reason, I figured I should get the old guy a glass of water. I took a tumbler out of the cupboard, filled it, brought it to the living room. He was trying to untie one of his shoes.

“What the hell is that?” he asked.

“I thought you might need some water,” I said.

“What for?” he said. “Fish piss in it. You drink piss? I don’t. You gonna just stand there, or are you gonna help me with my shoes?”

I came over, untied his shoes, and took them off.

“My slippers are by the door,” he said. “The front door, dummy. Where the hell else do you think they’d be? C’mon, my feet are cold.”

I got his slippers.

“Well, put them on my feet,” he said.

“Hell, even my dog would’ve answered by now.”

I put the slippers on his feet. He was wearing silk socks. One of them had a hole in the toe. He kept looking at me like I was crazy. “You gonna answer or what?” he said. “I asked if you had family. Then I asked if you drink piss.” He flopped his hand again. “Hell, even my dog would’ve answered by now.”

“You have a dog?” I asked.

“Do you see a dog? She took the goddamn dog.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yes, my daughter,” he said, getting up again. “Said nobody’d buy this place smelling of dog. You smell dog? My dog never shit or pissed in this house. Serves me right for making daughter dear my executor.”

“I should go,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

He turned and looked at me. Suddenly his eyes were all glassy.

“Go on, then,” he said. “Beat it. Everyone else has. You know what happens the minute this house is sold? She’ll put me in one of those homes. It’s all that Power of Attorney crap. My whole family agrees with her, of course. They all figure she’s the lawyer, she knows.”

“She can’t make you sell, can she?” I asked.

“You even listening, dummy?” he said. “She’s got Power of Attorney.” He sat back down and stretched out his legs. “It’s her mother,” he said. “I left her at the alter. Didn’t even know she was pregnant. Next thing I know, I got a paternity suit. Cost me plenty. Kid grows up, becomes a lawyer, then one day she shows up, saying, ‘Hey, pops, I’m yours.’”

“How’d she end up being your executor?”

“Can you do something for me?” he asked. “Don’t give me a gibberish answer, either. I’m asking straight out.”

“I died, that’s why,” he said. “Had a stroke. They brought me back. Family gave her carte blanche after that. They think she’s the cat’s meow.” He ran his fingers through his last wisps of hair. “Can you do something for me?” he asked. “Don’t give me a gibberish answer, either. I’m asking straight out.”

“What?”

“You know where the liquor store is?”

“I passed it. Why?”

“I want a bottle of whiskey, that’s why,” he said, trying to reach in his pants pocket. “My hands are still numb. Reach in and get my wallet.”

I reached in his pocket and took out his wallet. I tried handing it to him, but he waved my hand away. “Take what you need,” he said. “Wiser’s Deluxe. Bring me Gibson’s, I’ll send you back.”

I took two twenties out of his wallet and held them up. He waved me away again. He stared at the fireplace even though there wasn’t a fire.

“If I buy your whiskey,” I said. “Will you promise to call somebody?”

“Why?” he said.

“I’m worried about leaving you alone.”

He went all glassy-eyed again.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll call somebody.”

“You promise?”

“You wanna watch me do it?” he said, grabbing an old rotary phone on the side table next to the couch. “Go get my whiskey before they close.”

I went inside and heard voices in the living room. A woman was standing in the middle of the room.

I went to the store, got his whiskey, came back. There was a car in the driveway. It was a silver BMW. The engine was still running. Light puffs of exhaust rose in the air. I noticed the old guy’s front door was open. I went inside and heard voices coming from the living room. A woman was standing in the middle of the room. She looked to be in her early forties, business type, hair pulled back.

When she saw me, she turned to the old man.

“Who’s this?” she said to him.

“A friend,” he shrugged.

She looked at the liquor store bag in my hand.

“That’s just great,” she said, walking past me out the door. She went to the car, got in, and drove away screeching her tires.

“Was that your daughter?” I asked.

“Miranda,” he said.

“Will she come back?”

“Who says I want her back?” he said. “Get some glasses and open that bottle. There’s an ice bucket out there somewhere.” He stretched out his legs and looked at the hole in the silk sock of his right foot. “Showed up one day calling me ‘pops,’” he said. “Nobody ever called me pops except her. None of my other kids.”

He looked at me standing there.

“Well?” he said. “Open that whiskey.”

I went to the kitchen and found the ice bucket, filled it with ice, then splashed some whiskey in a glass. He was still staring at the fireplace when I came back. Only now it was turned on. He’d gotten up and turned it on while I was mixing his drink. It was getting dark. The only light was coming from the fireplace. I put the glass of whiskey and ice bucket down on the coffee table. He didn’t even seem to notice.

“I’m going,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

“Is there anyone else you can call?”

“No,” he said. “The rest of them won’t come.”

“You want some lights on?”

“Go on,” he said, “You’ve done your good deed for the day. Where’s the change?”

“Why the hell would I want the lights on?” he said. “Go on,” he said, “You’ve done your good deed for the day. Where’s the change?”

“I put it in the liquor bag,” I said.

He chuckled at that. He reached over, put some ice in his glass, then drank the whiskey down in one gulp. He poured another.

“You’re one hell of a chump, you know that?” he said. “Doing all this stuff. Why didn’t you tell me to go to hell?”

“I felt sorry for you, I guess,” I said.

“What’re you doing walking around in the middle of the day? Can’t find work or don’t want work? Want it easy, don’t, dummy? Probably figured I’d give you some kinda reward.”

I didn’t bother answering. He could think what he wanted.

Then he held both arms up, one hand holding the drink, the other making a fist.

Out on the front porch, I could see in the living room window. There he was, his face lit by the fireplace, pouring another drink. He held it up in the air like he was toasting something. Then he held both arms up, one hand holding the drink, the other making a fist.

It was like he was cheering himself on, living one more day on his own terms, not giving a damn about anybody else.

Robert Cormack is a novelist, journalist and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores. Check out Robert’s other articles and stories at robertcormack.net or join https://robertcormack.medium.com/membership