Alone at the bar. Scotch on the rocks and a sock in his hand.
A little blonde boy, a mop of messy curls, pudgy fingers clasped in the hand of a woman with tired eyes and a familiar face. Blue eyes glisten as the other boys laugh. He throws like a girl but it's the only way his mother knows how. Trembling hands a sticky crimson, razor forgotten on the floor and tissues won't stop the bleeding, soaked and stuck to a gash that will never quite heal. James just doesn't have the time to teach him. Under over over under. The gown is itchy and the cap is all wrong and he can't give a speech with a tie that looks like that. Mr. Nelson puts him out of his misery.
Loretta taught him to love a woman and Shannon taught him never to do it again. Robin taught him every rule has an exception but no one ever taught him how to live, that being in love was committing slow suicide and forcing yourself to watch. He had to learn the hard way.
Real men drank scotch and John Wayne smoked cigars but no one ever told him it would feel like fire going down, that smoke would sear and suffocate, that the burning lingered like a memory long after the liquor was gone. He learned to love the pain on his own.
His drink is almost empty and it's more than the scotch that's burning but no one ever taught him how to take it like a man. Still that little blonde boy, a mop of messy curls and blue eyes glisten, looking up from his glass for a man to look up to. He learned to shave, to throw, to tie his tie. He made it up as he went along. But some things he can't learn the hard way. Some things he can't pretend. He will never be a father. There was never anyone to teach him how. No child should suffer for his mistakes.
But there's a sock in his hand and it's all he can see. A little blonde boy, a mop of messy curls, pudgy fingers clasped in the hand of a woman with tired eyes and a face he doesn't remember. Somewhere right now, playing catch with his mother, with no one to teach him to throw a punch or stand up for his friends, looking up for a man who isn't there, a man still looking for someone to look up to. No one to teach him that love hurts and life is hard. Another lost boy, just like his old man. But he never calls so he'll never know, and some things never change.
Childless by choice. Like father, like son.
The phone rings. 2 AM. He doesn't say a word. Just her name. Practically pleading, two strained syllables, and somehow it doesn't matter what he wants. She could never say no.
2:30 AM. A karaoke bar on 5th. Empty glass and an empty orchestra, slumped over a table with his head in his hands. He doesn't say a word. She orders another round.
4 AM. Waiting for a cab, his arm around her shoulders, her arm around his waist. He can stand on his own but they both know he needs this even if he doesn't say so. She is here and he is not alone.
In the back seat in the darkness and finally he meets her eyes. Thrashing and writhing, burning and gasping and drowning in pain. She sees it all. He gives her the sock, looks down at his hands. A small, choked voice. A distraught little boy.
"I always swore I wouldn't...but somehow...I still became my father."