We weren't his most frequented location; that would be Jimmy's five blocks north. Hank had been coming here irregularly over the past couple years, a new patron born of the same stories I heard from so many others. Divorce, death, drugs, depression, and no one to accompany him on these nightly endeavors to the bottom of a glass. With each subsequent turn to midnight he was slowly getting worse, sometimes coming to ours after already hitting one or two prior, with darker eyes and tighter fists around etched glass tumblers.
The very first night I met Hank I was late to my shift, car having stalled out on a side road just before the green light; it was the day after Thanksgiving of '35 when all were picking up their shiny new androids as part of the Black Friday sales, the violent peak of consumerism in a day and age where, even with the tantalizing erotic thrill of online shopping from your toilet seat, people still needed to participate in the physical selfish sadomasochism of going to the mall .
I am thankful for my friends, family, and this killer stuffing and potatoes. Now gimmie a fucking television, you prick.
I didn't recognize him at first but I had seen the recent story in the news about his son, the photographs and disrespectful cameras in grieving faces; it was on every local channel due to his status in the police force. An intrusion into his personal life set on repeat over the course of a week from accident to funeral that we all knew led to this spiral and my heart broke for the man. His heart and his identity went into the dark and silent ground to be with his son, morphed and transformed into something grim and unrecognizable. I almost dared to open my mouth to a coworker but was silenced with a jab to my ribs and a nod to shut the fuck up and take care of him with a steady amber stream.
That's a sad story, John. Next to Nancy for the weather.
It wasn't until a few months later under slowly growing hair and free-fired middle fingers that he alluded to divorce, going on a tirade about that fucking bitch leaving him for some fucking cocksucker because at least that fucking prick was sober .
With each clattered stool against grubby floor tiles, he would stay until we kicked him out with the other imbibers of routine squalor, but my guilt rode home with him unacknowledged in the Oldsmobile's bumpy trunk.
Over the past year, I had started to drive him home on nights when he was too drunk to make it back safely. Every time I cut him off, his hand snuck behind the counter and he'd toss me a twenty for my troubles and honestly, I needed the cash. Sobriety was a lost cause; hauling his drunk ass was the least I could do.
The first time I decided to act as chauffeur, I yelled at him to stay put until I was done closing.
"Not interested in a hookup, honey."
"Neither am I, jackass. I'm taking you home."
"You don't even know where I live."
"I know you're not far from Eden. You've pointed that out enough. Now let's move it."
I nearly had to drag him to my car as he gave me a "The fuck you doing?" before I strapped him in like a cantankerous child.
After a couple nights like this, he acclimated to my offers without much complaint but little spoken gratitude given my own pain-in-the-dick attitude.
Hard to say no to a woman with easy access to the gun in your pants .
We didn't talk much during these rides, perhaps a comment on the shitty weather or fucking androids . Perhaps his pride clogged his throat, not wanting to depend on others, but resigned to do so given his inebriation. On several occasions, I helped him puke up in his front yard, holding his hair back and wiping his mouth on my sleeve, and I at least made sure he made it inside his house before heading home myself.
He owed me several new shirts and one pair of pants which I was able to purchase given his hefty tips in shot glasses.
Each time he returned with unspoken thanks by way of a few more bucks shoved in my apron pockets and subtle nods, never telling me exactly why he was doing this to himself, though it was fairly obvious to discern given the aforementioned news broadcasts and loss of family.
He spent holidays at the bars, his birthday, always alone, focused on the games on TV, maybe a round of pool, maybe getting into - and winning - a couple fights, and never once mentioning his personal horrors; the night already knew and would hold his grief for as long as he was still alive to experience it. I feared there may not be too many nights left for the man.
One such night in early fall of '37, I finally couldn't take the sight of his struggles; I helped him out of my car and we trudged up to his front door. His bickering grumbles of" I'm fine" fell to the concrete steps as I fished the keys out of his jacket pocket - "Hey hey, no touching!" - and tossed him inside where he collapsed nose first on the floor.
"Jesus Christ," he groaned. He managed to push himself up enough that I was able to wheelbarrow drag him into the bathroom. This was the first time I had actually made it inside his house, past the sofa with clothes piled over, the trashbags filled on the floor but not removed, bottles lining the hallway in the style of an airport tarmac. His gigantic Saint Bernard came over to sniff to make sure all was well with his drunken out-of-sorts owner and taken care of before he lumbered off to stretch out on the only naked patch of hardwood floor.
Dad's fine.
Hank collapsed in front of the toilet, head hung low in wait for the waterwall.
More like a deluge .
I sat next to him against the bathtub.
"You can go home, Alex. Don't really need you watching me."
"I disagree, Hank. I think -"
I bolted forward to tuck the hair behind his ears and hold a hand to his back as the sick started.
" - I think I'm going to stay here til you're done."
Between coughs he managed to glare at me. "Don't need you."
"Yeah, ya do. I'm guessing I'm the only person you got who actually helps you get home. Am I right?"
He grunted again and laid his forehead on his arms against the seat. I flushed the toilet and he collapsed back on his palms, head hung heavy, panting in disgust.
"Fucking Christ. If you're gonna start inviting yourself in, how 'bout you make yourself useful and get me a goddamn shirt."
I left him on the bathroom floor where he was groaning into the tiles and found an old DPD shirt from the floor beside his bed. I shook it out. Not stained, at least . I tossed it at him upon return but he didn't budge.
"Do you need help?" I asked.
"What?"
"Come on." I bent down, planting my feet firmly to either side of his head and began to peel the shirt up and over - he didn't even bother struggling against me, he was so fucked up - tossing it at the hamper in the corner. I didn't have long to look, but this revealed a large chest tattoo, some traditional-Americana-like piece with a feminine profile in the middle.
"Woah, hey, no need to be ogling, I got it." He snatched the clean shirt from where I had thrown it on the floor, managing to at least sit cross legged as he covered himself.
"You can leave now," he said. He started to stand but grabbed my arm for support and I tugged him straight up, only releasing after his eyes focused and he peered down at me again. "I'm fine, Alex. Go home."
I sighed in resignation. "Okay. I'll make sure your dog has food before I leave. You're gonna be out for a while."
"Sumo," he said. "His name is Sumo."
I reluctantly left Hank to the bathroom as I scooped out sufficient dinner for Sumo and then departed for the night.
A couple weeks passed before he returned, his usual turnaround time. He clattered into his stool and I slid over to greet him with a napkin.
"Hey, thanks for uh, you know..."
That must have been hard for him to admit.
"Don't worry about it, Hank. But I need to start cutting you off a little sooner. I hate seeing you like that."
"Got a better idea. Just fuckin' drive me home."
"Naturally."
When I dropped him off shortly before midnight, I hesitated on the gear shift. I was concerned and vastly overdue to ignore his wishes. I shifted back into Park and jogged up the short sidewalk to help him with the front door.
"Fuck you doin'?"
As I scooped him to my side in one arm and kicked the door open with my opposite foot, I helped him over the threshold, knocking the door closed with my heel.
"Have you ever stopped to think that maybe you should try sobering up for Sumo?"
"I don't appreciate the guilt trip, Alex. Sumo's fine . Go home."
I finally released him and he dragged himself to his bathroom without removing any of his outerwear and also without shutting the door as I heard him unzip.
Daringly, I went over and leaned against the wall just outside the open door. I heard a flush and the clatter of the toilet lid, then a heavy clank indicating he must have sat down. I turned the corner to witness him bent over, head full in his hands, fingers hidden under that messy threaded mop.
"What do you want now?" he groaned.
I entered and plopped down opposite him against the sink cabinet. His bathroom was spacious enough I could stretch out my legs.
"Gonna start bringing you home sooner."
"You said that and I don't see you following through, which makes you a fuckin' liar."
"Yeah, well...I can't afford not to make those fat tips…Look, I get why you're doing this. Why you feel like you have to drown yourself every week. Wish I could. It's been too long."
"You know fuck all… And too long since what?"
"Story for another time, Hank."
"You start blabbering, just fucking tell me. Need a distraction from this headache. Made the stupid mistake of going to the doctors, gave me some shit for my heart."
"Mixing alcohol and prescription meds now? Come on. You know better than that."
"Wish I didn't. Spit it out."
"You and I...we met before. Years ago. My brother was caught up in your task force raid. I remember when I paid his bail, you were there, gave me the nastiest fuck you look, like I shouldn't be putting him back out on the streets. Thing is, you were right. He OD'd three days later. Sometimes I wonder if I had left him where you put him, if he'd still be alive."
Hank looked at me with a gradual sobering realization. " Shit , you're right. You were what, 17?"
"Hah, not quite. I was 22, he was 20."
"Jesus. You're young."
"Oh fuck off, Hank. I'm 32. I'm not that young and I sure don't feel like it. Not after growing up with a brother like that. It puts you through the ringer. Believe it or not, he was a good kid when we were young. But then, I dunno, peer pressure or something caught up to him. He got wrapped up with the wrong crew and fucked it up after that. I could only try to help so many times. Almost ten years ago. Feels like yesterday you were wishing for my head at the station."
The man I had seen back then and the one sitting before me now were strangers to each other; a model police officer, clean and trim, wouldn't dare imagine himself to be sitting where he was now, fucked up on the bathroom floor with a girl that wasn't his wife.
He sat up just enough to clasp his hands between his knees.
"Sorry to hear that," he said.
"Don't be. It was ages ago...Hank, you got a bit of uh -" I wagged a finger at his beard. "I think it's chicken."
He vigorously combed his fingers through, missing it at every turn. I giggled and stood, wetting a small towel in the sink then returned to wipe down his face. "I don't even remember you eating anything. You look like shit." He grimaced at first, slowly relaxing as I went over his eyes and mouth, picking out the lost poultry from between his hairs to flick into the garbage can in the corner.
His eyes darted around, unsure where to settle. The spot on the tiles would do.
"Look, I'll uh, I'll get going, I think. You're not as bad as last time. But I would really like to clean up your house for you."
"Don't start inviting yourself over, Alex. I walk around naked and no one needs to see that. Especially not a young girl like you."
"Oh for fuck's sake, Hank. Please."
"What?"
"I already told you to fuck off with this young shit. Second, it probably wouldn't be the worst dick I've ever seen. I'm going now. All right? If I don't see you at the bar, then I'll drop by to make sure you're doing okay. I need to sanitize this place, holy shit ."
"Gonna regret it," he said.
"We're not discussing your cock anymore, Hank. Good night ."
We kept this routine up for a few more visits during which time, despite his constant agitation and griping -
"The fuck you keep following me in for? "
"Told you I don't need your help."
"Thought I told you to fuck off, Al."
- I gave his house a thorough scrub and did his laundry as he sat on the couch with his drinks and television and LPs, ignoring me at every moment until he'd pass out in numb satisfaction.
I should have invested in some medical masks for this chore because his boxers were just a tad too ripe.
A/N: Welcome. This is going to be fairly short, blunt, and frustrating. If you're looking for a happy story, walk away now, because we all know that Hank's outlook on life doesn't even remotely improve until Connor and the game's good ending. I can neither confirm nor deny if any other canon characters are planned to appear in this fic.
If you're coming here from 'Experiences, Connor', this is the story of Hank's old mystery woman, so I guess kind of a spoiler alert, but if you haven't noticed already, I'm big into the non-linear. My plan at the moment is to tie the two stories together near their ends and experience the same scene/s from both OC's perspectives. This fic is kinda my way to experiment with narrative structures and multiple 1st person POVs since I've never done anything of this magnitude before. If you've ever read the Divergent series and then Four, that's kinda the storytelling style I want to play with near the end. 'Experiences, Connor' is the main fic, and 'Hankerings' will divulge a little extra information. But if you're reading 'Hankerings' without having read 'Experiences,' that's okay. I'm treating this as a standalone story in its own right. Also if anyone's wondering about Hank's tattoo, it's from the game's concept art by Mikael Leger. ~ AM