Small Change

A tangle of Mariachi music wrapped around Tom as he sat at the bar, staring at the worm in the bottom of a bottle of Tequila. He never had liked the thought of a little creature living at the bottom of a bottle of liquor.

It reminded him too much of himself.

Wrapped in a cocoon of alcohol for all its days, never quite leaving that drunken state.

He took another swig of scotch, grimacing as it burned its way down to his stomach, where it mingled with bad street food and last night's beer run and pure unadulterated remorse.

The last time he had been this drunk, he'd killed Jim.

It was a shock, even to him, to think about it in such stark terms. He didn't like to think about it.

Who would?

"It was an accident," he mumbled to himself. The barmaid looked at him, confused, and pushed a bowl of peanuts his way.

"No, no, gracias," he said, trying to push them back. She looked at him again, quirking a dark eyebrow.

"Si! Bueno," she said, pouring a few out in front of him. He sighed and popped them in his mouth, smiling ruefully at her. She beamed back and then turned, wiping down a glass.

He chewed the peanuts slowly, deliberately, thinking about the last time he'd eaten peanuts.

It had been the night he killed Jim.

His heart twisted and twitched as his gut boiled and tears stung his eyes.

The sun set late that night. It was April. The night was almost warm and the air had a promise of heat in it and the horse races were starting up.

"Who you think is gonna come in first tomorrow?" Jim asked, popping a few barbecued peanuts into his mouth. Tom had shrugged.

"I would put my money on Black Betty," he said, downing the last of his fourth highball glass of bourbon. Jim looked at him, that damn motherly look written all over his mug.

"You really need another drink?" he asked, pointing to the half empty beer beside him and the remnants of the bourbon melting with the last of the ice in the bottom of the highball glass. Tom narrowed his eyes.

"Had a fight with Lisa. She wants a baby. We can't have a baby right now and she damn well knows that. So yes, Jim, I really need another drink. Mind your own, man."

Jim shook his head, tracing the water stains on the bar.

"Just don't get too screwed over. Sorry you're fighting with Lisa. But about the races. Man, you have an in! I need to know, for real. Who should I put my money on? I don't think anything of that Black Betty. Too stringy. And I don't like mares, you know that. Tell me a good gelding. Good, strong, built gelding. Like myself. 'Cept I'm a stallion," he chuckled.

It grated on Tom's nerves.

"Black Betty is a perfectly good horse. Seen her run myself. She's got what it takes. However, if you're gonna be stupid, there's a bay gelding named Sunshine's Redeemer that's looking okay. But he won't win anything --hey, barkeep, can I get another over here?-- that I know for sure."

Jim shook his head and Tom looked at him defiantly, keeping his eyes pasted on Jim while he drained the glass.

"Easy, buddy. Come on. Let's get you home," Jim clucked, hoisting himself off the stool.

The Eagles were playing and the barkeep was laughing and the sawdust under Jim's feet crunched nicely. There were plenty of people, the crack of pool balls everywhere, and somewhere, someone was doing a damn fine Elvis impersonation.

Tom didn't want to leave.

"No, you go on. I'll get myself home," he mumbled, rolling a piece of ice around in his mouth.

Jim looked at him like he was crazy or stupid or both.

"And let you drive in this state? I might as well save you the trouble and wrap you 'round a light pole myself. 'Sides, it's nearly 2:30. You really should be getting home. Come on, now."

Tom set his jaw.

"I ain't leaving, Jim. You can go on and leave me here or you can shut up and wait on me. Barkeep, gimme a beer."

Jim sighed, running a hand through his shock of silver hair. His dark eyes darted around and a muscle twitched in his skinny face.

"You come with me or else I'll drag you off that stool, bud. Don't think I won't. And don't think running from home is gonna help your problems. Maybe a baby would be a good idea. Maybe it'd keep you from drinking. You drink too much, Tom. I don't like it anymore. Ain't nothing funny about being a drunk."

Tom's temper flared. He got off the stool and slapped a twenty down on the bar and stalked out, putting his hand in his coat. He grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, trying to calm down. As they walked out into the alley, Tom turned to Jim, poking a finger in his chest.

"You just leave off talking about my life, you got it? I don't drink too much. And I'll deal with my problems. Ain't none of your business."

Jim held up his hands.

"Fine, Tom. Just don't make it my business. Don't call me up and tell me to come down to the bar and drink with you if all you're gonna do is pout. You've got a good job, a good woman, and a good life. Don't screw it up with too much drinking."

Tom punched Jim. He didn't know why he did. He just did.

And Jim punched back, slugging Tom squarely in the jaw. After that, it was all out. A drunken fight raging in an abandoned alley at 2:30 at night.

Tom and Jim had fought before, but never like this. There was fierceness in Tom's eyes that scared Jim, but he was pissed off enough to keep throwing punches. Slick black leather shoes scuffed on the asphalt and a button popped off Tom's jean jacket when Jim grabbed him. Jim groaned, cussing under his breath as Tom landed a lucky shot to his jaw.

Jim threw a punch blindly, his eyes stinging. It caught Tom in the stomach and Tom kicked out at him, hitting him square in the groin and then Jim kneed him in the stomach and finally Tom grabbed Jim's collar and slammed him down on the concrete. There was a sickening thud and a crack and Jim's eyes went wide. Tom couldn't breathe. A trickle of blood started to run out from under Jim's head, turning his silver hair rust red.

"Jim? Jim? Oh, God, Jesus, and Mary, man, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Tom chanted, lifting Jim's head up and cradling him in his lap. All the anger had burned out of him and was now replaced with a slack sense of terror that he'd never felt before. Tom couldn't breathe. His chest felt like it was being pressed in from every side and his legs went weak as Jim's face went pale. "I'm gonna get you to a hospital, man, hold on."

Jim gasped, his whole body tensing up.

"Why'd you do it, Tom?" he croaked, the vessels in his eyes bursting like fireworks. Tom could see each of them in the dim light of the street lamp. His eyes were streaked with red and he started coughing, blood dribbling down his chin.

"Jim? Oh, God, man, come on!" Tom cried, trying to hoist Jim up onto his feet. But Jim shuddered and a strangled breath slipped out from between his lips and then he went limp, his bloodshot eyes rolling back up into his head.

Tom dropped him and his head cracked against the concrete a second time.

There lay Jim, his best friend in the entire world, with his stupid silver hair that he was so proud of and his lanky fingers and arms and legs and that stupid leather jacket that he wore all the time ripped where Tom had grabbed him and his dirty jeans were wrinkled and the outline of his can of snuff still stuck out from his pocket and all of him was just there on the street, crumpled up like an old cigarette box that someone had thrown out.

Tom ran. He didn't know what else to do. He ran home and packed a bag and changed his clothes and washed his hands and then he hopped in his old puke yellow El Camino and made a run for the border.

Mexico was where people ran when they were in trouble, right?

That had been two months ago. And Tom still remembered it like it had happened ten minutes ago. He could still see Jim all wasted on the street, he could still hear him laughing in the bar.

Tom closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. Jim had only been trying to help him out.

But he'd killed him. Killed like a dog and left him to lie there in the street. Hell, he didn't even know what people were saying. He was sure someone had to be looking for him. Maybe they thought he was dead too. Maybe they knew he had killed him.

He wondered what Jim's funeral had been like. He liked to think it was a nice affair. He liked to think that lots of people came and cried and mourned. But it probably had just been Jim's mom and pop and his little sister Kate and Lisa and their few other friends.

And they all probably wondered where he was.