Sinners and Saints

“Aye, I need a rum and coke down ‘ere!” grunted the scruffy looking man, banging on the counter in front of him. It was half past midnight, and James McGard had long passed tipsy, and was now completely wasted. James had left work early that Friday, and headed down to the local bar; which was what he did most nights.

“Sorry, mate. But I can’t serve you anymore alcohol. I’m going to have to cut you off,” the bartender said.

“Eh, ta hell with ya,” James slurred, violently pushing back his barstool. As he stood up, he paused for a few minutes to gain his composure, the dim light casting an eerie glow on his face. Slinging his sport coat over his shoulder, he unsteadily walked out of the bar.

Walking down the now empty suburban streets of New Jersey, Mr. McGard started mumbling things to himself, most of which were indecipherable. As he turned left, walking down a dark alley, he heard rustling from the piles of garbage ahead of him.

“’o’s there?” he called out. An ungracefully thin man stepped out of the shadows. He reached his hand into his obviously dirty trench coat, and pulled out a small baggie. James squinted his eyes.

”Ah, Donovitch, my good man!” James exclaimed, as he now recognized his usual dealer. He pulled a wad of cash out of his wrinkly dress pants, and slapped it into the palm of Donovitch. Donovitch then slipped the small baggie into the front pocket James’s shirt. Donovitch, satisfied with his earnings, stepped back into the shadows and nestled himself behind the dumpster. Stepping in a few puddles on his way, James continued down the alley to the children’s park where he often went after dark, when he was much too drunk. He stepped into the sand, which made him more unstable than he already was. Grabbing onto the swing nearest him, he carefully maneuvered himself onto the seat. Pulling out an already-rolled joint and a lighter from his pocket, he lit up, and inhaled deeply.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, a woman sat in the living room of her cookie cutter house, the lamp beside her switched on. The light that shone through the window of her house was the only light that lit up the street. All was silent, except for the familiar barking of one of the neighbors’ dog. She sat silently, uneasily; her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. She sat facing the wall. Her shoulder-length dirty blonde hair sat in a mess of tangles. She still had traces of her crime on her hands. What she had done was very un-like her. She was a friendly person; the type of person who helped with bake sales and fundraisers for charity. She couldn’t handle what she had done. And soon, she was about the snap.

Muttering to herself, she pushed herself off of the sofa, and walked calmly over to her desk against the wall. She pulled out a piece of stationary and a pen. She began scribbling, explaining everything that she had done, her tears smudging the ink. She signed her name, Greta Wallace, at the bottom, and carried it upstairs, where she laid it on her bed, propped up by her husband’s pillow. Her husband would be home from his business trip tomorrow, and would find the note soon enough. She trotted back down the stairs into the pantry, where she grabbed an assortment of prescription medicine; then over to the fridge where she pulled out a full bottle of rum, and a full bottle of vodka. Struggling, she carried all items up to her bedroom, where she placed them on her beside table.

The man pushed himself back and forth on the swing, stamping out the butt of his joint in the sand. He could see inside the windows of one of the houses nearby. A woman was soothing her crying baby. He thought back to his family. The one he used to have before he flushed his future down the drain. He could barely remember their faces at this point. Julia. He thought of his beautiful wife, and their two sons. He tried to remember the last time he saw them; it was in the morning, a few years ago. His wife was getting the boys ready for school.

“Will you play baseball with me after school, dad?” his youngest had asked.
“You bet’cha.” He had replied with a smile.

Although when he came home after work that day, he was greeted by an empty house. All of Julia’s stuff was gone, as well as the boys’. A letter was taped to the fridge. She had just up and left. And according to her, she was going to live a better life with Gus, a doctor. He was devastated; he had never suspected an affair. The house had too many memories, so he sold it. And now, he could barely afford rent for the small, rundown, one bedroom apartment he now lived in. Getting up from the swing, he walked to the parking lot, which was where he had parked his car. Trying to guide his keys into the ignition, he missed. He tried again, slower, and more careful this time; he missed again. The next time, he used his left hand to steady his right hand; third times a charm. He turned the keys, starting the engine, and put the car into reverse, backing out of his parking space. While driving on the nearly empty streets, James kept increasing speed. As he kept going faster, he was having trouble reading street signs. James ran a stop sign, and swerved, trying to avoid hitting oncoming traffic. It happened very suddenly, but to James, even in his drunken state, it was like it was happening in slow motion. After narrowly missing an SUV, James drove his car off of a bridge, landing in a small river 30 feet below. Rubber on pavement and crunching metal could be heard miles away.

Greta adjusted her radio so it was now playing a soft piano tune. Candles were lit all around the room, casting a dim glow. She lay in bed, propping her head up against the headboard. She closed her eyes, and relaxed her shoulders. Reaching over, she grabbed the bottle of rum, and one of the many bottles of pills. Pouring out five pills into her hand, she threw them into her mouth, and then washed them down with a swig of alcohol. She did it again, and then again. She continued this process until everything she had brought up was empty. Closing her eyes once more, she drifted into long, uneasy sleep.