My Drinking Buddy

by Lloyd B. Abrams

Eddie Hotchkiss was bearded, big and burly. He wasn’t a really good friend, though we hung out a lot. He was more of a drinking buddy. He often regaled us with stories from his time in Nam, where his head would always return to once he got a couple of drinks in him.

When he’d show up at Flanagan’s, it was always like a storm blew in when he’d yank the door open, and barge in, booming “How’s all of yuz doin?” I know there were some who thought he was rude and intrusive, especially Alice Ray, who sat by herself at the end of the bar near the window, nursing glass after glass of red wine, waiting for a gentleman caller who had never shown and would never show up. Alice Gams we liked to call her, the way she sat with her split skirt-up-to-there mimicking actresses from 1940s black and whites.

Eddie would sometimes mosey over to Alice and try to kiss her on the cheek. When she’d push him away saying, “Leave me alone, you big brute ... I’m waitin on someone,” he’d burst out laughing, saying, “Maybe ya should be waitin on me!”

But then I’d notice Alice’s tell. She’d sit up a bit straighter, and smile, but just briefly.

Eddie would work his way to the far end of the bar, where some of us’d be drinking Bud on tap – none of that light beer crap – watching baseball, basketball or whatever on the big flat screen. He’d slap me on the back, and say, “How ya doin Danny Boy?”

“Fine and dandy, Eddie. You?”

“I’m good, man. Real good.” One time I caught a glimpse of ol’ Alice rolling her eyes.

And we’d sip real slow so our twenties and the change on the bar would last longer, and if it were Christmas time, it meant Eddie was usually buying, because he was flush. He was Santa Claus up at the mall and Santa Claus at Flanagan’s. Nobody ever turned him down. Except Alice.

It was my good season, too ... well, as good as it would ever get. I drive a fuel truck for Family Oil so my job was seasonal as well – not as short a season as Eddie’s but I still got nothing coming in during the summer. But at least in the summer, I can scrub away the black goo around my nails, the black in every split on my fingers, every wrinkle on my hand. But best of all, I’m free of that stench of oil that fills my pores and seems to follow me around. As Alice once put it, “You know somethin Danny? You stink. It’s that oil. Or that kerosene. Ya gotta get yourself cleaned up and find yourself a girl.”

So what was the point? If I couldn’t even approach Alice without being brushed off, how could I make it with anyone else? I was 53 and living by myself. I suppose it was my own damn fault, but hey?

So Eddie and me and the others – we hung out at Flanagan’s when we had the money. He’d tell stories about picking up cadavers in the Mekong Delta, of scouting point up country, of being with teeny-bopper “hoo-ahs” during R&R down in Saigon, and he’d curse up a storm and stick in words like nigger and spic and hebe and spook and coon and chink and and gook. Eddie was in no way the poster boy for politically correct.

And we’d laugh and drink and it might embarrass or annoy other patrons of the bar but nobody really much cared. Everybody was always in good humor. And it wasn’t like Flanagan’s Tap Room was any kind of high class joint.

But I was getting to think that many of Eddie’s stories were a bunch of bullshit, and more than just exaggerations. One time he was telling a story about taking out a sniper from a couple hundred yards away. With an M-16 without a scope? Nah, I don’t think so. And his stories got more outlandish. He added details that weren’t mentioned the last time. And we’d call him on it, but he’d curse us out, and then we’d laugh and drink and we’d all have a good time, anyway.

It was close to two and the crowd was thinning out. Tommy rang the cow bell for last call and told us to start clearing out. He had to get home to get some sleep. And something about having to make it to a wedding.

Eddie and I took off walking, stopped at 7-Eleven and picked up a couple of Colt 45 forties. Eddie said, “Put your money away. I got this.”

I knew he lived somewhere on the west side of the creek that ran behind Lincoln High. I’d never been to his place, nor him to mine. Suddenly, he stopped, gasped and pointed down at a doubled-over black plastic tie on the sidewalk. “It’s a Jesus fish. It’s a sign,” he said. He was all serious. And for the moment he wasn’t slurring his words.

“It’s only a goddam piece a’ plastic,” I said.

“No, Danny. It ain’t. It’s trying to tell me somethin.”

“Waddya mean?”

“It means I gotta start doin somethin with my life. I gotta change. Everything’s been turnin to shit.”

“C’mon, man. Don’t say that.”

“Listen. I got the diabetes. My liver’s shot from all the drinkin. Fuckin look at me, Danny. Even at the V-A they say I’m killin myself ... I gotta do somethin.”

We turned onto the park pathway. Most of the length of the path was separated from the creek by reeds, but there was one spot where we could sit next to the water on a couple of trash cans turned on their sides. Sometimes I’d sit there by myself, feeding the ducks, the geese and those greedy, raucous gulls.

We cracked open our bottles. Sat sipping. It was real quiet, just like I like it. After two in the morning, mostly everyone’s asleep. Only a mockingbird doing its repertoire was interrupting our silence.

After a while, nature called. I got up, walked a bit along the bank of the creek and out of sight, then took a wizz. When I got back to the spot, Eddie was gone.

Only a minute or two had gone by. I looked up and down the path but there was no one there. I called out, “Eddie! Where are ya?” but there was no answer. I slogged up and down the bank of the creek but he still wasn’t there. I didn’t know why I bothered; he’d often just up and disappear without so much as a “see ya ’round.” Maybe it was the Jesus fish comment. Maybe it was something in the way he put it.

I didn’t feel much like finishing the bottle. I left it there and I went on home.

The next day was a Sunday. I woke up around noon. I looked up out of my basement apartment’s window. It was dark and dreary – just the way I felt the day after drinking – and it was drizzling. Damn it. I looked in the fridge. Nothing to eat – I’m gonna have to pick up some groceries. On days I’m off I usually take a walk in the afternoon to clear my head. If I stay home all day, I usually feel crappy. It was bad enough living by myself without being even more miserable.

I pulled on a wool sweater, slipped into my dark green Family Oil poncho and headed out towards the creek. A few county police cars and a couple of unmarkeds were parked near the gate into the park near where Eddie and I had hung out. Several men in diving suits and carrying air tanks were stepping out of a Marine Division van. As I approached, I watched them head towards the creek.

“Hi ya doin?” I asked one of them. “What’s goin on?”

“Found a body in the creek. Somebody called it in.”

I was surprised he told me anything. I figured they were usually tight-lipped about such things.

But then my head started pounding. I started feeling light-headed, nauseous. Oh goddamn! What if it’s ... Oh shit. Please no.”

I started to follow them, but was stopped by a uniformed. “Sorry, Sir. You can’t go any further. Didn’t ya see the tape?”

“I think ... I think the body you found might be my friend.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Well, we were here last night – around two thirty in the morning – and we were drinking, and I got up to take a wizz and when I came back, he was gone. I looked for him, called out to him. I really did. But I couldn’t find him anywhere.”

He called over a guy in a suit, who introduced himself as Detective Sweeney. He pulled out a pad and told me to repeat what I had said. He wrote it all down. Then he asked, “What’s this guy’s name.”

“Eddie Hotchkiss.”

“Where’s he live at?”

“Uh ... I don’t know. Somewhere across the pedestrian bridge and probably off Lakeside.”

“You’re his friend and you don’t know where he lives?”

“I never went over there.”

“So the last time you saw him was around ...?”

“I told you. About two thirty.”

“And you ... what’s your name, sir?”

“Danny. Daniel Rivers.” And he kept on writing as I told him my address and phone number and my job name and address and where we were just before and how long I had know him, and the names of other people who knew him. Then, he asked, “Is there anyone you think who might’ve had it in for him?”

“Waddya mean, ‘had it in for him?’ He was a big, loud guy but everyone, ya know, got along with him.”

“C’mon ... everyone? Wasn’t there someone he might’ve pissed off?”

“Eddie? Nah. Not the Eddie I knew.”

“If there’s anything else that you tell ...”

“No. He was a good guy. And you know something? He was a veteran. But there’s nothing else. And I think I gotta go.” My head was spinning. “You know where to reach me. And I gotta go get something to eat.”

But I decided to head over to Flanagan’s.

I sat down, slapped a twenty on the counter and said, “Gimme a scotch. Straight up. A double.”

I swallowed it down in a couple of gulps. Went down easy. Felt good in my gut. My head started clearing.

Kevin, the Sunday guy, came back with the bottle. “You know something, Danny? You look like you saw a ghost.” He started to refill my glass.

I put my hand over the glass, said “No, thanks” and sat staring at the screen. After a while, I got up. “Keep the change, Kev. I gotta get going.”

I stopped at the QuikMart, picked up a couple of frozen pot pie dinners, a loaf of potato bread, a dozen eggs, a pack of American cheese, a large bag of peanut M&M’s and a couple of bottles of malt liquor. Then I walked back towards home.

Later that afternoon, after finishing a double cheese omelet and watching the Knicks-Celtics game on TV, I took a slow walk up to the creek. There was still yellow tape hanging all around. I was hoping to find out something – anything – but the police were already gone.

I guess I’ll have to call them tomorrow, and I guess they’ll ask me a bunch of questions, but I can only tell them what I’ve been telling you.

I’ll even tell them about the Jesus fish and about him wanting to do something else with his life, that he was a really good guy and whatever happened last night, he didn’t need to die.

Or maybe he did. Maybe he just couldn’t see any way out.

– This story, originally written in 2010, was resurrected from my “Works in Progress” folder

Rev 2 / March 14, 2010 .. Rev 5 (7) / May 27, 2020

Up to the beginning of the story

May 27, 2020 … Copyright © 2020, Lloyd B. Abrams