Sold. Blair Denholm
alcoholic’s hypocritical loathing of other drugs. She popped the pill in her mouth, craned her head under the tap and washed down her wonder candy.
No doubt Gary would arrive home pissed again. Every Friday night was the same. The only thing that differed was the degree of intoxication. Sometimes he just had a glow on, other times he stumbled through the door, elbows scraped and vomit spattered down his shirtfront. Maddie didn’t care if he was going out with the boss or not, as long as he didn’t die in a car accident or kill someone on the road.
She loved him more than anything in the world. When they were introduced at a mutual friend’s party, it was love at first sight. From the start she saw he was battling with the booze, but he was so much fun; a real party animal. Best of all, he loved to spoil her with little gifts, out of the blue sometimes. Gary said he had so little as a child, now as an adult he just wanted to give and make people happy. And by people, he mostly meant Maddie. Cliché, but Gary made her feel special.
If he were a violent wife-beater of a drunk – different story – she’d have left years ago. The grog never made Gary aggressive, but. It made him happy, inspired even. When the alcohol wore off, though, his mood crashed. And so the never-ending cycle continued – up and down, up and down. Bloody beer bipolar.
A car pulled up in the driveway; she heard a door slam, some incoherent words. She lumbered to her feet, half awake and blinking, and peeked through the blinds to see a taxi reversing out of the driveway.
Gary stood at the front door, underneath the coach light spanned by a web woven by a fat orb-weaver spider. He swayed like an ear of corn in the breeze and wrestled with a hefty set of keys. Each key he tried failed to open the door to his castle. He swore gently under his labouring breath, more and more frustrated with each attempt. Just as it seemed he’d slump to the ground in defeat, Maddie took pity and opened the door.
‘Bloody hell, Gary. Look at the state of you. Get inside.’
Maddie wedged her shoulder under his armpit and dragged him across the threshold. Slow and unsteady, she guided him to the bedroom; both banging into walls on the way. She undressed him, with great difficulty, and placed a bucket at the side of the bed. She was taking no chances – a few weeks ago Gary projectile vomited and left a masterpiece of abstract art on the walls. Once, after a heavy night out drinking Bundy, he shat himself; thank God it happened in the bathroom.
Tears welled in Maddie’s eyes. ‘Oh, Gary, you stupid man.’
His chest heaved like a panting greyhound, dribble at the corners of his lips. Sure as hell he’d chunder tonight. She prayed he’d get it in the bucket but doubted his accuracy in his intoxicated oblivion. She fetched some large towels and placed them beside the bed.
‘What the fuck are you doing to me, Gary?’ Maddie muttered. ‘What are you doing to yourself?’
He snored like a blocked vacuum cleaner so she’d sleep on the couch. She grabbed a blanket and her laptop for company. Tomorrow she’d be tough with him. This shit couldn’t go on for much longer. She turned on her computer and logged onto Facebook.
Ping! A text alert. She staggered to retrieve her phone which was recharging in the kitchen.
Number withheld.
Curious, she opened the message. A single exclamation mark. Three more texts followed, each time the same thing. She deleted them – probably just a glitch with Telstra. She set the mobile’s volume to mute and went to check on Gary.
His breathing had stabilised and she was sure he wouldn’t vomit. Still in her dressing gown she slid in next to him, turned her back, and flicked off the bedside lamp.
She awoke at 6:35am to Gary’s raspy snoring and no new texts.
She smiled with relief, but had no idea why.
Gary hated the Monday morning meeting ritual. to him that’s all it was, a practice that had become a tradition; nothing constructive ever came out of it. Today he hated it more than ever because today he wished he was dead.
The weekend was, on balance, a fucking disaster. On Saturday morning Maddie gave him a painful lecture over his breakfast of coffee and a cigarette – painful to hear because of his splitting headache and because she spoke the truth about his disgraceful behaviour. He wanted to change and promised he would, just as soon as all this shit came to an end.
Saturday and Sunday afternoon he spent at the pub in the company of an old bloke called Spider, spending money from his and Maddie’s holiday account. He’d pay it all back soon. Much to his surprise, he won $325 on the trots late Saturday afternoon, half of which he spent the next day on beer and more bets. On Sunday afternoon he staggered home with $10 left in his wallet. Maddie hadn’t spoken to him since Saturday lunchtime.
Now he had to deal with this damn meeting.
‘Hassan, I’m pleased to see your sales have increased in the last few weeks.’ Max pronounced with some gravity, ‘If you keep this up, Gary’s fastest-to-fifty record will be under threat.’
Hassan was all business; immaculate white shirt ironed to within an inch of its life, azure tie with a gold chevron pattern, neat gelled hair and a trimmed moustache. The man’s uncomfortable grin was disingenuous. Gary knew Hassan was a motivated salesman and Gary’s own mantle as top dog in the yard was in peril.
Max acknowledged that Tony, the third salesman, was trying hard and earth-shattering results would come for him too if he continued to ‘believe in the system’. Yeah, and also if he put some more effort into it.
The boss then glossed over Gary’s output. In a word – shite.
After the meeting, Gary leaned against a cyclone fence near the entrance to the yard and sucked hard on a cigarette. He grabbed his silver hip flask from his back pocket, glanced around and took a deep draught of Bundy. The sun’s unrelenting heat had driven birdlife to the coolness of the surrounding mountains.
He wondered why the self-combusting ibis of last Friday hadn’t received the memo to fly the fuck out of town. Even the mangy blue heeler that usually lazed on the grass across the street at the smash repair shop must have sought refuge in the garage.
Gary checked his mobile – four unread messages he’d received over the weekend but couldn’t be arsed to read: three from Jocko, one from Foss.
Saturday–5.47pm:
make sure u have me monie monday. brad will be around lunch time to get it. no stunts.
Saturday–8.34pm:
I’ve gotta stop drinking with you lol. You can fix me up for the cab fare next week. Hope it works out with that Jocko bastard.
Saturday–10.45pm:
sweet dreams gaz :) Forgot to tell ya u will reconize brad by his big mussles ha ha.
Sunday–6.00pm:
im in a good mood coz qld beat vic in the 1 day cricket. Luv it wen outsiders win. Good 4 biznis. ur problem is u neva no wen to bak the faverit ya dumm cunt.
Gary strode back to his office, slammed the door and took swig from his hip flask. He checked his watch; getting close to eleven. Who’ll get here first, he wondered, Ivan or Brad? Will Ivan get here at all? Every tick of the clock was a mallet hammering a spike into his heart.
The Russian visited last Tuesday and left little doubt he’d be back on Monday. Gary started to worry the man wasn’t serious after all. Foss reckoned the offer was a fairy story. Perhaps Foss was right; who in their right mind would believe someone would just walk into the yard and lay down money to buy not one, but four cars?
Gary jumped at a text alert. Number withheld:
Hi Gary. I will be at car yard at 3 this afternoon. Please have ready keys to black BMW 3281 and Mercedes-Benz CL 600 for me and wife, you