Just a Couple Days

By Rick Michaels

The idea for “Just a Couple of Days” was an idea I’ve had for years. It wasn’t until I finally got help for my alcoholism that I was able to put it down on paper. It’s a fictional story of a miracle that happens to the character as a miracle had just happened in my life. It’s a story of hope! It tells us that

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Mar 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781643459233

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JUST A COUPLE DAYS

Copyright © 2020 Rick Michaels

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Stratton Press Publishing

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ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-64345-638-6

ISBN (Ebook): 978-1-64345-923-3

Printed in the United States of America

(This page is not so much dedication as it is Gratitude. I’ve so very much to be thankful for.)

To my family; Dad and his family, mom, and my brothers, Frank and Tommy. Their inexhaustible love and loyalty through many years of worry and disappointment is the reason I’m here.

To my Tiny Dancer, Krista; her wonderful and spiritual creative outlook on life is a beacon of light in these stormy seas of life.

To Melinda L. Her unique style of perseverance and courage plus a laugh that is contagious has shown me that there is a bright light at the end of even the darkest and loneliest of tunnels. Welcome back, Love.

To The Beatles! Their music can turn a mood good in a matter of seconds: very Powerful:

And mostly I am grateful to Him who has always had a hand on me, and has opened doors by His Grace, even when I didn’t know it.

Thank You! I Love You All.

Ricky 2019

The walk back to my tiny apartment was unusually long this one particular evening, an evening I will never forget. That night, it was taking forever to walk home. The roads and alleyways seemed to stretch longer and longer, and the buildings grew taller. The cold wind, although not that strong, still seemed to be constantly slowing my progress. I quickened my pace, for I was running out of time. I felt under my jacket to assure myself the package I was cradling under my arm was safe, and hurried on. My single-mindedness of purpose had me in such a hurry; I didn’t look as I crossed the street. The blaring blast of a car horn shattered my thoughts and my nerves. I felt the whoosh as a car swerved to barely miss me. I backed up to the curb, my eyes bulged, and my heart began pounding furiously.

Damn, I croaked. As my heart slowed its beating, I felt weak and leaned against a light post. Time was short, and I realized I might not make it back to the apartment in time. I must have missed the light; it was unendingly red. Cars were flying by, lights were flashing, and my mind began to race. I couldn’t think straight. It was too late. Here it comes, I thought.

I turned and walked back toward the alley I had just came out of. Now my breathing was becoming harsh gasps, and my head was pounding. My teeth felt like they were humming or vibrating. The old familiar feeling of walking upside down had returned. I went down the alley and stopped behind a dumpster. I fell backward on the wall and slid to a sitting position. Waves of nausea were coming over me. I was out of time—it was on me! I pulled the package out from under my jacket. Now my hands were sweaty and shaking, and I dropped the top I had just unscrewed from the bottle. I raised it to my mouth and took a sloppy, unsteady gulp from a fifth size bottle of 100-proof Heaven Hill vodka. The harsh liquid seared my throat and exploded in my stomach. I hacked a couple of times and then took a longer fat pull off the bottle.

Sheeew! I sighed with relief, and I felt the comforting warmth spread through my stomach. A third big drink had dented the bottle by over a third. My rigid body began to blissfully melt. The shakes miraculously evaporated, and I was right side up again. I lit a cigarette, took another drink, found the cap, and put it back on the bottle. I did not want to drink outside, hoping to get back to the apartment before my hangover hit.

Sitting there then, however, it wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t as cold anymore, and the scary old city was getting friendlier. Even the dirty alley I was in had become inviting, and even cozy. I spun the top off the Heaven Hill and pulled again. I laughed by myself as funny thoughts began popping up in my head. I was getting drunk! So I thought I would just sit right there a while as dusk fell into night and get smashed.

I was thinking about my life and how I had gotten to this point. I suppose I had been alcoholic for quite a few years. But considering any type of help was out of the question. I knew my life was in shambles, but I had a lot of anger, and I pitied myself desperately. I had been to a couple of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and had stood and said, My name is Michael, and I am an alcoholic, but that was mostly for my wife, Kristina. Just at that moment, I wanted just to drink—period! She had thrown me out and my practice was in ruins. I slopped some more vodka. I remember meeting Kristi in college. We had a neurobiology class together, the study of the brain and spinal cord mostly. This was one of my favorites in my march to my master’s degree in psychology. When we were paired together as lab partners, I couldn’t believe it. I had watched her from afar, long brown hair and deep-dark brown eyes. She had a completely cute sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks and turned-up nose. I could never speak to her. Ever since I was a kid, the more attracted I was to a girl, the more shy I was around her.

That one day, Kristi was wearing jeans and a white blouse. Her long hair was pulled back, and a couple of wavy strands fell across her freckled cheek. We were sitting in front of a computer monitor, and she was showing me how to program an experiment. My computer skills were nonexistent. My face was just a foot away from her face. My whole body reacted as adrenaline rushed through me. Absolutely exquisite! Instead of studying the monitor, I was studying the curve of her chin when she said to me, I’m so glad we got to be partners, Mike. I would never have gotten up the nerve to actually speak to you.

That was it! Our subsequent romance was not gauged in any certain terms. We were inseparable friends for months before we actually—my reminiscing paused there as waves of guilt hit me, thoughts of happy times in my life. I gulped down another drink. Kristi and I didn’t do a whole lot of partying as we graduated. We both got happily drunk at our wedding. We always had a lot of fun together. She went on to become an alcohol/drug counselor, and I started my own practice. Maybe if I had waited a few years to have my own practice, or if I had maybe worked with her in her field, what happened may not have occurred at all. Really, if I hadn’t tried that damn…

Bump! Crash!

Someone had knocked up against the dumpster and had fallen into some garbage cans. I looked up, startled. Around the corner, on his hands and knees, he crawled.

Oh shit, Zack, I said, you just scared the shit out of me!

Mikey, buddy, he said, gimme a splash.

I sighed and handed him the bottle, which he turned up. Zachary was a drinking buddy of mine out here in the streets, and we both worked part-time at the Net, a seafood store a few blocks down from my apartment. Damn, man, you’re gonna drink it all and I’m broke.

Sorry, Mikey, he said and handed it back.

You old sot, you’re smashed already anyway. I laughed. Automatically I flipped out my smokes and he took one. He lit it up and leaned back against the wall. We smoked for a moment in contentment.

Those motherfuckers! he said.

What is it now, Zack?

Zack was always complaining (and with good reason) about the Advocates, a well-organized gang that had a hand in prostitution, drugs, and gambling in and around our neighborhood. They also hustled local merchants. They were really nothing more than punks but had some sort of expensive backing. The police never bothered them. We all assumed they were part of some kind of organized crime. I didn’t know much about them. They ran around in packs like dogs wearing expensive black leather jackets with a red triangle on the back like a black widow spider or something. Sold dope, beat people up—bunch of assholes!

Me, I didn’t care. I stayed out of their way, and they never bothered me. I was OK as long as I had my little paycheck and a bottle. Zack was different though. The injustice of the Advocates outraged him. He was always angry and coming up with plans and designs on how to put an end to their behavior. I usually got tired of listening to him, and he could never understand my indifference.

Mike, man, you know Lizbeth, my stepdaughter? They sold her some shit that made her sick. Those bastards! I just got done bringing her home from the hospital.

Knowing him like I did, I had to ask, You didn’t go after any of them, all drunk and mad as shit like you are now, did you?

Zack’s whiskery chin was quivering with anger. He looked at me, bloodshot eyes glaring into mine. He unbuttoned his shirt. Two long nasty purplish red welts crossed his chest. There were trickles of dried blood where the skin had been broken.

Ah, fuck, I moaned. It was Chico!

Yea, he said. Chico. Damned near killed my little girl. Different bands of the Advocates carried different weapons, or peacemakers as they called them. Chico and his group preferred whips. "I was drunk, Mikey, and Lizbeth told me it