A Drink for Alaska

          It was 7:30, and Peter found himself lying in bed, his life falling apart. He sat up, covered his face with one hand, and violently grasped his keys with the other. He slid his free hand down his face and looked around the room, shaking his head in disbelief—sitting on a motel bed, alone. What he would give to mask the pain and escape reality; to toss away his sobriety; to get up, drive to a store, buy a bottle of Jamison (his favorite), drive back to the motel, and drink it. But he didn't. They said it would happen this way. That the drink would become a hot flame. Even when he wanted it, his mind told him he would get burned. He chuckled.

          Peter gave up trying to understand. He gave up the thought of a drink, and, in that moment of surrender, a sharp pain radiated through his hand. The keys bounced off the bed and jangled to the floor. Something triggered his emotions. He sat and cried. Some time passed before he looked over at the clock—8:02. The tears dried, but he remained in a place of defeat and helplessness. A place his father used to beat him for entering. "Real men don't cry," he would say. "Real men control their emotions. If you want to cry, I'll give you a reason to cry." Peter clenched his fists, reaching for the painful memory. He wanted to take his mind off the present. There was no changing what his father did, but somehow, he found it easier to wallow in the past.

          Past and present bounced back and forth in his head, but neither side won. He needed to do something. Maybe a dirty movie? More temptation. He settled on an episode of Friends.

          A knock startled Peter. The clock—8:57. He turned off the TV and approached the door, looking through the peephole. He didn't know the guy but opened the door and gave the man a questioning look. The guy wore khakis and a short sleeve dress shirt with a tie. He focused on the man's glasses. Peter said nothing, and the man didn't either. He began to shut the door.

          "Wait, can I come in?" The stranger asked. Peter began to question why, but before he could speak the man spoke again. "Dude, I'm freezin' out here."

          Peter gave a hard look. "Sure, whatta I care?" He motioned him in.

          "Great, thanks," the man brushed past Peter. "I appreciate it. Just walked what musta been two miles."

          Peter stood dumbfounded. "Why the heck you do that?" He asked with an uncomfortable laugh.

          The man looked him in the eyes. "Oh, you know, just thought the weather looked inviting." He looked around the room. "Just peachy. You got a drink around here?"

          Peter smirked. "Best I can offer is water from the tap."

          "That'll do." The man stepped over to the heater.

          Peter eased up a little. The man seemed normal enough. He grabbed a plastic cup from the counter above the mini fridge and walked to the sink to fill it. "What's your name, if you don't mind me asking."

          "Dan," the man answered.

          "So, Dan, why really did you walk two miles at night?" Peter looked him up and down. "In that."

          "Well..." he looked at Peter.

          "Oh, Peter. Sorry."

          "Well, Pete, I have to tell you I'm in a bit of a pickle." He motioned for Peter to take a seat. "Sit down. This may take a while."

          Really? Now he wanted to tell him his problems? Peter sat and listened to Dan's tale. Dan told him his car went kaput for no reason at all, that he had hit it off with this girl, and he had a killer house and job lined up for him. Then the kicker. He needed a ride to LAX. Peter's life had become a sitcom. An episode where one of the characters gives a ride to a stranger and comes back home wearing only his underwear. It must've been a joke. He looked at Dan. "You're kidding right?"