Knockemstiff

by Donald Ray Pollock

I turned and looked at the old man through the window. He was still watching the men on TV beat each other senseless for a chance at happiness. With my father everything had always been about the fight, and I sadly realized that we would never really know each other before he passed. For the first time since I’d been sober, I began to crave a drink. Even the smell of the wood smoke reminded me of whiskey. As I stood there, I recalled something that Jim told me every time he saw me. “You pick up the phone and call me before you take that first one, Bobby. At least give me that much respect.” But I’d called him a nigger behind his back, just to please my bitter old man, and I wasn’t sure I could ask for anybody’s help tonight. My father suddenly punched the air and whooped loud enough that I could hear him outside. The look on his face was ecstatic. Then the plastic tube slipped from his nose, and I watched him grab for it. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, as if he might be considering his other option, and it became clear to me that he was tired of it all. But after glancing over at my brother, he carefully fastened the hose back in place. He took a deep breath, and I took one with him. The TV light brightened and then dimmed. Tossing my cigarette in the grass, I turned and started toward my car. The fight was nearly over.