A is for Acorn.

The list always started with Acorn; that was one of the rules. For Linda, an acorn perfectly represented nature: clean lines, so compact. She could fill her pockets with them on an afternoon walk. Roger liked how they reminded him of aroused nipples, taut and hard. Irresistible.

The game was a holdover from the early days before Linda stopped loving him. As they lay in bed, their legs tangled together, Linda would choose a theme, and the two would volley words in the dark. Sometimes, they fell asleep by “M” (the stated goal), while they would laugh themselves awake on other nights. Over the years, Roger had learned to use the game to calm himself. Bringing his mind back from the spiral of fear.

 

B. Bookie

These days, he used his daily life as the theme. Today promised to be good if he could manage his nerves. A child of the Northwest, he worshiped the Seattle Sonics. And now, he was willing to bet it all on this devotion. Tonight was the fourth game of the finals. The Bulls had easily taken the first three games, and Seattle was officially the underdog now. He’d pull out the last of the bar’s cash and work the odds. In one night, he would save his business.

 

C. Credit.

He’d learned his lesson. Roger knew it could all go terribly wrong. Fear vibrated in his throat, his hands, and his bowels. But he was out of options; the bar’s suppliers were no longer willing to deliver on credit. He needed cash now, or they’d be shuttered within the month.

 

D. Divorce

Linda, forever chained to him through the bar despite the divorce, did the books, but there’d been no word from her since last week. When she told him about some guy she’d met. She was ready to move on, she said. The next day, he arrived at the bar at his usual time, just before the dinner rush, but she wasn’t there. She’d come in the morning, done the books, hightailing it before he could see her. Or talk to her. If only he could talk to her, maybe she could get them out of this mess.

She did a fair job but wasn’t too worried about making the ledgers balance to the penny. He would have changed the PIN long ago if he had been in her shoes. But he wasn’t Linda, and he’d enjoyed skimming from their account for quite a while. Whenever he needed a bump of coke or his Celica needed another repair, those were the only times he allowed himself to dip into the cash. Of course, there were also the times he needed to get his rings out of hock, but he tried to keep his emergencies down to the minimum.

Today, he would need to take more. Linda would understand if she ever found out, but it didn’t need to come to that. He’d have the account replenished in twenty-four hours, the bar’s bills paid, and maybe a fat cash roll just for himself. Roger wanted to weep when he remembered those days of living fearlessly with his money. And now, he was so close to having it again.

 

E. Earnings…hopefully.

Breathe.

 

But his plans fell apart at the bank. His card didn’t work, so he was forced to talk to a teller.

“I’m sorry, sir, but there are no funds in that account.”

“What do you mean, ‘In that account’? Are there others?”

“Sir, I see three accounts attached to your business, but this is the only one you can access.”

“How much is in the other accounts?”

“I can’t tell you that, sir. I suggest you speak with your bookkeeper.” Linda. She was smarter than he ever gave her credit for.

 

F. Failure

He knew he couldn’t go home and watch the game. Maybe the Sonics would lose? That might improve his mood, to believe fate was looking out for him. He headed to the bar to keep busy. They didn’t have TVs because Linda refused to turn the place into a sports bar, but Roger knew where there was money to be made. At night, when he was too strung out to sleep, he would sketch the bar as he dreamed it could be, with multiple TVs, signed jerseys on the walls, and maybe video poker. He liked these little drawings; he had a gift with a pencil, but the idea of sharing these treasures mortified him. His drawer was filled with perfect renderings of the bar, the block, and whole stretches of town. No one had ever seen them, not even Linda.

 

G. Game Face

Ben, the bartender, nodded to him as he came up the stairs. Regulars occupied the bar stools, all ears tuned to the game. He needed a drink.

“Roger? We weren’t expecting you in tonight. Thought you’d be watching the game.”

“The drinks are free here. Give me my usual.” Ben filled his glass, a token of respect Roger knew he didn’t deserve. His “usual” was a water glass filled with vodka on ice. He liked to think most people didn’t notice. He would walk from kitchen to office, to bar, and back, always with his glass in hand. But he also knew it was a charade. One night, he’d set it down, and one of his waitresses pounced, grabbing and pouring it down the sink in one clean motion. “Oops,” she smirked, “I thought someone had forgotten their water glass.”

 

H. Hate, Humiliation

He headed straight to the office with his drink. He’d find something to do to pass the time. Making small talk would be impossible, and he couldn’t imagine concentrating enough to check the stock in the walk-in.

 

I. “I,” as in, “I can’t do this anymore.”

As usual, the office was stuffy and disorganized, and the dust triggered his old cough, but he still clicked the monitor on, hoping to lose himself in round after round of solitaire. This worked through his first glass of vodka, but the office was too hot, and he started to stink. Linda always told him she could smell his stress. She was right. The acrid stench was too much, and even his emergency deodorant couldn’t touch it.

The bar was getting rowdy, so he returned for fresh air and a refill. Cheers and thumping greeted him, and in a moment, Roger fell from the cliff of depression into despair. The Sonics had won both the first and second quarters. They would beat the Bulls, the finals would continue, and he was still fucked. Roger’s gut roiled. He took a seat at the bar.

 

J. Jesus Fucking Christ.

Roger’s head pounded. He needed to get the hell out of there.

“Oh, Roger,” It was Ben. He wasn’t going to escape too easily. “The beer guy says you haven’t put the order in yet. We’re tapped out on three kegs, and I just checked the remainders. We’ll be down to Pabst, Kemper, and Alaskan by Wednesday. He said if you call him tomorrow, he can take care of us.”

“OK, I’ll call it in tomorrow. Thanks for looking out.” Roger said these words, heading for the exit. He wanted to believe he was telling the truth, but the bile rising in his throat told him otherwise.

Ben called after him, “Oh, and Linda called. She said it was important.”

Roger barely made it to the bathroom. He had nothing kind to give this toilet, the only one available for any man working at or visiting the bar. He stayed long, staring at the cracked tile, accounting for his fate.

 

K. Keep yourself together.

 

L. Linda.

Still collapsed on the toilet, Roger let himself weep. He wept through knocks at the door and then the resigned silence.

He left the bathroom and toilet a terrible mess.

 

Roger stuffed himself into his Celica. Nothing worked well in this car, and it still stank of his dog, dead now almost half a year. The engine turned, but it sighed in a way that reminded him of Linda on a Saturday morning. Yes, she was up, but she’d probably return to bed within the hour.  An audible whimper escaped him when he realized he had forgotten to grab a six-pack.

He wanted to drive to her now. He thought of her condo, its clean, creamy lines. Her furniture – simultaneously comfortable and terrifying. If he went there, she’d probably have some food. Maybe she made the chops he loves so much. But he couldn’t; he’d agreed their relationship could only be professional, so he headed to the house. Cold and damp and, frankly, so filthy, much like his life and everything he’d done until now.

 

H, I, J, K. Linda.

Oh, Linda. There was nothing after her.