I once knew a man who lived his life without loving one minute of it. Call him Lars. Everybody has known a Lars. If you haven’t, check the mirror, and I’m sorry.
Lars loved good scotch and he loved beer, and he never fussed much over the labels on either. Truth is, Lars loved alcohol, full stop. It fed his depression and watered his sense of failure like a man tending the one crop he could grow. It also loosened him up in rooms he’d rather have left, and some nights it made him bulletproof. And cigarettes. Good old tobacco, none of your wacky weed. Cigarettes sanded down the splinters the drinking raised.
Every morning began the same: coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, throne room, door shut. He swore the combination jump-started his metabolism, cleared his head. There on the commode he planned his day and drafted his excuses, in roughly that order.
Now, this particular morning. But first you need the job. The last one, the database job. He’d lost it a month back and hated it anyway. Eight hours a day feeding numbers into a screen; who signs up for that? Three weeks in, he walked out in the middle of his eight-to-four. All right, ten thirty. Ten thirty-ish. Early for lunch, sure, but the numbers had drilled a hole behind his eyes that only liquid could fill.
“Bathroom run,” he told his cubicle mate. “Something I ate.”
And I want you to picture this. He went to the men’s room, picked a stall, and sat. Pants up. He only dropped them when somebody took the stall next door, because a man with his pants up in a bathroom stall is a man hiding, and a man with his pants down has a reason to be there. He waited the stranger out, hitched his belt, and washed his hands. He’d touched nothing but the stall latch. He washed anyway. The latch was plenty.
“Screw this,” he told the man in the mirror. “I’m out.”
And out he went.
But I digress.
This morning, the morning I’m getting to, wore an ordinary face. Nine o’clock, give or take. Down in the kitchen his mother rattled around: the microwave beeped, the toaster flung up its bread. Normal noises. Lars woke first in that house as a rule, made coffee enough for two, carried his cigarettes upstairs, and held his session on the toilet while she fixed her own breakfast. Eating that early never agreed with him, and last night’s dinner had been scotch with a scotch chaser. He considered improving his coffee.
“Hair of the dog,” he told nobody.
Second cup, he decided. A splash in the second cup to buy off the jackhammer in his skull and flatten the seasick roll of his gut.
He lifted an arm, took a whiff, and voted for a shower. Two days of funk sluiced off him. The clean improved his opinion of himself; the skull kept pounding. He took the stairs down like a man twice his age.
“Hey, Lars, breakfast?” his mother asked. She always asked.
Head shake. Beeline for the coffee pot.
“Your brother said he’d drop by this evening to look at the furnace. Good thing it’s not a really cold day.”
“Uh huh.” He poured.
“I’ll get groceries later. Maybe make something special for dinner. What do you think?”
“Whatever, Ma. I don’t care.” The pour finished, and something in him relented. “You’re a good cook anyway.”
“Did you remember to play the Powerball yesterday? With my numbers? Drawing’s tonight.”
“Why do you throw your money away, Ma? You’ll never hit it.”
“It’s ten dollars a week. Thanks for fronting me.”
“Yeah. Not much left from that last paycheck.”
“You know I’m good for it. Did you buy them or not?”
“They’re by the tv.” He was already climbing, one slow stair at a time.
The scotch lived in the bottom drawer of his bedside table. He tipped some into the coffee and stirred it with his finger, and when he put the finger in his mouth to taste it, he settled on something he didn’t examine: he would drink the whole thing fast, in one go, on the strength of something he’d read years back. Don’t ask me what he read. I’ve wondered ever since.
Too hot. He lit a cigarette to wait it out, and while he smoked, Greg walked into his head, uninvited.
He didn’t want to be in the house when Greg came. Didn’t want that look, the one that arrived right before the question about interviews. Greg had been the good son since the delivery room. Greg the engineer, Greg of the big firm, Greg of the wife and kids. Lars had crawled through high school and stalled out of college two years and a semester in, right when their father died. He stayed home after the funeral. Somebody had to look after Ma, went the story, and Greg had a family and Lars had nothing pinning him anywhere, which made it his job. He’d told that story so long even he only half believed it.
He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray by the bed. Sipped. Cool enough. He tipped his head back and poured it all down, every drop, grimaced, and set the mug down hard. Hair of the dog, indeed. The dog bit back.
He lay down. Everything in him had gone wrong.
“Going to the store,” his mother called.
Half under already: the front door, her voice bright on the stoop, a neighbor’s name. Then nothing.
Pain woke him. Head and stomach both, arguing over which of them owned him. He drew his knees to his chest and decided food might referee. The tv talked to itself downstairs; pots and pans banged in the kitchen. Ma, back from the store. He sat on the edge of the bed and held his head in both hands. The skull was tender to the touch, actually tender, like a bruise. Food. Food would fix it.
Down the stairs, one hand on the wall.
“You look rough, son.” She was quartering a whole chicken. The raw pink of it climbed the back of his throat.
“I feel rough. Head hurts. Stomach hurts. I need food.”
“I got egg salad, and that seven-grain bread you like. The nice man in the bakery sliced it for me.”
“I just want a plain cheese sandwich.”
“Got cheese too. Swiss.”
“What’s wrong with good old American?”
“That stuff is over-processed. We need to eat healthier. I need to eat healthier, a-and you need to stop smoking.”
“Spare me the lecture.” He peeled a slice of Swiss from the package, dug out the bread, and slapped a sandwich together. His stomach voted against anything but water, so water it was, straight from the tap.
“I’m going back up.” A bite, already walking.
“At least take a plate!”
Stairs.
“You’ll get crumbs everywhere!”
Now. Evening.
“Hello! Ma!” Greg let himself in with his own key.
“In the kitchen!”
He kissed her cheek. “Hey, Ma. Everything okay?”
“Fine, fine. Thanks for coming about the furnace.”
“Figured Lars wouldn’t know which end of it to kick. It’s not even cold in here.”
“That’s because I’ve been baking and cooking most of the day. I felt like doing something special.”
“Smells incredible. What did you make?”
“Baked chicken. Potato and cheese casserole, the, what do they call it, gratin. Steamed broccoli and carrots. Carrot cake for after.”
“Good God, Ma. Why all that?”
“I told you. Something special. Something different. You’ll have some?”
“Ma, I have to get home after the furnace. Sorry.” Then her face did what mothers’ faces do, and he folded. “Maybe a taste.” She smiled and patted his cheek.
“Talk to your brother. He’s not doing well.”
“I don’t know what to say to him anymore, Ma. He should try AA. I know he won’t.”
“Father Dominic says a group meets in the church basement. I told Lars. He said the only way he’d go back to that church was in a coffin.”
Greg sighed toward the basement door. “I’ll look at the furnace. I’ll talk to him after dinner.”
Forty-five minutes later he came back up. “All fixed.”
“Thank you. Now go get your brother. Let’s eat some of this food.”
Greg climbed the stairs and knocked. “Hey! Ma made enough for a parish. You coming down?”
Nothing moved behind the door. He turned the knob.
“Lars? You sleeping?”
Lars lay on his side, curled around himself, his mouth set in a grimace it would not be giving back.
“You okay? Lars. Lars, what’s wrong?”
Greg crossed the room and touched his brother’s arm. The arm told him everything.
“No, no, no. Lars.” Barely breath enough behind it to leave his mouth.
He backed out of the room, calling down the stairs.
“Ma! I’m calling 9-1-1!”
“What?” She came out of the dining room.
“I need an ambulance. 1440 Lindsay Crescent. It’s my brother. I’m not sure he’s breathing!”
“Oh my God, no!” She took the stairs.
He caught her on the third step and held on. “No, Ma. We have to wait.”
“I have to take care of Lars. I can help him.”
“You can’t.” He said it into her hair. “It’s too late.”
One more scene. Stay with me.
Greg pulled into the driveway of his mother’s house. She sat on the porch beside the suitcases he’d loaned her.
“Ready, Ma?”
“Yeah.”
“Locked up?”
“Yeah.”
He pulled her to her feet and held her a moment. “Don’t be sad, Ma. You’ll love the new place.”
“This house has so many memories, Greg.”
“I know. But you’ll be close to me and Sheri, and you’ll be a grandmother again soon. You’ll make new ones.”
“I wish your Da were here. I wish Lars was here. He would have been so happy.”
“You can be happy in his place. It’s what he and Da would have wanted.”
She looked back at the house once.
“He never believed it, you know. Never believed his luck could turn. I just wish he’d lived to be surprised, to enjoy it even a little.” She let Greg take her arm. “It was his ten-dollar bill, after all.”
Author’s Note
“Buzz Kill” is an O. Henry-type story inspired by a poem I wrote, Where a Buzz Goes to Die:
This is a work of fiction, but Lars is a composite of people who exist; and some who don’t anymore. If you recognized someone in him, or recognized yourself, please know that support is available and worth reaching for.
In the US:
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Call or text 988, available 24/7
Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741
SAMHSA National Helpline (substance use support): 1-800-662-4357, free, confidential, 24/7
Outside the US:
Find a Helpline (findahelpline.com): free, confidential crisis lines in more than 130 countries; enter your country to see what’s local to you
Befrienders Worldwide (befrienders.org): emotional support centers around the globe
International Association for Suicide Prevention: directory of crisis centers at iasp.info/resources
UK and Ireland: Samaritans, call 116 123, free, 24/7
Canada: call or text 9-8-8, available 24/7
Alcoholics Anonymous (aa.org): meeting finders in most countries, no cost, no requirements beyond wanting to stop.
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A sad story, Caro-but very engaging. My dad struggled with some of these issues, as I'm sure do many. The irony of futures they may have known-bittersweet. Thanks for the read!🙏