CHAPTER 1

They had all gotten there in different ways, the four men

sitting in the stiff backed school chairs under the dismal and

oppressive fluorescent lighting in the warehouse. The doctor

sat down at the head of the circle; she was built like a Vargas

girl, a real woman and not one of those emaciated Hollywood

trend­setters people fawned over these days.

"Mr. Shor ­­ Hamish. Why don't you go first today?"

"Please," he said "it's Elisha."

Elisha cleared his throat and averted his eyes, hoping she

hadn't noticed him staring at her. The last thing he needed was

to come out of the gate pissing off the therapist.

"I know it's difficult, Elisha, so just tell us why you're

here."

Elisha started "Well, they tell me I have a drinking

problem."

"Is that all?" She asked.

It hadn't been all. About a month ago, Elisha had received

the news of his father's death. Terminal brain cancer; the one

thing that scared Elisha more than anything else in the world.

On the other hand, he hadn't been very close with his old man

and so the idea of going to the funeral seemed like a gigantic

waste of time. He wanted to appease his mother, though, she was

old and fragile and he had no idea what his not being there

would do to her heart. Instead of being selfish, he swallowed

what little there was of his pride, bolstered his courage with a

large glass of scotch, got dressed up relatively nice, and went

to pay what little there were of his respects.

When he got to the funeral, the pastor and his mother

immediately approached him.

"Your mother and I have been talking," said Pastor Lewis "and

she thinks it would be good for you to say a few words about

your father during the service."

Elisha looked at his mother, who was unable to speak due to

her sorrow, and she nodded managing to whisper the smallest

"please" and thusly leaving Elisha no choice.

"Sure, mom. I'll say a few things."

Elisha walked off and snuck the flask from his jacket pocket,

taking a few more belts of Scotch. He now found himself

standing in the corner, studying the patterns of the faux wood

grain on the walls when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

"Elisha," said his younger brother David. "Are you with us?

Earth to Ellie."

"Jesus, Dave, why do you have to call me that?"

"Ah, there you are."

"They want me to say a few words. What the Hell is that

about?"

"Who else was going to say a few words?" Asked David "Mom

can barely speak and dad threw me out years ago, so why would I

say shit about him?"

"Dave, the last conversation dad and I had was about cars."

"The last conversation dad and I had was about how I was a

complete disappointment because I never wanted to give him

grandchildren."

"Fine, fine," said Elisha "you win this... I don't know..

pissing contest."

"Just one thing," said David "are you drunk?"

"Quit worrying about it." He replied.

"Seriously..."

"I said stop."

The funeral began after everyone had payed their respects,

filing past the open casket in a short procession. It hadn't

been a lot of people because Elisha's father had posessed an

uncanny ability for pissing off everyone in the entire world.

He was, in fact, fairly certain that if his father had met

Gandhi, the pacifist would have punched his old man in the nose

for telling him he was practicing non­violence wrong. That was

the kind of irony his dad got a kick out of and he noted to say

something about it in his speech.

"Now to say a few words about the departed, Francis' eldest

would like to come up." Said Pastor Lewis.

"I'm not his eldest." Said Elisha. "Don't forget the one he

hasn't talked to in 20 years."

Elisha straightened his tie and looked out of the small

assembly, watching the pastor walk back to his seat shaking his

head.

"My father," started Elisha "my father was the kind of man

Gandhi would have punched in the face for being told he was

practicing non­violence wrong."

The room was silent. The laughter Elisha had expected was

nowhere to be heard and he was, in fact, pretty sure that

crickets would have been a welcome addition to the assembly for

their contribution of constant noise.

"Okay, ya know what, I'm done." Elisha slipped the flask out

of his pocket and drained the rest of it, tossing the empty

canister in to the coffin. "You were a dick, dad. You never

had a relationship with Frank, you and I only ever talked

surface level bullshit, and you kicked David out of the house.

Mom is a saint, I don't know how she put up with you for all

these years and whether you are alive or dead, our relationship

will be the same."

Unable to look at his mother, Elisha stepped down from the

podium and walked out. David ran after him and grabbed him by

the arm as he got out the double doors in to the crisp November

air.

"Elisha, where are you going?" He asked.

"To get good and drunk." Elisha replied.

"You are drunk. Let me drive you, at least."

"No. And I'm not nearly drunk enough."

"Just fucking stop!" Said David. "I get it, you are pissed

off at the old man. You have a right to be and I have a right

to be and mom and the whole world has a right to be, but we

don't need to be attending your funeral next!"

"You know why he hated you, David?" Elisha spat. "Because

you're just the same as he was. Now let go of my goddamn arm."

David refused to let go and before Elisha knew what was going

on, his fist was connecting with his younger brother's jaw.

David staggered back, groping his chin. His mouth, which was

once a hard line of concern, now hung open limply.

Elisha got in to his car and turned over the engine, he

pulled out and got down the street before he realized how "good

and drunk" he already was. He didn't see the motorcyclist until

the man smashed in to his front window sending a spray of glass

in to the vehicle. Elisha swerved, finally bringing his car to

a stop and throwing the cyclist in to a nearby tree.

"The only reason I'm not in jail for the rest of my life,"

concluded Elisha "is either because I'm semi­famous or because

the guy wasn't wearing a helmet and it probably would have saved

his life."

There was more to it than that, though. Another reason

Elisha wasn't in jail had to do with an anonymous letter his

agent had received addressed to Elisha. The letter had stated

charges would be brought against the writer unless he was

willing to attend therapy sessions. There were instructions on

how he should record his attendance at the sessions and a p.o.

box to send them to. He was to put the letters in his mail box

only and never post them from anywhere else. This information,

however, he declined to share with the others in the room.

Elisha really hadn't wanted to be the first to share his

story, but it felt good to have the thing out of the way. He

could now sit back and hear how bad the others were and not have

to worry until the fifth session about whether or not he was

going to have to be called on again. He openly watched the

doctor scrawl her notes, tracing her curves with his dark brown

eyes.