70 HARPER’S MAGAZINE / MARCH 2020wasn’t like college, and there was no-
body to mule coke for. Not that I
found, anyway.”
“What did you do, exactly?”
“Massaged my sell- sheets. Made up
appointments that didn’t exist to ex-
plain days when I was too hungover to
come in. Jiggered expense sheets. That
first job was a good one. The sky was
the limit. And I blew it.
“After they let me go, I decided
what I really needed was a change of
location. In AA that’s called a geo-
graphic cure. Never works, but I
didn’t know that. Seems simple
enough now; if you put an asshole on
a plane in Boston, an asshole gets off
in L.A. Or Denver. Or Des Moines. I
fucked up a second job, not as good as
the first one, but good. That was in
San Diego. And what I decided then
was that I needed to get married and
settle down. That would solve the
problem. So I got married to a nice
girl who deserved better than me. It
lasted two years, me lying right down
the line about my drinking. Inventing
nonexistent business appointments to
explain why I was home late, faking
flu symptoms to explain why I was
going in late or not at all. I could
have bought stock in one of those
breath-mint companies—Altoids,
Breath Savers—but was she fooled?”
“I’m guessing not,” Jamieson said.
“Listen, are we approaching the
end here?”
“Yes. Five more minutes. Promise.”
“Okay.”
“There were arguments that kept
getting worse. Stuff got thrown occa-
sionally, and not just by her. There
came a night when I came home
around midnight, stinking drunk, and
she started in on me. You know, all the
usual jabber, and all of it was true. I felt
like she was throwing poison darts at
me and never missing.”
Jack was looking at his hands again.
His mouth was turned down at the
corners so severely that for a moment
he looked to Jamieson like Emmett
Kelly, that famous sad- faced clown.
“You know what came into my mind
while she was yelling at me? Glenn
Ferguson, that boy I beat up in the
fourth grade. How good it felt, like
squeezing the pus out of a boil. I
thought it would be good to beat her up,
and for sure no one would send mehome with a note for my mother, be-
cause my mom died the year after I
graduated from Brown.”
“Whoa,” Jamieson said. His good
feeling about this uninvited confession
took a hike. Unease replaced it. He
wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what
came next.
“I left,” Jack said. “But I was scared
enough to know I had to do something
about my drinking. That was the first
time I tried AA, out there in San Diego.
I was sober when I came back to New
York, but that didn’t last. Tried again
and that didn’t last, either. Neither did
the third. But now I’ve got Randy, and
this time I might make it. Partly thanks
to you.” He held out his hand.
“Well, you’re welcome,” Jamieson
said, and took it.
“There is one more thing,” Jack
said. His grip was very strong. He was
looking into Jamieson’s eyes and smil-
ing. “I did leave, but I cut that bitch’s
throat before I did. I didn’t stop drink-
ing, but it made me feel better. The
way beating up Glenn Ferguson made
me feel better. And that wino I told
you about? Kicking him around made
me feel better, too. Don’t know if I
killed him, but I sure did bust him up.”
Jamieson tried to pull back, but the
grip was too strong. The other hand
was once more inside the pocket of the
Yankees hoodie.
“I really want to stop drinking,
and I can’t do a complete Fifth Step
without admitting that I seem to
really enjoy ... ”
What felt like a streak of hot white
light slid between Jamieson’s ribs, and
when Jack pulled the dripping ice pick
away, once more tucking it into the
pocket of the hoodie, Jamieson realized
he couldn’t breathe.
“... killing people. It’s a character
defect, I know, and probably the chief
of my wrongs.”
He got to his feet.
“Thank you, sir. I don’t know what
your name is, but you’ve helped me
so much.”
He started away toward Central Park
West, then turned back to Jamieson,
who was grasping blindly for his
Times ... as if, perhaps, a quick scan of
the Arts and Leisure section would
make everything okay.
“You’ll be in my prayers tonight,”
Jack said. QMAGAZINE
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