A Walk in the Woods

"I know."
"It's kind of hard for me sometimes," he went on. "I try, Bryson, I really do, but--" He
stopped there and shrugged reflectively, a little helplessly. "There's just this kind of hole
in my life where drinking used to be." He was staring at the view--the usual verdant
infinity of woods and lakes, shimmering slightly in a heat haze. There was something in
his gaze--a miles-away fixedness-- that made me think for a minute that he had stopped
altogether, but he went on. "When I went back to Des Moines after Virginia and got that
job building houses, at the end of the day all the crew would go off to this tavern across
the street. They'd always invite me, but I'd say"-- he lifted two hands and put on a deep,
righteous voice--'' 'No, boys, I'm reformed.' And I'd go home to my little apartment and
heat a TV dinner, and feel all virtuous, like I'm supposed to. But really, you know, when
you do that night after night it's kind of hard to persuade yourself you're leading a rich
and thrilling existence. I mean, if you had a Fun-o-Meter, the needle wouldn't exactly be
jumping into the orgasmic zone because you've got your own TV dinner. You know what
I'm saying?"
He glanced over, to see me nod.
"So anyway one day after work, they invited me for about the hundredth time and I
thought, 'Oh, what the hell. No law that says I can't go in a tavern like anybody else.' So I
went and had a Diet Coke and it was OK. I mean, it was nice just to be out. But you know
how good a beer is at the end of a long day. And there was named Dwayne who kept
saying, 'Go on, have a beer. You know you want one. One little beer's not gonna hurt ya.
You haven't had a drink for three years. You can handle it.' " He looked at me again. "You
know?"
I nodded.
"Caught me when I was vulnerable. You know, when I was still breathing," Katz said
with a thin, ironic smile, then went on: "I never had more than three, I swear to God. I
know what you're going to say--believe me, everybody's said it already. I know I can't
drink. I know I can't have just a couple of beers like a normal person, that pretty soon the
number will creep up and up and spin out of control. I know that. But--" He stopped there
again, shaking his head. "But I love to drink. I can't help it. I mean, I love it, Bryson--love
the taste, love that buzz you get when you've had a couple, love the smell and feel of
taverns. I miss dirty jokes and the click of pool balls in the background, and that kind of
bluish, underlit glow of a bar at night." He was quiet again for a minute, lost in a little
reverie for a lifetime's drinking. "And I can't have it anymore. I know that." He breathed
out heavily through his nostrils. "It's just that. It's just that sometimes all I see ahead of
me is TV dinners--a sort of endless line of them dancing towards me like in a cartoon. You
ever eat TV dinners?"
"Not for years and years."
"Well, they're shit, believe me. And, I don't know, it's just kind of hard. ..." He trailed
off. "Actually, it's real hard." He looked at me, on the edge of emotion, his expression
frank and humble. "Makes me kind of an asshole sometimes," he said quietly.
I gave him a small smile. "Makes you more of an asshole," I said.
He snorted a laugh. "Yeah, I guess."
I reached over and gave him a stupidly affectionate jab on the shoulder. He received it
with a flicker of appreciation.