This man’s name is John McLauren. I don’t tell you his name so that you will remember it, but rather so you will know he has a name. Many people see him begging for change, and whether they give him anything or not, whether they feel pity or contempt or just annoyance, they don’t know his name, and they don’t know his story. People can see that he is an alcoholic. They assume that he can’t stop drinking - and they are right - but they might be surprised to find out that he doesn’t want to stop. They can see that he is dirty. They can smell him from several feet away, but they’d probably never guess that he would refuse a bath and clean bed if offered one. They aren’t aware how he welcomes contempt, or how for the last ten years he has tried to kill himself with alcohol. They can’t imagine that he is a mind in a body that refuses to die. They can see that he is miserable, but they cannot see that he wouldn’t have it any other way.
John is, no doubt, a walking medical miracle. That’s what they said about his father, too: a more jovial drunkard who managed to hold down a job and keep a family despite being mostly drunk most of the time. Alcohol has been a regular part of John’s life for as long as he can remember. He watched his dad drink when he was little, started drinking himself in his teens, and continued to do so up until the time his first child was born, when he decided to give it up.
John’s father died shortly before little Isabella was born. He had wanted to see his first grandchild, and had held on to life longer than the doctors had believed possible, but his liver had finally given out a few weeks before she came. John’s wife had never approved of his drinking. He had flirted with the idea of quitting for her sake, but had never been able to work up the motivation.
All these things and more circled in his mind one night as he rocked his new baby girl to sleep. Was maintaining his habit really worth not seeing his own grandchildren someday? He looked down at the child in his arms, with her mouth open and her head on his chest. She was relaxed and secure in the way only infants can be. He touched her hair, just starting to grow in, and kissed her forehead. She was reason enough. He whispered in her ear - he promised in her ear that her daddy would never drink again. She was worth it.
It was hard. For weeks he was irritable. For months he didn’t feel like himself. For two years he kept his promise. It was, sadly, on the birth of his second child Ben that his resolve was lost. He had a baby boy, and he was exultant. A friend offered him a drink to celebrate, and it didn’t seem like such a big deal to just have one. Only it wasn’t just one. He soon found himself in the same old habits again. It had been a silly promise to make anyway. What’s life for if you can’t enjoy yourself now and then?
His children grew up in a household similar to the one he grew up in. If the children wanted to ask dad for something, they waited until he’d had a little time to relax with a bottle of something stiff. All but the most extreme requests met with his smiling approval after he had had a little to drink. Isabella grew into a fair, blond little angel, and she was the apple of her daddy’s eye. Ben was happy and energetic, following his dad around everywhere and imitating his mannerisms. John kept his job and raised his family and although he drank heavily on the weekends, he felt it was under control.
John’s life ended eighteen years ago. His whole world ended eighteen years ago. He doesn’t remember the accident, or the exact circumstances that led up to it. He remembers the flashing lights. He remembers the blood on the windshield. He remembers the look on the face of the paramedic as the man lifted the limp form of his little Isabella out of the car. That accusing stare meets him every time he looks in a mirror now. He remembers seeing the small form of his son spread on the pavement as a half-dozen men with grim faces tried to breathe life into his body again. He remembers being told that his children were dead, and he remembers attacking a policeman, wanting only to die, weeping and begging the man to please kill him.
John served eight years of a twelve-year sentence for DUI manslaughter. While in prison, he sank into a depression that he still hasn’t come out from. His children were dead, and his wife had left him. He thought about suicide in prison, and he thought about it when he got out. He never went through with it, though. It seemed like the easy way out. It seemed to make light of the deaths of his children, and to unjustly cut short the punishment of his own suffering. No matter what sentence was imposed on him by society, no matter what he endured, it wasn’t enough to atone for killing his children.
Today, he is a member of that unenviable class of people who have thrown their lives away. Usually, they can be found standing or sitting against a wall, begging for change. They drink continually, and eat when food is available. They look tired, resigned, and often have this incredulous look on their eyes, as if they can’t quite bring themselves to believe how much they are capable of suffering.
This man’s name is John McLauren. For the past ten years, he has been slowly killing himself with alcohol. John knows that when he dies he will go to hell. He wants to keep it that way. Sometimes when anguish overwhelms him, he covers his mouth and bites his tongue to keep from crying out to God. In the logic of his despair, he tells himself that the fires of hell are the only thing that can make up for his broken promise - the only thing that can make up for the broken body of his little Isabella, for the blood in her beautiful hair.
-J.R. Willett
