Six Metres of Pavement - Farzana Doctor

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He drove home, all the while considering his brother’s words and his empty house. He parked his car partway between his home and the bar, and half-walked, half-jogged into the Merry Pint, where he found his friend Daphne sitting alone at a table near the front of the bar. He allowed her to distract him with a drinking game. It was the one where its players watch The Simpsons and then take a drink each time one of the characters says something predictable, like when Homer says “D’oh!” or Flanders mentions God. The booze and Daphne obliterated the rest of the night.

      — * —

      A few miles away, in a hospital room smelling of sour breath and floor cleaner, Celia sat beside José’s bed, watching him sleep. She’d been there a full twenty-four hours already, and still wore her clothes from the previous day. She pulled her coat tight around her neck, and shivered; since arriving at the hospital, she hadn’t been able to shake off a persistent chill. Although José looked warm enough, she tucked his sheet and blanket around him, which caused him to grunt and grimace in his sleep. The familiar sounds were a comfort, evidence of him still alive, still with her.

      Someone in a neighbouring bed started to cough, first quietly and then erupting into a cacophony of hacking. She hoped the patient was covering his mouth. She’d seen all the new public health notices on the hospital walls telling people to sneeze into their sleeves and she wondered whether the cougher had seen those posters, too.

      She stood up and closed the curtains around them, blocking out the three other patients’ noise and germs.

      — 4 —

      Arresting

      The vestiges of a bad hangover from the previous night’s Simpsons game were still with Ismail the following evening. He’d had a terrible day at work, unable to concentrate during his unit’s third-quarter budget meeting. His unsettled stomach had him tasting bile a few times that morning. By the time work ended and he was walking to the Merry Pint, he had determined to quit drinking, a resolution he’d made many times before. Soon. I’ll do it soon. Today will be my last for a little while. Then, tomorrow …

      The cravings whispered their sweet nothings in his ear: A cold beer would be perfect right now, what a terrible day! Cold on the tongue, warm in the gut …

      He endeavoured to drive away those thoughts with a mental list of why he should stop:

      1. Work performance suffering.

      2. Stomach perpetually upset.

      3. Spending too much money on drinks.

      The quitting side prevailed for a minute or two, almost changing his mind about going to the bar. But then the drinking side, staggering and steadying itself, reasoned: You really want to try quitting again? It won’t work, you know. Besides, you can handle one.

      Ismail never related to the proverbial rock bottom that most alcoholics talk about, where people lose their lives to alcohol. He rationalized that his lowest low had already come and gone, a rocky bottom that still left him scraped and skinned at the knees. In his mind, drinking couldn’t possibly take him lower than that. In fact, alcohol often rescued him from that barren place.

      He knew it was ironic to be making plans to quit drinking while entering a bar (in fact it sounded like a bad joke: A man walks into a bar …), but a compromise between the two sides had been reached: Okay, tomorrow. Tomorrow I will stop. I’ll just have one tonight and then go home. Hair of the dog … He saw Daphne at the bar in her usual seat, her hand clasped around a beer glass, and Ismail felt a rush of tenderness and camaraderie for her. At the same time, worry bubbled up. Only one drink. Remember, no matter what Daphne says, just one drink!

      “Hey, Ismail. I saved you a seat,” she said, smiling affably, sliding her jacket off the stool beside her.

      “I’m just here for one tonight, Daphne. I overdid it last night. I have to go home to bed early.” He climbed up onto the stool, balancing uncomfortably, his feet barely brushing the ground. He gestured to Suzanne, the regular bartender.

      “No worries. I’m probably going to head home soon, too. I’m keeping it light tonight.” Suzanne headed their way, carrying a fresh pint of beer, the froth sloshing a little over the glass’s rim. Daphne gulped down the last of her beer, and exchanged her empty glass for the full one. Ismail had watched her do the same thing with cigarettes, too; lighting one with the smoking butt still in her mouth. He ordered a Blue for himself.

      Within an hour, Ismail had abandoned his self-imposed limit and bought the next two rounds. He was on his third and Daphne on her fourth or fifth when the police arrived.

      A pair of officers, one tall and white, and the other slightly shorter and South Asian, approached Suzanne, asking her something Ismail couldn’t hear. Then they swaggered along the length of the bar, pausing just long enough to study his and Daphne’s faces. Ismail reflexively averted his eyes, looking down into the depths of his beer glass. A warm breeze of manly smelling cologne wafted by as they passed.

      “Fucking pigs,” Daphne muttered. Ismail shushed her before she could say more. Alcohol usually made her prickly edges soften, but once in a while something could provoke her into an intoxicated belligerence. “Useless sons of bitches,” she hissed once they were barely out of earshot, “coming in here to find someone to beat up, I bet.” Daphne carried on with her venting while Ismail watched the police exit from the back-alley door. He didn’t much like their presence either, but for his own reasons.

      Ismail would never forget his arresting officer, Bill Todd, a man whose surname was also a first name. He was middle-aged, with an East Coast accent and a paunch that strained his shirt buttons. Puffy skin bags rested under his blue eyes. He surveyed Ismail’s crowded cubicle, a nine-by-nine space large enough for a desk, filing cabinet, and a couple of chairs, and suggested that they speak somewhere more private. The office was quiet that afternoon, and so Ismail assured him it was fine to talk confidentially. He invited Bill Todd to sit down, and offered him a cup of coffee. Although he didn’t often speak with police in his role at the City, their responsibilities sometimes overlapped and he assumed the matter had something to do with a tunnel or bridge, matters under his jurisdiction.

      Bill Todd declined the coffee. He peered cautiously into the vacant neighbouring cubicles and then sat down only after Ismail did. His careful movements made Ismail grasp the seriousness of his visit and his body responded before his mind, sending perspiration to his palms and armpits.

      “What can I help you with, Officer?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly, betraying the outwardly calm countenance he was trying to affect. “Is this about a municipal issue?”

      “No. I need to ask you a few personal questions, Mr. Box —,” he said, hesitating and reading the silver name plate at the front of his desk. Nabil had gifted him with it the previous year, on his thirty-fourth birthday. Everyone needs a spiffy name plate, Ismail.

      “It’s Boxwala. Personal questions? About what?”

      “Yes, Mr. Boxwala —” he said, again consulting the name plate.

      “— has something happened to my wife? Has there been an accident?” Ismail interrupted. He slipped a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his damp hands, but quickly stopped and put it away when he saw the officer observing him. His heart began to race and the air felt hot and stuffy.

      “It’s not your wife. Mr. Boxwala, do you own a Honda Civic, with the license plate number —” Ismail didn’t hear the rest. He instantly understood what was wrong. Zubi. His eyes lost their focus, and everything seemed to vibrate. Ismail’s mind dashed ahead of him: I took Zubi to daycare this morning, didn’t I? He tried to picture the daycare’s doors, its hallways, her teacher, but couldn’t. He stood up to get more air, but no matter how much he inhaled, there still there wasn’t enough. He understood that the reason for the officer’s visit was in the backseat of his car, just as he’d left her, asleep, her soft black hair resting against her baby seat.

      “Excuse me, I must go, I have to check on something —” Ismail said, rising from his chair, stepping around his desk. He wanted to go backwards in time, get Zubi from the

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