[ WP ] Far apart , and under different circumstances , people find themselves thinking or feeling the same thing

It wasn ’ t a long trip to the bottom, but it wasn ’ t a short one either. If he ’ d had to guess, Callum would have said it was somewhere between the time it takes to say * “ God bless you ” * and the time it takes for a candle to snuff out with a final soft *whoof*. 
 
 It was the summer of 1973. Elton John had just released his album “ *Goodbye Yellow Brick Road* ” - his seventh and most popular yet - and the troops had returned home from Vietnam. ( “ *God bless us, Halleluiah! * ” Callum ’ s mother had said to the gaggle of family members gathered around the television at the time, planting a kiss on a reluctant Callum ’ s head. ) In many ways it was an End Summer. It carried with it a sense of things coming to a close, of things changing, and as the hour-hand wound its way to Fall on the great grandfather clock in the hall a part of Callum *did* end; there, behind the A plus One convenience store. Though he wouldn ’ t know it at the time, his childhood had slipped away that summer - like sand through the crack in an hourglass - and only much later would he realise; some things you just can not mend. 
 
 It was such a logical conclusion to reach, but since when had men in their youth ever been logical? The group met on the edge of the great-wide parking lot behind the A plus One convenience store - owned by a St. Peters catholic who both smoked and smiled heartily ( and was known for pushing a pack of cigarettes over the counter when handed a crumpled twenty. *God bless us, Halleluiah! * ) Their self-proclaimed leader - through words if not through clout - was a boy named Cedric O ’ Brian; tall, waxen, with the hint of a mustache meticulously maintained on his upper lip, and known for such words as “ *Fuck* ” ( which came out *Fack* ), “ *Cunt* ” ( which came out *Caunt* ), and any other combination of the two ( *Fackin ’ caunt* being the most popular ). O ’ Brian had designated the meeting place ( *Fackin ’ fantastic* being the main description ) and it was Gus ( Nimrod Gus ) who had brought the booze; two tall bottles of Old Crow Reserve stolen from his father ’ s whiskey cabinet at O ’ Brian ’ s request. Callum – who had tagged along willingly, if not nervously – remembered that day with great clarity in the years to come. The sun blazed down on the lot ’ s smooth surface, shaded only by the building ’ s rear wall and a green dumpster stranded like an island at the center of the sea of concrete. Someone had tagged the wall – *JONAS* – in jarring orange and red, and a couple sat in a navy blue pickup at the far end of the lot, tasting each other in the summer ’ s heat and ignoring the boys and their drinks. From their open window music played, an Elton John song ( Callum couldn ’ t recall the name, though he ’ d hear it again ) something like: “ *You had the grace to hold yourself, while those around you crawled* ”. It struck him as sad, though like all other things Callum wouldn ’ t realize how much so until further down his own path. When O ’ Brien passed him one of the bottles he drank willingly, sputtering as the burning liquid – for it was a burning of sorts – worked its way down his throat and settled in his stomach like lead. 
 
 For years afterwards he would believe that the liquid *had* burned something away; his resilience for one, his faith for another. Only much later ( in the summer of the blind man with the seven fingers ) would he realize that those things hadn ’ t been burned, but extinguished, like a candle flame by a puff of sharp wind. The fire that had kept them alive had been quenched by the drink, by the fire in his throat, by the burning rawness it left behind, and by the dry thirst in its wake. He ’ d spend those next ten years trying to quench that thirst, and succeeding for a time ( *God bless us, Halleluiah! * ), until the summer of ’ 83, when his money – like all other things – finally ran dry. 
 
 He ’ d moved to Manhattan, following the jobs, picking up labour where labour was good and moving on when the job was done. Money paid for drinks, and drinks - more often than not - paid for sleep. It was a good system, an *easy* system, and it took him the roundabout way from faith to faithless. He didn ’ t think of himself as an alcoholic, not even then, but he never stayed in one place for long, easier to disappear that way, easier to stay in the drink. No questions from ( *fackin ’ * ) overseers, no long glances from men with rough faces and rough hands, and when they did begin to wonder he would move on, find a new place, a new job, until there were no more jobs to be had. He ’ d sleep in shelters when there were beds, doorways when there were none, even a park bench for a week or so. 
 
 And the days wound down. 
 
 The bottom was a lot like this: waking up cold on a front stoop, no wallet, rolled during the night, shoes slipped off your feet while passed out in a drunken stupor. On the corner of 8th Street there ’ s a blind man begging for change. You watch him for a time, waiting for the right moment. The man has seven fingers, you notice, only seven; clutching a thin, worn cap, a few coins captured in its bowl. 
 
 For Callum the man was salvation ( *God bless us, Halleluiah* ), a drink, maybe two. He cared little for the shoes, less for the man. His God was the drink now. His Almighty and his Saviour, his Holy Ghost and his Mother Mary. A young man walked by with a boom box on his shoulder; playing an Elton John song from an old memory, something like: “ *You had the grace to hold yourself, while those around you crawled* ”. The blind man called out for change as the boy walked by, and before Callum could consider the unholy wretchedness of what he was doing he had snatched the cap from the blind man ’ s seven-fingered hands. Snatched and ran, hearing the helpless cries behind him, feeling the aching pounding of his heart ( but were there ever aches of the heart that God could not remedy? ), and already counting the change in the crumpled cap. Already planning his next drink. 
 
 He was past saving at this point he knew, past the salvation of heaven or the promise of peace. The only peace he had left was the bottle, and it was a weary peace, a frayed peace. 
 
 In the pub – a small place named the Drowsing Owl – he heard the song again. “ *You had the grace to hold yourself, while those around you crawled* ”. In his cups he thought of the blind man and his fragile, helpless cry. He thought of his mother ( *God bless us, Halleluiah. * ), and he thought of the miles and miles between here and the last place he ’ d called home. He thought of that day in that parking lot, the smell of the hot concrete, the feel of the bottle in his hands. The long road to nowhere. The song suddenly struck him with a kind of terrible sadness. The kind of hollowness that starts in your gut and ends in your shaking hands. “ *And it seems to me you lived your life, like a candle in the wind. * ” Elton John sang, and Callum drank, if only to forget his mistakes, if only to crawl a little further.
