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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “New Moon” Down in the Dirt (v135) (the March/April 2016 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book A Stormy Beginning the Down in the Dirt Jan. - June 2016 collection book		get the 318 page Jan. - June 2016 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Solicitation of Tom W

Doug S. Haines

    Between job interviews at the few remaining ad agencies willing to return his calls, Tom W squeezed in a two o’clock meeting at St. Andrew’s on 42^nd. It wasn’t one of his usual spots, but he needed the pick-me-up to compensate for a morning filled with disappointment.
    After introducing himself from the podium at the front of the room, he told his fellow alcoholics how he’d lost his job. A few people snickered, while others cringed. He then told the story about how he backed over the family’s beloved and aging Golden Retriever, Milo, and how his two beautiful daughters, now seven and ten, still found this act unforgivable. He spoke of how his wife gave him “plenty of chances” and how he blew them all. And when he was done speaking, the room full of strangers thanked him for his honesty and courage as he took his seat between the old guy with the twitch and the young woman with the burn scars. He greeted both with a smile. The old man gave a sort of head nod, which may have been involuntary, and the young woman turned her head away and fixed her eyes on a poster of a weary marathon runner nearing the finish line. The caption on the poster read: Almost There!
    In true A.A. form, the coffee was stale and the people damaged. Tom W felt right at home in his metal folding chair, though it creaked under his weight. Meanwhile, a nervous woman in a blue floral print muumuu read the Tenth Step from the Big Book, and Tom W tried to pay attention. He hated the Tenth. His life was an utter cesspool, which made his Daily Inventories a torturous procedure. But like all secret societies, A.A. was full of seemingly ridiculous rituals and their unquestioned repetition, and Tom W, in his desperation, tried his best to abide and follow the program.

*        *        *

    In the subway, after his last interview of the day, two trains passed before him in a clash of light and sound that rattled every cheap filling in his head. He shuddered at the thought of another month on unemployment and then reminded himself to be thankful for the few blessings he had left. He felt broken—shattered, even. He wanted a drink and he wanted it bad. He began to sweat. Clearing his throat, he choked momentarily. If only he could be that lucky—to die suddenly—anonymously. He scanned the platform, found a place to sit, and waited for the next train.
    He was short and stout, almost perfectly round—middle-aged and violently bald. His hairline had long since receded, now taking up residency in thick patches along his back and shoulders. This retreat, along with everything else that made him feel inferior, had given him a crippling fear of his own repulsive nudity. The idea of dating seemed so far out of his reach that he wondered how he had ever gotten Vera to fall in love with him in the first place. Though her figure was no longer what it once was, he knew she’d have no shortage of suitors, all better looking and more successful than he was. The best he could say for himself was that he was now six months, two weeks, and three days sober. He found pride in this fact and often thought that he should wear one of those signs around his neck that read: 199 Days Without an Accident. One more day would make an even 200—a milestone. And that was the point: it was all about One Day At A Time.
    But weren’t those days supposed to get easier? Instead, every day he felt like he was dragging an anchor up a steep hill through a hailstorm of fear and failure. The anchor kept getting heavier and the hail more piercing. Quit focusing on the negative, he told himself. So what if your wife left you and your ungrateful kids despise you and nobody in this lousy town will hire your sorry tail to save your worthless godforsaken life? At least you’re sober. At least you’re making an effort. Get through today. Tomorrow is 200. Almost There.
    As he waited for his train, he tapped out a rhythm on the armrest of the bench. This was a nervous habit he’d developed as a child. The tune was always the same, the theme from the old Dick Van Dyke Show. It used to drive Vera crazy. As he tapped out the finale, he caught sight of a discarded classifieds section with a personal ad circled in thick red ink: Got Herpes? Me, too! Sometimes love hurts. He had to laugh. He thanked God for His sense of humor. Surrendering one’s self to a Higher Power was an important part of the program, even for non-believers, and Tom W was willing to try anything. He liked to think of his life as God’s favorite sitcom, a comedy based around a bumbling protagonist who never won but always entertained.
    The station rumbled as his train pulled up and eased to a stop. He gathered his leather-bound portfolio folder and boarded, loathing public transportation almost as much as job interviews. The irony: an advertising executive who could no longer sell himself. Twenty years in the business, a bookshelf full of awards, and the genius behind some of the best-loved ads around had all been torn down by one drunken Christmas party and a moment of inappropriate behavior caught on some jerk’s camera phone.
    It had happened sometime after polishing off the second bottle of scotch, a twelve-year-old single malt if memory served, though the rest of the details remained blurry. Of course, thanks to the Internet, he had put together the majority of the missing pieces. It went like this: Tom W, 2012 Northeastern Regional Advertising Man of the Year, for some unknown reason decided to “motorboat” the seventy-something-year-old wife of the chief CEO of the prestigious Bullock and Sellers Agency. The pictures went viral via the advertising community and were linked to the grossly popular YouTube video: Fat Man Motorboats Grandma!
    With over a million hits in the first week, Tom W became the wrong kind of famous.
    Still, if you asked Vera or his daughters, killing Milo was worse.

*        *        *

    On the train, he watched a young woman making her way through the car. Mid to late twenties, long dirty-blonde hair, a little curvy for his tastes but cute and casual. She wore a clingy orange and blue sundress and she carried a clipboard as she engaged various passengers in conversations, occasionally getting signatures. What was she selling? He tried not to judge her solicitous behavior as she made her way toward him. Their eyes met. She approached.
    “So, would you like to do your part to save the planet?” Her tone was upbeat, her smile pleasant and distracting.
    “Uh, excuse me?” He was buying time, trying to think of something clever.
    “Would you like to do your part to save the planet?” Again, she smiled.
    “Um, no, not enough to join Greenpeace or anything. I’ll be lucky if I can save myself at this rate.”
    She laughed and playfully patted him on the chest. He flexed involuntarily—as if he had a shot with this girl. She continued her spiel, and he nodded with envy for her passion.
    “Do you ride the train to lighten your carbon footprint?”
    “Uh, no. After my third DWI, the state decided to lighten my carbon footprint for me.” Something about her put him at ease. He felt a swagger that had been absent since his last drink.
    “Oh, I’m sorry.” Her eyes glazed over with a touch of pity, or was it concern?
    “Yup, before that I drove a Hummer that ran on rain forests and puppies.”
    It took her a second, but again she laughed and patted. “Very funny. You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”
    “No.” He paused. “Well, maybe a little.” He did his best to smile. Though he knew she was only flirting with him to make the sale, his confidence grew.
    “Come on, wouldn’t you like to save the polar bears?” she asked. “I mean, their habitats are, like, melting and they’re facing extinction in our lifetimes.” She dug through her purse to retrieve a dog-eared photo of a pathetic-looking polar bear, more brown than white, as if it were spoiling in the sun like a piece of fruit. It reminded him of the dog he’d killed—poor Milo. The dog that hadn’t died right away. The dog that whined all the way to the twenty-four hour vet clinic before finally being put down. Those sad eyes going blank in an instant.
    “My God, he looks like I feel,” Tom W said of the polar bear, and gave the girl a wink which he immediately regretted.
    She looked at him as if he were a curiosity.
    “Look, I wish I could help,” he said. “I really do, but I’ve actually got a pretty serious vendetta against polar bears. In fact, they’re my sworn enemies.”
    “You’re kidding, right?”
    He made his face look stern.
    “How can you hate polar bears?” she asked.
    He felt like she had to know he was messing with her again, but she took the bait.
    “One killed my cat in a knife fight, and I’ve never gotten over it.”
    She laughed, again. She ran her hand down his left arm, lingering at the wrist for a few seconds before letting go. He trembled.
    “You’re pretty funny, aren’t you?” she said.
    “I have my moments.”
    “I bet you do—hey, I don’t normally do this, but I kind of have a weird thing for guys like you.”
    “Do you mean distinguished and charming or bald and rotund?” His smile, he felt, was boyish and playful. She was definitely flirting. He didn’t understand why.
    “Can it be a little of both?” she asked.
    “Wow, that is weird,” he said.
    He thought about his own daughters, much too young for dating now, but it was only matter of time before they’d be flirting with old, fat men on trains. A horrifying thought. Surely his girls would have better taste. Then again, didn’t women always go for men like their fathers? Perhaps it was good that his daughters hated him—for their sake.
    “I bet you have a hairy back, don’t you? In the gay community, guys like you are called Bears,” she said.
    “And what about in the straight community?”
    “I don’t know. Can’t I just call you cute?”
    “So, you’ve really got a thing for bears, polar or otherwise?”
    “Yeah, I guess I do.” Her blues eyes lit up. “My name is Amber.” She held her hand out in that dainty way of girls who grew up believing they were princesses, and Tom W took it like a gentleman and kissed it lightly. Her skin smelled like mangos.
    “Of course it is. I knew you were an Amber the second I laid eyes on you,” he said. “People call me Tom.”
    “Nice to meet you, Tom,” she said as she did a kind of bow and curtsy thing with the hem of her dress. “Can I ask you something?”
    “Anything.”
    “Well, this might sound kind of crazy. I don’t know you or what your plans are for this evening and all, but would you like to grab a drink with me?” Her eyes drew him in. Everything else drifted away. The train, the other passengers, the meetings, the ex-wife, the kids, the dog, and even the failed interviews all got lost in the moment.
    Tom W started to speak but hesitated. His sobriety pulled him back. The whining of the dying dog echoed through the hallways of his mind. Vera and his daughters’ faces, cruel and full of hate, just like the day he moved out, flashed before his eyes. He looked at the girl in front of him, and somehow she appeared different. Was it innocence or something else? Whatever it was, he knew he couldn’t do what he wanted to do. He gathered himself.
    “Sweetheart,” he said, his voice shaky. “You have no idea how much I’d like to have a drink with you, but unfortunately I have to pass.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Maybe some other time.”
    Even Tom W was shocked by his words. She didn’t seem like a girl who got turned down often, certainly not by guys like him. In fact, he was probably her first. She shrank under his rejection, and his heart mourned the loss, but it was a matter of self-preservation. She thanked him for his time and disappeared into the crowd with her clipboard and convictions, the tight- fitting orange and blue sundress etched into his brain. He envied her and despised himself.

*        *        *

    That night at his ten o’clock meeting, he introduced himself as “Tom W” once again and told his story. He spoke of the wife, the kids, the dog, the career, the girl on the train, and of polar bears. Tears ran down his cheeks, and his nose began to run as he made his way back to his seat. They thanked him for sharing. They always thanked you.

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