"TEN MINUTES"
Thomas J. McCabe Thomas J. McCabe is a painter and writer in Hartford
THE HARTFORD COURANT
'Be back in 10 minutes."
The handwritten sign was taped to the inside of the door. Like a human, I went ahead and pushed on the handle anyhow. Nary a budge.
"Oh shit, you've got to be freakin' kidding me! Ten minutes, oh, who knows when the hell that started."
This was the first time I ever stopped at this package store. A spur of the moment decision, this was not. All day long, I had been thinking about stopping there. Back in Rocky Hill, at my first stop, before 8 a.m., I was planning on it. Whenever I started a new route, one of my top priorities was to scout out the locations of all nearby liquor stores.
The lonely stretch of state highway near Litchfield looked like a photo from a 1950s 10-cent postcard. Surrounded on all sides by majestic rows of dour, watching trees. Trees of all sizes and lengths and widths. Trees wiser than I'll ever be.
"Ahhh, this sucks! I don't freakin' believe it." For the second time in less than a minute, I checked my watch. Still 1:03 p.m. The 1:00 news was just coming on the radio when I pulled the van into the driveway and parked around back, so nobody could see it. I figured I'd be in and out in seconds; that way, there'd be enough time to slam down a 16-ouncer out back. So much for that.
Traffic on that portion of the roadway was minimal at best, but with each passing car, I could just imagine the thoughts of the occupants. "Look at that bum, he really needs a drink, huh?" "See that man, Ronnie? If you drink and take drugs and drop out of school, you'll end up just like him, standing in front of a package store in the middle of the afternoon."
1:05 p.m. "Oh, c'mon, what are you doing, using the bathroom? Or ... making lunch? ... What up?"
My job, as a route driver for a small company that serviced supermarkets, was built around a fairly rigid schedule. Each supermarket has certain "receiving" hours for vendors. It was expected of me to be creative enough to meet the daily quota of stops, regardless of my stores' receiving hours. Regardless that my drinking was spiraling out of control and my life following close behind.
"Afternoon receiving hours" were from 1:30 to 2:30 at Shop Rite in Torrington. If I wasn't there by 1:30, the Coca-Cola trailer would probably beat me to the loading dock. Then, I would have to lug everything up the side stairs, and that was a pain in the ass!
"All right, c'mon ... It's 1:07 already! ... Let's go ... What the hell are you in business for? ... You $%#$%#!" On top of everything, I was supposed to call in from my last stop, in Newington. But, I couldn't get to a pay phone. I had to hurry, otherwise, I'd never be able to get in at Shop Rite.
"Yeah, I worked my ass off, all freakin' morning, just waiting to get a couple of 'kingers' here. Now, I can't even do that!"
I hated calling in. It was like calling my freakin' babysitter. Do they ever say, "You're making good time?" No, of course not. All you ever hear is, "What took you so long ?" It was important that I call in though. They were watching me, closely.
Two times now, they had me in the office. Supposedly, some lady at Waldbaum's said I smelled like alcohol. What does she expect? I work right near those deposit can and bottle machines. The old beer in those cans just permeates the air, and my jacket. And that PUNK janitor at the high school I had to go to. He said he saw me drinking a beer in the van. What a bunch of crap. I wasn't drinking it, it was already empty!
"OK, 1:09, What UP? ... What up? ... Hey, maybe there was a robbery and the robber killed the clerk, then put that sign in the window to deter ... HEY! ! ... huh? ... ALL RIGHT!"
There was movement inside the small brick store. A short, middle-aged woman opened the door.
"Ya' been waiting long?" she asked.
"No, no, just a couple of minutes."
"Can I help you with something?"
"Aahh ... I just feel like drinking a couple of beers today. I'm not usually much of a drinker, but could I please get three Budweiser 16-ounce cans?"
That's the way an alcoholic thinks.
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