Author Matthew Heneghan

In the twilight of a bar’s neon glow, amid the clinks of glasses and the murmur of slurred confessions, resides the seductive dance of destruction. Alcohol, that ancient social lubricant, can be a friend with too sharp a knife, a companion that cuts as deeply as it comforts. I’ve watched it, lived it — seen it take more than it ever gives.

For many, a night out is simply that — a night out. A novelty. But for an addict, a night out is an exercise of lies, mistruths, and dirty secrets all concealed within the pretty packaging of a seemingly innocuous bacchanalia. Thing is, it’s never just one night out, is it?

In the summer of 2018, I met a fellow traveler of sorrow. Both he and I were bound to our seats that rested in a circle with nothing but sad tales and stale coffee to permeate the room. Rehab. A peculiar place that croons of peace and prosperity to the outsider looking in, but for those like he and I, it’s a place where part of our being goes to die. And that’s the happy ending.

Lawrence was his name. He was a no-nonsense mason. His hands were swollen by years of hard labor. His skin held within it a permanent chalk of brick dust and drywall ether. His voice sounded as you’d imagine a cigarette to sound if it could muster a sentence or two. His speech was laden with a poetic weft of “fuck, fuckin’ and fuckin’ right!” Despite all this, if you managed to capture his attention, he was a gentle guy to be around. He wanted the best for people, he just had a rough way of expressing it. But I understood him just fine.

After rehab, Lawrence and I stayed in semi-regular contact with one another. With my living on the west bend of the country, and he on the east, our discourse was sequestered to the banal medium of social media. He’d occasionally send me a message offline, informing me that his account had been “banned” again for one of his prolific content violations. I was always amused by this happening.

I actually mailed him a copy of my book and a military patch for use on a backpack that he had seemed quite proud of, based on his social media posts regarding the pack itself. He thanked me and said that he was looking forward to reading my work. That was to be the last in-depth conversation I would have with Lawrence. Of course, I didn’t know it would be. How could I? Or perhaps, how could I not…? Losing friends to this devious vice is all too common, when thinking in terms of retrospect.

While sipping a tea and watching the game, my wandering mind informed me that I had not seen a post from Lawrence in some time. This was motivation enough to pick up my phone and type his name into the search bar of social media only to be met with a sullen post from one of his other cohorts. It read, “shocked….friends in high school we were gonna link up …..so sorry brother….may you rest in eternal peace”

I shared in that sentiment — shock. My eyes fell heavy on the screen for several moments before putting the phone down. While in rehab, they caution us, the beleaguered, that things like this are likely to occur. It’s spoken in earnest. Rightfully so. When in active addiction, you never really can tell just how close you are to that knife’s edge. The reality is that death is just one sip away.

Farewell, my brick-laying brethren. Thank you for the laughs we shared in that cheerless place. I’ll of course mull over all the things left unspoken to you. That is my penance. You lived life on your own terms. You apologized to no one for being yourself. An enviable trait, if I’m honest. My only hope is that somewhere out there in the great abyss of the unknown, you are smiling that smile of yours, cooking and grilling your heart away, and posting pictures of your plate for all to see.

It’s closing time. All that’s left is broken bottles and goodbye.

Farewell compadre.