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We All Fall
By Juan Alvarado Valdivia
Eduardo, a young, stocky Latino with a scraggly beard, sits behind the wheel of his parked car on bustling Clement Street just as a pregnant brunette in her early thirties grimaces and clutches the parking meter in front of him. His eyes widen as he watches her partner put his hand on her back and ask if she’s all right. His grip on the steering wheel tightens as she shuts her eyes and exhales deeply. He flings the car door open.
Do you guys need some help, Eduardo asks.
No, no, we’re okay, the man says.
You sure? I can drive you guys to the hospital.
I’m okay, she says, putting a hand out. My water just broke. Believe me, it’s a mess down there.
All right you guys, good luck. Hope you get to a hospital soon.
That’s the plan, the man says before he bounds down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.
As he walks away, Eduardo peers back at the woman. She groans and bends over, wrapping her arms around her belly. Two elderly Asian women stand outside the local food market, staring at her. He takes two steps toward the pregnant woman, ready to run back to her aid just as a Caucasian woman steps forward. She rubs her arm and asks if she can help. You’re useless, Eduardo thinks to himself, trudging down the crowded sidewalk.
Eduardo remembers the time he accompanied his last girlfriend, Sofia, to a Planned Parenthood clinic. Oprah played from the television in the waiting area. He was the only guy there. He hid behind his book while he waited. He could still remember how gingerly Sofia walked back out into the lobby. All he could do was hold her hand, then hold the front door open for her.
He slogs into a bakery near the corner of 3rd Avenue. As he takes his place in line he remembers that there’s a liquor store a block and a half away. It’s on the way to his car. He could buy a fifth of rum, a bottle of Coke to chase it. It’s Saturday; he has the rest of the day to himself. His roommates are out. It could be a one-time thing—the first time in six months he would drink some booze. After tomorrow—if there’s any rum left—he’ll simply pour it out in the sink—and that will be the end of that. A one-time deal. Besides, what are the odds of seeing a pregnant woman’s water break in public? How often is he reminded that he should be the father of a three-year old?
With a baguette tucked under his arm, Eduardo marches down the sidewalk. He stares at the pavement. Once he approaches his dinky Nissan, he is careful to keep it in his periphery. He doesn’t want to catch a glimpse of the liquor store on the corner. He must resist.
Back behind the wheel, Eduardo pulls out his wallet. Tucked behind his license is the business card of his AA sponsor, Jerry, a tenant lawyer who almost ruined his career with drinking. His number was already saved into Eduardo’s cell phone but he wants to look at the note Jerry wrote on the back of the card. “We all fall,” it read in neat handwriting. “It doesn’t mean you’re bad. Or weak. Don’t ever forget that.”
But then there was that thought again: it’s only one time. One time. One time you allow yourself to fall. We all fall, at some point or another. It’s inevitable.
Once home, Eduardo sets a black plastic bag on the dining table. He places the baguette next to a fruit bowl. No one is home. Hurry up, he thinks to himself, opening a cabinet, snatching a glass, then swinging the freezer door open to grab the ice cube tray and twist two into the glass.
Eduardo shuffles into his bedroom carrying the bag and glass. His bedroom is suffused in sunlight. He sets the bag on his desk. He takes out the fifth of rum and liter of Coke. He stares at the bottle, the rum’s light-brown shade as sunlight glimmers on it. He can feel the burning sensation it would make if he took a slug from the bottle. Stop, stop, he tells himself as he twists the cap off. He takes a deep breath, then staggers back to the lounge chair in the corner of his room. His photo albums rest on the bookshelf beside him. All he has to do is pivot and grab the album that contains pictures of his three years alongside Sofia. She was the only one who really knew him, the only one who accepted him for who he was until she gave up on him like all the others.
He stares at the bottle of rum waiting on his desk, then the pictures of his parents resting on his desk. He put them through hell—the drunk-driving accident; the bill for his three-week stint in rehab; the time his mother had to leave work in the morning to bail him out of jail after a highway cop saw him pulled over on the shoulder, puking as he drunk and drove to work.
Sofia had been pregnant for two and a half months. They drank and smoked almost every day during that time. She didn’t know she was pregnant, and how could he? They were both twenty-three then; they weren’t ready to be good parents though he heard, a year after they broke up, that she was getting married to one of their high school classmates. She had gotten herself cleaned up, and they already had a kid.
Eduardo buries his face in his hands and sobs, the bottle of rum beside him.
