One Sip Won’t Hurt

Ben Colefield wasn’t exactly a man of routine. He needed to be at his security desk job by 6 AM every morning. Brutal hours, but it’s the best-paying option his temp agency found. It was 1 AM and he had just finished season three of a Netflix show he started last week. He brushed the Doritos crumbs off of the crumpled gray t-shirt that loosely draped his modest potbelly and started for his bedroom.

He was the best player on his varsity lacrosse team in university, but 4 years of bad habits can take their toll.

Ben’s unraveling began with a bottle of beer at a barbecue. It was his first, and unbeknownst to him, it’d be the first domino to fall in what would eventually land him in jail. He started regularly showing up drunk to lectures. Students who sat near Ben could smell the vodka on his breath—he was a mouth breather. Fortunately for them, eventually he stopped going.

He stopped going to lacrosse practice too. He slept in, ate pizza, and drank like it was going out of fashion. Friends didn’t really notice anything at first—everyone parties in college.

Coach Keegan noticed.

Coach Keegan, a former professional lacrosse player, knocked on Ben’s dorm door after three weeks of missed practices.

“Oh, hey coach. Wh-whaa are you doo-ng here,” Ben answered the door, slurring his words.

The stench of whiskey hit Coach Keegan like nuclear radiation. Glancing past Ben’s shoulder, he saw the state of disarray in the dorm: it was a filthy pig sty littered with takeout boxes and liquor bottles.

“Listen son, you need to get ahold of yourself. You’re not doing well.”

“I know coach, but—” a hiccup interrupted Ben’s defence.

“No ‘but’. Get dressed. I’m taking you to the campus clinic.”

“Okay.” Ben wobbled, then tried to shut the door.

Coach Keegan wedged his foot in. “I’m coming inside.”

“No,” Ben curtly replied.

“Move aside. You need help.”

Ben fell back onto the floor. “You sum bitch!”

Ben struggled to his feet, and discreetly curled his fingers around the neck of an empty beer bottle lying near his feet.

“I’m going to get you help. This isn’t—”

Coach Keegan collapsed with a heavy thud.

Ben had smashed and broken the glass bottle against his temple—shattering the coach’s orbital bone.

—

While Ben’s friends earned credits toward their undergraduate degrees, he languished in a grimy prison cell. He hadn’t killed Coach Keegan, but the damage was severe enough to land him 5 years in prison for aggravated assault.

Withdrawal symptoms were hell. A reformist guard encouraged Ben to join the recovery centre for inmates. Having been stripped of the safety and comfort he was coddled in at campus, he adhered to the advice of the only nice person he encountered in prison.

He got out on parole for good behaviour in three and a half years at the ripe age of 24 years old. He couldn’t go back to campus—he’d been expelled. He couldn’t go home—he’d been expelled there too. While most of his social circle had moved across state lines to commence their careers, his close friend Mathew had stuck around to pursue a Masters degree.

Fortunately for Ben, Mathew was something of a reformist himself and a classic “bleeding heart” type—he even had a framed photograph of Bono in his apartment.

Mathew agreed to let Ben crash in his spare bedroom.

Alcohol had shattered Ben’s life, and putting the pieces back together would take time.

—

Ben managed to find temp work through a government sponsored agency that found short term employment contracts for ex-convicts. That’s what he had become now. His identity wasn’t lacrosse player, or even handsome man—it was “batshit psycho junkie” to quote the most liked Instagram comment on a video post covering his assault of Coach Keegan.

Ben was filled with remorse as he sought to make amends with his former coach. Weeks passed before he received a reply, a brief acknowledgment of Ben’s feelings and a reminder of the significance of this second chance for him to prove himself.

Ben worked a string of odd jobs. He worked as a ranch hand, a car washer operator, and a last-mile delivery driver. He finally landed a security gig making $40 per hour. He could finally afford to pay market rent to Mathew, but in all honesty he deserved more. He gave Ben a place to live for free; time to get his life back together; most importantly, he removed any and all alcohol from his apartment.

Ben’s social life had come back into full swing. He met a pretty girl who worked in the offices above where Ben sat security at night. He offered to help carry some of her boxes upstairs. Her name was Michelle and she worked for a pet food company.

“I hope I’m not helping you carry bombs upstairs.”

Michelle smiled. “No—it’s just the one.”

Ben let out a quick laugh. “My name’s Ben. I was only asking that because I’m technically on parole.”

“Okay. Wow, nice. What were you in f… Sorry, that's rude.”

Ben laughed disarmingly. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just say alcohol leads to extremely poor decisions, some of which include fracturing your lacrosse coach’s skull.”

“Yikes. Wait, you played lacrosse? So I did,” Michelle said, not really knowing how to respond.

“Midfield. Also, my coach is fine now. I did my time, I paid the price, and thanks to a wonderful friend I’m back on my feet.”

“That’s great to hear. What was your name, again?” Michelle asked.

—

It took less than two months of dating for Michelle to completely renew Ben’s identity from wino to romeo. Michelle became Ben’s reason to live—she inspired him to push himself. She’d asked him once at a restaurant if it was okay if she ordered a cocktail. He hesitated at first—it wasn’t that he itched to drink, but he was afraid to feel temptation. He wanted to be strong—especially for Michelle. He’d been sober for nearly four years and he fully intended on maintaining his sobriety.

Ben and Michelle didn’t live together. Not yet. It was too early in the dating process. Michelle’s friends and sister wanted to meet Ben. They had worried about the “ex-convict” part of his description that Michelle glossed over. She praised his sobriety in his defense and expressed how much hard work he put into abstaining from booze. They had grown close fairly quickly and developed intimate habits like all couples do. They called each other every night. Michelle would ask him about his childhood, his parents, and what it was like in prison. Ben answered without holding back. He had an equally grand interest in her lifestory, and in this way they swapped stories and meshed closer.

—

Late one night, Ben came home with Chinese food. He set the takeout bag on Mathew’s lacquered coffee table. He opened the fridge and froze. A bronze beer bottle stared back at him. The first thought he had: at least it’s not hard liquor. He grasped the bottle and held it in his palm. He stared at it for what felt like an eternity.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

The refrigerator’s temperature alarm startled Ben. He closed the fridge, keeping the bottle in his hand. He walked to the couch, set the bottle down, and opened his food. Halfway through his chow mein, he felt thirsty. He paused and eyed the bottle. One sip won’t hurt. It’s basically mostly water. He cracked the bottle open on the side of Mathew’s coffee table—physically marking the site where he broke his sobriety. Mathew wasn’t home, so he couldn’t stop Ben from breaking his years long sobriety streak.

Ben put the chilled bottle to his lips. Relief. The cool booze rolled in like a tsunami after a drought. He took one gulp and put the bottle back down. He continued chowing on the chow mein. That wasn’t so bad. I’m fine. I’m totally fine. I’m still within my senses. Okay, one more. He reached for the bottle and his phone buzzed. It was Michelle.

Michelle 9:48 PM

Ready to FaceTime?

Fear hit Ben’s skull like a glass bottle.

Ben 9:49 PM

Yup! Just jumping into bed now, hold on.

Ben abandoned his dinner and bad decision on the coffee table and raced to his room. With his phone in his hand, he shimmied his pants off and got into the PJs Michelle had bought him. He didn’t want Michelle to know what he did. If she saw his face under the bright incandescent light, she’d see the despair on his face. No, he needed the lights off. The feeling of deep regret put a lump in his throat.