Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

It was a second rate place by any standard. He knew when he first bought the ring that he had been bilked. But he didn’t care. It looked pretty on Marie’s finger, and she seemed to think the whole world had been imprisoned in that tiny, gleaming chunk of glass. She had been happy, and so had he.

He was happiest when he was paying for it. Every month for over two years he had taken his thirty-six dollars to the tiny shop, chatted with the old man behind the counter, and checked the dwindling balance.

He suddenly became a little sad when he realized that this was to be the last payment. He had come to look upon the old man as a benefactor, someone he could share his happiness with. And paying had been one way of showing his love for Marie.

“Today’s the day, eh?” the old man cackled, opening the account book.

Jim had the right change clenched in his fist, and he spread the meagre bills one by one on the counter.

The old man counted the money and made an entry into the musty old ledger. Then, with a minutely magnificent gesture, he crossed out the account. Then he handed the card over to Jim.

“Here. The honour of ripping it to shreds,” he said, smiling.

Jim started. “No. I... I’d like to keep it,” he said blushing, and thrust the tattered card into his coat pocket. Just a reminder of two years of diligence.

“How’s the girl?” the old man asked, his eyes laughing.

“Getting along fine. I guess this’ll be the last time I’ll be seeing you,” he answered. He was reluctant to leave.

“You’ll be buying an anniversary gift before long. I’ll save something for you... nice... not too expensive.”

Jim waved good-bye and went out the door. He didn’t look back. It was too early to go home to Marie. And he needed time to think of a reasonable excuse for again being out of a job.

He walked south, looking at the receipt the old man had given him. The word PAID was scrawled in large red letters over it. He put this, along with the card, tenderly into his wallet.

At least it wouldn’t be all bad news, he told himself. She’d be happy to know that at last the ring would be her own, and no one could take it from her. But what would she say about the job? He had promised again and again that he wouldn’t drink. But she must have known that it would be a hard promise to keep. He wondered how much longer she could love a man like himself, who couldn’t even hold a forty-three-dollar job... a man who couldn’t control a simple thing like drink.

He sat at his usual spot, and the waiter dropped a glass of beer without waiting to be asked.

He shuddered at the first taste of the cold, bitter liquid, then sat back in the gloom of the seedy men’s room. The first glass went down badly, but swiftly, and he felt better after a couple more.

He had roughly six dollars left. More than enough to get a glow on with beer at fifteen cents a glass, not counting tips. He never drank anything but beer.

He lit a cigaret and blew a smoke ring. It spread out in front of him over the black, wet table. Then someone opened a door and the draught exploded it. He let the lighter remain lit for a moment then blew it out. The top was hot with the flame and he relished the feel of it.

Someone was talking about astrology in a loud voice.

He knew that Marie would be very angry that he was drinking the last of the money. He would need it for food, car fare, and clean shirts when he would have to look for a job.

Marie loved him now, he knew that. But for how long? He ordered another drink and began talking to himself out loud.

“Shaddup!” someone said.

He went to the washroom and doused his face with cold water. He felt better. His reflection in the mirror glared redly back at him. He cursed himself, then followed it up with a sly smile and went back for more beer.

An old man was sitting at the table he had just left. He was annoyed, but sat down anyway, putting his change on the table. The old man looked at the heap of silver acquisitively, then went back to his dreams.

He had met Marie three years before, and loved her from the first moment they had met. Marie didn’t take to him at first. He was far too moody, she said. But after a time she became accustomed to his shifting tempers and erratic habits. And he didn’t drink then.

He finally got the nerve to propose to her. She accepted, not too readily, but life took on a new meaning for him. He got a job with a small newspaper, bought a ring, got a job with a bigger paper, and things were just dandy.

Then he began to drink and talk to himself.

He was thrusting a finger at an imaginary Alec when he toppled a full glass of beer over the old man. The waiter came over and wiped up after him. The old man left, cursing him through toothless gums. He ordered another round, and found that he could just pay for it, with two dollars to spare. That would be for the cab. He was in no condition to walk very far, and street-car drivers can be sticky sometimes.