Paul’s Resolution
By: Matt Suwak
Tags: Starting Over, Fiction, Resolutions, Unhealthy Relationships, New Years Eve

“I’m never doing this again.”

Paul rubbed his hands together to circulate the blood. He cursed once, twice, thrice, swearing unprintable words about the bitter Philadelphia winter. He was a burly guy, easily weighing in over two-hundred pounds, and the cold didn’t usually bother him because of it. But Philadelphia had some nasty winter cold, and he was feeling it now.

“What’s the matter, huh? If you’re cold yur not workin’ hard enough,” Bob said, “Pick up the damn shovel and get back to it.”

A fourth, fifth, sixth curse sneaked their way out of Paul’s lips. A practiced good nature made him reply jovially, “No problem, Bob, sorry, just got lost feelings in my hands. Tough to keep a grip on a shovel when you can’t feel your hands.”

Bob’s eyes squinted, his lips sneered, “You don’t need to feel the shovel to hold onto it. Just grab it, idiot.” Bob wasn’t what you’d call bright, or handsome, or decent. He’d gone through the grinder a few times and survived to tell the tale and sport the scars and limps with pride, and always put himself back through it without a second thought.

He was also ugly as sin and smelled like the cab of an old pickup truck. Bob had about six teeth in his mouth and he mumbled every word in a sleepy drawl when he spoke.

Seventh curse. Paul grabbed the worn ash handle and went back to work, “Right away, boss.”

***

How the hell was he back into this situation? Paul wasn’t a stupid guy, he wasn’t a jerk, so how’d he keep winding up in a position where he had to start over with nothing? The truth peeked its head into his inner monologue and whispered, “You’re a sucker for a sweet smile and a bad attitude, Paul,” but he shooed that bit of niggling truth away.

Besides, it didn’t matter if that particular predilection was his weakness. This year was going to be different. It was January 15th 2021 and Paul was two-weeks true to his resolution; “No more rough women.” No more head-over-heels fiascos, not another night of “this-is-the-one” prayers to whoever was listening.

He reminded himself verbally, “I’m never doing this again.”

Paul had never been a believer in New Year’s resolutions, but this year he felt the spirit of the occasion and decided he knew exactly what resolution he’d make. Paul had a heart that was made for breaking, plain as that, and he’d decided he wouldn’t do it anymore.

A broken heart led him down a garden path of bad decisions that, ultimately, ended up with him passed out in a puddle of shame.

***

“Never doin’ what again?” Bob asked.

Paul’s eyes flitted, “What?” He leaned on his shovel that was just starting to break through the frozen ground.

“You just said you’re never doin’ this again. What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Bob didn’t lean on his shovel, he kept digging.

“Nothin’, don’t worry about it. I’m just cold, is all. Makes me think stupid things.”

Bob tilted his head and stopped digging, leaned on his shovel gracelessly. He said to Paul with something shy of a fatherly tone, “You know, if you’re cold, jus’ think warm thoughts.”

Paul nodded twice dismissively and said, “Yeah? Warm thoughts, huh? Like somethin’ about Florida?”

Bob didn’t take offense and considered the thought. Said, “Yeah, I guess. You ever been to Florida?”

Paul shook his head, “Nah.”

“Then why the hell would you think of Florida if you ain’t never been there? Idiot. Think about somethin’ you actually done that made you warm.”

“Yeah, okay, Bob,” Paul said, rubbing his hands together again. Paul didn’t like being called an idiot by the dumbshit Bob.

For a moment, Bob’s appearance flickered. The gruff swagger he brandished faltered. Evaporated. Suddenly he was someone else, a younger man who had no idea what kind of mistakes he was about to make that would haunt him every day going forward. “I think about the cookie’s ma makes. They’re ‘macerdermia’ nuts, whatever the hell you call ’em. I think about eatin’ one straight outta the oven.”

Paul almost snorted at Bob’s words, but then he got a look at the change in Bob’s demeanor. It was shocking. Ordinarily, Bob looked like a chewed-up piece of beef jerky that was more gristle than meat. But right now he looked like a prime slab of beef, at least in spirit.

So Paul figured, what the hell, he’d give it a shot.

He thought warm thoughts.

***

On December 23rd 2020 Paul saw a concert at Arty’s Lounge, that place in Fishtown across from the Vietnamese jeweler with the cheap and gaudy rings in the window and the old appliance store that just wouldn’t call it quits. It was a shit bar but they served good beer and the bartenders didn’t try to strike up a conversation when you ordered a drink.

Every Thursday night Arty pulled in some local musician to play music to whatever crowd was gathered. Sometimes it was Fat Mike with his jumbo dreadnaught guitar playing covers that sounded decent, or maybe it was The Steve Wash Experience, a band channeling the Rolling Stones in style if not in listenability.

Most of the people who played were regulars at the bar and didn’t take their performances seriously, but hey, it was entertainment. Every once in a while, though, Arty managed to snag some spectacular act. It might have been a couple of kids who shouldn’t be in a bar but played loud and angry, or a traveling act passing through town that found some novelty in playing in legitimate dive bars.

This was one of those nights.

Paul was four beers deep when he heard the voice.

The hairs on his neck stood at attention and he turned towards the stage, slowly lowering the foamed pint glass from his lips. It was a woman singing, a little wisp of a thing with the voice of a trucker two-days deep into a three-day bender. There wasn’t a drop of pomp in her voice; it was the low growl of a junkyard dog who’d seen one too many taunting kids throw sticks against the fence. She was ready to ruin somebody’s day, and Paul wanted it to be his.

The setlist played for another thirty-eight minutes. Paul bought her a drink; her name was Shelly. They exchanged bouts of silence while gulping their beers, snorted at the follow-up act in unison, and at the end of the night made out like high school kids in the sweet bliss of band camp.

Her band would be in town again January 20th 2021. At the time he promised to go and see her again, but since then he’d decided that these relationships were what caused so much strife and chaos in his life. They just weren’t worth it, even if they made him feel warm and alive the way he’d only seen in movies.

***

“Yo, idiot, you alright over there? Stop leaning on the damn shovel.”

Paul returned to the moment. His hands were warm.

“Yeah, I got it,” Paul said and went to work.

Five more days, he thought, until he could see Shelly.

Fuck resolutions. They were the kind of dirty self-knowledge that took the needed wind from his sails when he braved troubled waters.

“I’ll do it one more time,” he bartered. Bob heard it and frowned in thought, but decided he didn’t need to ask what Paul was talking about. Bob understood.

After all, what’s life without a little idiocy?