Last Acts by Alexander Sammartino

Author:Alexander Sammartino
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2024-01-23T00:00:00+00:00

3

How long had Nick Rizzo been sober?

Over three years, but he resisted the idea that he could be defined by the simple maintenance of his sobriety.

Who was he then?

The man who picked the buck. A fact he felt some guilt for, yes, but he believed his self-awareness spared him from being truly unprincipled. He would make the right choice when it mattered most.

What if such a choice never came?

Oh, it would.

But if not?

He still had to work. Even the infrequent afternoon off for Nick still involved hanging around the business. In his nominal absence the shop was managed by Matt Wilson, a friend from high school who had shared Nick’s desire to flee Arizona. Also had, for a bit: to Southern California, almost a decade. As teenagers they often skipped P.E. to smoke cigarettes and rehearse sketches for their future auditions for Saturday Night Live, hiding out for the entire fourth period at Matt’s house, where both boys had displayed a humor limited to the scatological, the onanistic, and Kaufmanesque anti-jokes, though neither, at the time, had any idea who Andy Kaufman was.

They had talked for the first time in years when Nick got back online. Matt Wilson had been living in his parents’ garage in Glendale, answering the phone at a glassblowing studio, four years and thirteen days sober. He was tall and blond and blue-eyed, naturally lean, with the slack demeanor of someone secure in his tastes. His disinterest in the age or quality of his clothes—he often wore cotton T-shirts with random slogans across the chest, with phrases like HANG LOOSE and GO AZTECS and NEVER FORGET: HAVASU ’09—only further contributed to Matt’s vibe of seasoned indifference.

Today Matt Wilson spoke to a man with sideburns and a checkered tie while on the glass surface between them was an antique rocket launcher. “You remember Danny,” Matt said, swinging a thumb at the man with the sideburns. But Nick did not remember Danny, so Matt continued: “The real-estate agent. He’s been showing a bunch of stuff for that neighborhood out back?”

“The rockets,” Danny said. He swung a briefcase down on the counter next to the bazooka.

“It’s supposed to be decorative,” Matt said, nodding at Nick, while he struggled to unclasp the latches.

Here was a question: Did Nick believe in redemption?

It was asked by Matt when Danny left. Why did Matt need to know, was Nick’s response, which received a shrug. Matt Wilson said he was trying to talk about things that mattered. He remembered attempting a vow of silence as a kid, how he briefly thought there was something profound in silence, but he realized it seemed that way because it was also a form of laziness.

Had Matt Wilson been smoking pot?

A little. Several hours earlier. “I fucked up,” Matt said, staring down. This was not the first time he had fucked up. He stood at the counter and gripped the rocket launcher as if it were a rail holding him upright. “Danny came around and I just, you know, fucked up.

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