Glad to Be Alive – Andrew Fiouzi
September 24, 2025
Last night, a guy wearing a white mask and ski goggles walked into the bar I was in and started shooting up the place. The person sitting next to me said, something isn’t right. Then the bullets started flying. I ducked behind the bar, onto the floor. Dislocated my shoulder. Someone, I think it was a woman, looked dead.
Annie yelped.
She was breastfeeding our three month old son. I pulled myself off the bedroom floor, mumbled something about a bad dream, back in bed, glad to be alive.
Years ago, before I met Annie, I was at that same bar with Jamie and Ricky, a few other friends, tired of shooting pool, too drunk. A virgin. I’d had my opportunities. I’d had my dick sucked. My fingers had been wet. Just never made it all the way. This and that reason.
Just before midnight, during the new year’s kisses, I went to the bathroom, took a piss, vomited a little, felt sober, came out and saw that Jamie had gone home. Had given up, was probably standing in line for donuts. He’d be home soon, back at his dad’s place, watching the world’s strongest men on YouTube, pumping himself up with calories that take too long to burn, head in the toilet. Everyone has their Achilles’ heel.
Ricky was making out with a girl who was seven or eight months pregnant with a fish hook through her septum. Typical Ricky. Always playing the numbers game, conjuring his own odds based on all the porn he used to watch.
Still watches.
I stepped outside, into a thrust of fluorescent light, aching for a cigarette. People curdling in threes and fours. Tired ankles. Feet confined to intricately woven tourniquets. A single black coat, floating off to the side. I can’t remember who said what first. First words like last words aren’t important.
She said, I’ve got one left. Then she blew a huff of smoke out from the side of her mouth, stepped towards me, into the light and pulled the hood off her head. Her eyes were the color of civil twilight. She smiled a coyote’s smile. She pulled a pack of Parliament Lights out of her coat pocket.
I was too young. Untethered. I thanked her for the cigarette, pulled out my own lighter, turned around and found a little island back under the light.
She said, you smoke like you’re in a hurry.
And she said, how about a miller lite and we’ll call it even on the cigarette.
She said, I’m just kidding.
She told me, I’m sitting by the jukebox.
She finished her cigarette, flicked the end towards the gutter, stepped into the light, onto my island. I followed the scent of a mother’s moisturizer back inside the bar. It was last call. So she ordered her Miller Lite and I ordered a Budweiser. I fumbled for a crumpled $20 bill. I must have missed the moment when she and the bartender made eye contact and he agreed to let her take care of it. We didn’t say much at first. Just names. Hers was Tracy. I told her which part of town I’d come from.
Happy new year.
She said it first.
She stared. And I stared. We finished our beers this way. To this day, it’s the least awkward silence I’ve ever been a part of.
I was still living with my parents so I suggested we get another drink at a different bar. Tracy said she has to be up early. She told me her ex was dropping off her daughter in the morning.
She said, we could walk to my place.
She said, it’s a little far.
I told her, I could use the fresh air.
No one is ever going to believe this, I thought. In my head, I was losing my virginity. Even under her oversized coat, and black shirt, I could see the future. It was glorious. That Simon and Garfunkel song humming in the back of my head. If it were up to me we’d be running.
It was nearly 2am when we got outside. The streets flickered with red break lights, drunk drivers racing home to make love to their sweethearts. I’m thinking, I should have pissed again before we left. It was the kind of internal pressure that makes it hard to stand straight.
We waited at a crosswalk. Waited for the lights to change. Wait. The voice of a robot kept telling us even though the pedestrian walkway was clear. I don’t know. I don’t know. I grabbed Tracy’s hand and tried to pull her into the street. It felt romantic. Urgent. There was an oncoming car but by my calculations if we walked like we were on our way to heaven, we would make it across.
Tracy said, no.
She said, wait.
She said, stop.
I was one foot on the curb, one foot into the crosswalk, still holding onto her hand but just by the tips of our fingers. Pathetically holding on. I was afraid if I let go she might disappear.
I said, I’m sorry.
I said, I really have to pee.
And she said, let’s wait for the light to change.
I said, but we can make it. Just trust me.
I said, we’re not going to get hit by a car.
I promise, I told her.
She said, I can’t risk it.
She told me, it’s too risky.
I can’t die, she said.
She told me, Let’s just wait for the light to change.
And so we waited. I nearly pissed my pants, waiting. Thought about running into the bushes, but I was down some momentum. And the light finally changed and we started walking, still holding hands. Completely holding hands. And when we got to her place, I let go of her hand and ran to the bathroom. She said, first door on the left.
Now, I was clear eyed. I could see where I was. First, a little pink toothbrush. Then, outside the bathroom, a pink room on the right. Toys strung across a rainbow-colored rug. A basket of dolls. A plastic kitchenette. A book shelf. The Giving Tree. The Velveteen Rabbit. Winnie-the-Pooh. The Little Prince.
Back in the living room Tracy had removed her coat, facing away from me, bent over, there wasn’t a single crease in her jeans. She put on a record. Sounded like Stevie Wonder. And.
What happened, Annie said. I could see she was worried. My son looked at me, his eyes wide, two lighthouses signaling me home, mouth still latched on Annie’s tit.
I can’t die anymore, I told her. Then I waited for the sun to come up.