Norman
By
Michael
Williams
I
stumbled
upon
him
one
day
outside
of
Merle’s.
Merle’s
is
the
only
place
in
this
town
where
a
guy
can
get
a
good
steak.
I
mean
a
good
steak.
If
you
can
stomach
the
dancers,
you
will
not
regret
the
steak.
I
can
stomach
the
dancers.
I
just
don’t
look
at
them.
I
have
only
made
the
mistake
of
looking
up
from
my
steak
once.
I
was
immediately
greeted
by
the
Captain
of
Merle’s
Monday-‐afternoon
Junior
Varsity
squad.
She
wore
an
eye-‐patch
and
had
bigger
biceps
than
my
uncle
Steve
and
he
was
a
goddamned
rigging-‐slinger
for
Cherry
Valley
Logging.
Seeing
her
wriggle
in
an
out
of
Merle’s
blue
and
red
party-‐lights
just
about
made
me
boot
in
my
mashed
potatoes.
So,
if
you
can
keep
your
eyes
on
your
plate,
Merle’s
is
the
place
for
steak.
I
came
out
of
Merle’s
that
day
after
having
won
a
battle
with
my
brain
over
whether
or
not
I
should
take
a
drink.
I
loved
to
drink,
but
I
couldn’t—I
still
can’t.
One
more
drink
and
she’s
gone.
No
“ifs,”
“ands,”
or
“buts.”
Something
happened
to
me
when
I
drank
she
didn’t
like.
I
turned
into
someone
else
altogether.
I
didn’t
mean
to.
I
felt
like
maybe
she
was
blowing
things
out
of
proportion,
but,
I
didn’t
want
her
to
go,
so
I
agreed
to
stay
dry.
Only
problem
back
then
was
that
my
head
had
a
way
of
telling
me
to
go
ahead
and
drink.
Like,
who’s
going
to
know?
I
started
going
to
the
AA
hall
where
the
drunks
met
and
got
a
guy
to
help
me
stay
on
the
wagon
until
my
head
stopped
gnawing
at
me
about
drinking:
Should
I
drink?
Should
I
not
drink?
Could
I
get
away
with
it?
Could
I
only
have
two?
Would
she
really
leave
if
I
drank?
31