Mid-August in the rural West was neither hot nor cool, neither clear nor cloudy. It was that indecisive kind of weather that just sat on your skin like lukewarm water, making you wonder if the sun had an off day. The sky was bleached, stretched pale with cotton clouds that didn't quite know whether to stay or drift. A light breeze shuffled through the crops, whispering to the leaves and carrying the earthy perfume of moist soil and wild grass.
Jake sat outside a modest farm building, one leg lazily propped over the other, his elbow resting on the arm of a rickety wooden chair that creaked with every breath he took. The building was the color of sun-worn timber and dust, standing silent and loyal beside a large maize field. His shirt was linen, faded green with a tear on the sleeve, the buttons mismatched from years of repairs. He wore tan slacks tucked into muddied boots, and a straw hat tipped over his eyes. He was the picture of rustic retreat, yet something in his gaze suggested that his spirit hadn't fully unpacked.
Beside him stood a well-carved wooden table—local handiwork, no doubt. Its legs were thick and ornate, curling into claw feet that hinted at pride. The surface bore marks of both function and affection: knife scars, water rings, and sun bleached patches. On it sat a jug of freshly processed guava juice, sweating gently in the midday heat, with a ceramic mug beside it. Jake poured himself a drink, the liquid glugging with soft joy, and took a slow sip.
"So," came a familiar voice, gravelly and warm, "when are you going back to the city?"
Jake glanced up at his father. Mr. Kirby, in his sixties, still carried the aura of a man used to being listened to. His skin was sun-baked, etched with the kind of wrinkles that only laughter, wisdom, and years on a tractor could carve. He wore denim overalls over a crisp white tee, with a farm cap tilted just enough to show confidence, not carelessness.
Jake sighed. "I don't think there's anything left in the city for me. I couldn't even come up with any work for years. Who does that?"
"You do," said Mr. Kirby, matter-of-fact. "That's why you were fired."
"Seriously, Dad?"
"You asked a question, son. I was just giving you an answer." Mr. Kirby raised both hands, looking saintly.
Jake rolled his eyes. "Dad, really?" He leaned back, eyes drifting to the sky. "Anyway, I haven't used my creative side in forever."
"Creative side?" Mr. Kirby raised an eyebrow. "What is that? I think if you stopped being a cruddy drunk, you might actually get your creative side back. Or whatever you call it."
Jake let the insult roll over him, like water off a stubborn duck.
"I heard that sigh," Mr. Kirby continued, his tone turning steel-edged. "I know what you're thinking. But alcohol won't take you anywhere, son. You've got to face your problems like a man—not drown in a bottle like a fool."
Jake finally looked at him. "Seriously, Dad?"
"Yes, seriously." Mr. Kirby took a sip from his own mug. "You remember what happened to your childhood friend's dad when he got drunk? Fell into a ditch last Thursday. Neighbor found him unconscious. Had to be rushed to the hospital. It was tragic, man. Really tragic."
There was a pause. The wind lifted Jake's hat just slightly.
"I know you want me to... I don't know, maybe motivate you in some fancy way," Mr. Kirby said. "But it's hard. Life is the only motivational book I know. Nobody—not books, audios, videos, whatever—really motivates you much. Life and you, yourself, does. One day, you just stand up and say you've had enough of life's shits. That's it. I hope you get yourself out of there, son. I really do."
Jake nodded, saying nothing, letting silence take its seat between them. He stared at the horizon, where the clouds had begun to part slightly, revealing slivers of golden sunlight like secrets escaping a locked drawer.
Mr. Kirby stood, dusted his pants. "I'm off. Look after the farm till I get back. You know what to do."
Even though Jake had taken to the bottle with religious consistency, Mr. Kirby still trusted him with the business. Jake had always been sharp, even with liquor burning through him.
After a day of hauling sacks, checking irrigation lines, and scolding lazy cows, Jake, with his buddy Devin—a fellow farmworker and occasional philosopher of cheap wine—headed down to the Bull Bar.
The bar wasn't much. Wooden exterior, corrugated metal roofing that rattled when the wind got bold. Inside, it smelled of sweat, sawdust, and spilled beer. A ceiling fan clunked overhead like it was counting its last days. The place was packed, of course—locals clutching beers like sacred objects, laughter bouncing off the walls.
Jake and Devin took their usual spot—a round table in the left corner, right before a wide ceiling-to-floor glass wall that gave a view of the distant hills blushing under twilight.
The waiter, a lanky teen with a moustache still negotiating puberty, came up.
"Yo, Dev," he said, grinning. "The usual poison?"
"Double that, Luka," Devin replied, tugging off his jacket and hanging it up. "It's been a week."
"You got it." Luka winked and disappeared.
"This bar seems more packed than usual," Devin said, rubbing his neck.
Jake shrugged. "The summer draws people like moths to a flame. Pherros gets chatty this time of year."
"Nah," Devin grinned. "Let's forget about all that and focus on drinking till we drop. How about that?"
Jake clinked his empty mug. "Now that's a damn fine plan."
Luka returned with two large mugs, foam spilling like a small, happy flood.
They drank. They laughed. Then they talked. And when Jake talked, the pain came loose.
"Life's shit," Jake muttered. "I mean it. You wake up, try to write, nothing comes. Then you drink so you stop feeling like a failure, and then you fail more. It's like walking on a treadmill to hell."
Devin nodded. "I hear that. Zoey's been so busy with that damn restaurant I barely see her. We live in the same house and text more than we talk."
"She still make those little lemon pies?" Jake asked.
"She does," Devin said wistfully. "But she never has time to sit down and eat 'em with me."
More drinks. More laughter.
Eventually, two more friends joined—faces Jake couldn't quite register. He was too far gone to ask names. Devin waved them in, and they joined the drunken spiral, laughter growing louder, words slurring like bad poetry.
At some point, the bar owner, a thick-browed man named Clark, stomped over.
"Alright, boys," he barked, "party's over. I ain't dragging you out again like last week."
They were packed into a neighbor's pickup truck like groceries and driven home under the kind eye of the moon.
Jake slumped on his bed that night, boots still on, breath ripe with liquor and regrets. His thoughts floated somewhere between his father's words and the taste of guava juice.
He wasn't sure what he was anymore.
But something had to give.
Soon.