A Noticeable Change

Andrew Porter didn't wake up Friday morning. At least not the Andrew Porter he had been Thursday night in the hospital. He had begun to sense a kind of change of perspective come over him, but he would not have expected it to last as it had. He found himself feeling a similar regret from every day past over the loss of his wife and indiscretions of leaving his two sons to be raised by others. However, this Friday morning he had the sensation of a man that wanted to try and do something about his past.


Andrew had spent nearly two decades hating himself and successfully driving his health and life into the ground summarily. He knew he had made some peace towards his son, Jackson, but needed to do more. Jackson was easy to find. His big challenge would be his other son, William. He had made no effort to keep tabs on the adoption process and the whereabouts of his youngest son. His past efforts to contact him was limited to the raising of bottle to glass and glass to lips until the feeling passed. Today, however, he would not let that stop him.


Andrew reached for the phone book and called the first private investigator he found listed. With the phone wedged against his ear by his shoulder, he reached to his familiar stash of bottle as the phone rang. He unscrewed the cap to the gin, took one final sniff at the scent of herb and alcohol and proceeded to dump the bottle's contents down the sink as a voice on the other end of the line picked up.


"Aaron's Searchers. This is Aaron. How can I help you?"


"Hello, I'm a terrible father looking to right my life and I need help trying to find my son who I gave up to adoption roughly 18 years ago. What can I do to find him?" He reached upwards and found the 100 proof bottle of Southern Comfort and brought it to the counter. The sink was already disgusting with mildew before he dumped the gin. He would have to begin cleaning to help make the metaphorical clean up of his life. Plus it was gross.

"Alright. Would you like to schedule a time to stop in and give some information about your son? We have an opening this Wednesday in the morning."
"Is there any way to start this process now? I'm unnaturally focused right now and I really do not want to lose that. My son's name is William. It should have been William Porter, but I gave him up at birth when my wife died. He went to St. Mary's home for displaced youths. I never tried to find him so I don't know how soon they placed him. He should be 18 now." Andrew twists the cap off of the bottle of 12 year old scotch and poured it down the sink without a second thought.
"I'll tell you what I can do, sir. I've got the next hour free and will start looking into it, but we should still have a meeting setup for next week to discuss what I might find in the mean time and help bridge any gaps so we can avoid any false positives. How does that sound, Mr. Porter?"
"That sounds good to me. My number is 859-213-5591. Give me a call as soon as you find something." Andrew shook the last of the scotch from the bottom of the bottle and tossed it in the sink with the other bottles. He smiled at the site knowing he had seen similar in the past, but those had put him in the hospital and this time might keep him out for good.
He hung the phone back on the wall and walked to the cookie jar next to the microwave on the counter. He reached in and pulled out the gallon bag of airline flight sized bottles of booze and pitched the entire bag into the trash. He had saved these for occasions when he was forced to socialize and didn't want to go sober. He hoped he would not have those feelings anymore.
Andrew had spent over a decade in his small home and had only met his neighbors when he first bought the house. His first meeting was enough belligerence and Johnny Walker to prevent many further discussions. The only other occasions where when he drove his car up on some other neighbor's lawn coming home from the bar. A few times, he made a killing selling liquor at double the price to the minors in the neighborhood.
As if a thought returned to him on the neighborhood minors, Andrew began digging back into the trash to dump each of the small bottles out before pitching them. He did not want to enable anyone else anymore. With his left hand deep in the trash can, Andrew heard the screen door swing open and closed. A voice behind him called him by name asking him to confirm he was Andrew Porter.
Andrew confirmed his name still digging for the bag in the trash. As he pulled the bag from the can, a searing pain struck in his right shoulder. The gunshot sent him ached back and staggering backwards into the hutch with a fresh hole in his shoulder just high enough to hurt like hell but not low enough to have struck anything major.