For a while there, Davis was holding it together. He had a job, a fiancé, an apartment. He had dabbled in alcohol in the past, but that time of his life was behind him. Now he was a sales rep for a big Pharmaceutical company, driving around the five boroughs all day in his Chevy Cavalier. Not the safest job for a person with the self control of a hunting dog in front of a dead bird. But with Burger King wrappers lining his back seat, Davis kept on keeping on. Going door-to-door to doctor’s offices pushing the latest painkillers and anti-depressants, he seemed like he had it together. He bought a few suits and looked like a real professional with his briefcase slung over his shoulder.
But the biggest perk of the job was expensing dinners with the customers. Who was he to turn down a glass of Johnny Walker Blue? Quickly, the steak dinners got a little more interesting after he cracked open some of the sample packs that were so plentiful in the trunk of his car. It didn’t take long for Davis’s fiancé to pack up after she saw him one too many times passed out on the living room floor of their Queens apartment, using his briefcase as a pillow. Once, a symbol of his success, his leather briefcase became a symbol of his demise. Carrying around sample packs and clean underwear, his briefcase and his car were all he needed for weeks at a time. Days would never end and bleed into the next. But he would keep showing up at the doctor’s offices, handing out brochures on behalf of a mega corporation, responsible for how long people lived or how soon people died. Or in Davis’s case how much pain you felt.
Over confident and out of cash, one night Davis ripped-off the wrong guy. A few aspirin don’t do the same job as what he was offering. A swift kick in the shin and a stomping of the skull, Davis was forced to part with his briefcase. He did find it a few blocks away though. All his loot was gone, but left were a few of those brochures, so at least he could make his rounds the next day.