By Jason Nassi

First draft completed, November 29, 2025. Written for the Tough Guy Book Club Short Story Competition, 2025, for which the following rules were required:

• All entries must be original work, written by the entrant, and must not infringe on the rights of any other person.
• Not previously published elsewhere, and that I hold full rights to the work.
• Stories must be written in English and have a word limit of between 3000 and 5000 words.
• The story must contain the concepts of a small friend from far away and something working as an anchor.
• Created entirely by the entrant without the assistance of artificial intelligence tools, including but not limited to AI text generators, editing software that produces substantial rewrites, or automated story creation platforms.

Monday

As soon as my feet hit the sidewalk outside St. Anthony’s, I had my iPhone out and was calling Phil on FaceTime. It’s a few minutes after 10:00 PM here, which means it’s past 1:00 AM for him. He’s on a work assignment on the East Coast, and I know he’ll have had a long day, but he’d said to call him as soon as the meeting was over. And seeing how he answers before it even gets to the second ring, he was waiting for me to call.

My phone screen fills with his face, up close. He’s tired, and I’d guess that he’s ready to go to bed, judging by the greying undershirt collar I can see at the base of his neck, instead of his usual collared button-down shirt. He’s taken his contact lenses out, the Coke-bottle glasses not doing much to hide how bleary his eyes are.

“Lemme see it, buddy,” he tells me by way of greeting. The big grin on his face tells me that he doesn’t mind that I’m calling late. I can’t help but match his grin with one of my own, the corners of my lips pulling skywards.

I hold the bronze chip up to the phone screen so he can see it. “One year sober, Phil. We made it.”

“You made it, Randall. I was just along for the ride.” He’s positively beaming. “I’m proud of you. Wish I was there to congratulate you in person. How was the meeting?”

Phil’s my sponsor. Twelve years sober himself, he knows all about how these meetings go, and what it’s like when someone gets their One Year chip. Hell, he’s handed out more than a few himself, leading the AA meetings off and on here at St. Anthony’s over the years, before his new job started up four months ago. It has him on the road more than his last job, and he’s had to step back from taking such an active role in meetings. Not that he’s given me any less of his time, putting up with my co-dependency even when it’s keeping him up late.

“Oh, you know how these things go,” I replied, stuffing the chip in my left pocket. There was a satisfying ‘clink’ when the chip landed against my keys.This one was heavier than my previous chips. “Everyone clapped and patted me on the back, all that shit. Gregg gave me a big hug after giving me the chip. Pretty sure he was on the verge of tears.”

Phil let out a snorting chuckle, “Gregg’s a crier. Surprised he was only on the verge. He weeped like a baby when he gave me my Ten Year chip.” Phil and Gregg go back a long way. Gregg had been the one to take Phil to Phil’s first AA meeting almost twenty years ago.

Yeah, twenty years, even though Phil’s only been sober for the past twelve years. It took Phil a few tries before he sunk low enough that the program was his only way out. He has his act together now, but as he always reminds me, even the strongest of us is one mis-step away from falling off the wagon.

We chat for a few more minutes while I walk towards my apartment, then I let him go so he can get some sleep. As soon as the FaceTime call ends, and I’m off camera, my smile flattens out. I don’t have to keep the mask on any more tonight.

I haven’t told Phil everything. I don’t want to worry him when he’s 3000 miles away, don’t want to impose even more of my woes on him.

Work isn’t going great, my #1 client isn’t thrilled with the progress on their project launch. And I’ve already had to reschedule tomorrow’s status update meeting, so I can take Mom to her neurologist appointment.

Now I’m dwelling on the negatives, instead of focusing on the positives. I’d managed to push aside the dark clouds all evening, and now they’re swirling back around. I can feel hope slipping away, like sand down an hour glass. I stop on the sidewalk, letting the darkness rush over me, and the only light I can see at that moment is the red neon of the liquor store’s OPEN sign on the street corner.

I stuff my hand in my pocket, fingers wrapping around my One Year chip, squeezing it into my palm, hanging on for dear life.

Tuesday

My phone vibrates, rattling a few inches across the tiny kitchenette table in my crummy apartment. I turn it over to confirm who I already know is calling. It’s Phil. There are only two calls I ever expect to get: either Mom’s assisted living facility if there’s a problem with her, or Phil.

I prop the phone up on the table so I can keep my hands free when I answer the FaceTime call, “Hey Phil, how’s Charlotte?”

Phil’s face in miniature fills the iPhone screen, “Raleigh, dumbass. I’ve told you that plenty of times. You starting to forget things?”

He didn’t mean anything by it, but using the word ‘forget’ hits me like a punch to the gut. I can’t hide my grimace, “Maybe it runs in the family.”

Phil’s gentle ribbing snaps into concerned-sponsor mode, now all business. “What happened, Randall?”

I exhale slowly, trying to keep it together and not let him see how much pain I’m in. The one person I can share anything with, and I’m holding back. “Rough day, man. Mom’s neurologist confirmed... Alzheimer’s.”

The small digital version of my friend’s face, calling from far away, tightens into a thin-lipped frown. “I’m sorry to hear that, buddy.” He lets the silence hang there for a moment. One of the things I love about Phil is how he knows when to give me a moment to find my words.

“Yeah, she’s going to need to move to the Memory unit at her facility. It’s gonna be a big change for her, and it’s gonna upset her, and I’m not gonna hear the end of it...” I trail off, my eyes falling to the edge of the table, my fingernail picking at a notch in the cheap wood.

“Did you go to a meeting tonight?”, he asks, knowing full well that I didn’t. If I had gone, I’d still be walking home at this hour. Damn FaceTime, blowing my cover.

“No,” I reply simply, my eyes still focused on the splinter I’m picking at with my thumbnail. “I wanted to wallow by myself.”

“That’s exactly when you’re supposed to go to a meeting, Randall. You know that.” Of course Phil would say that.

“Yeah, well, tough shit, I didn’t want to go.” I lift my gaze to meet his through the phone, fixing a glare at him. “It was a shit day at work, and it got shittier when I left for Mom’s appointment, and I couldn’t handle listening to other people’s shit at a meeting.”

Phil’s eyes narrow, glaring back at me, “Listen, buddy, don’t take it out on me. I get it, it was a shit day, and you wanted to have a sad. That’s allowed. Just like I’m allowed, as your fucking sponsor, to do what I can to keep you on the straight and narrow.” He points an accusatory index finger at the camera on his end of the call. “You know that if I weren’t out of town, I’d drag you to the midnight meeting at St. Mary’s tonight. And if you give me a hard time, I’ll call someone to drag you over there in my place.”

I let out a loud sigh, rolling my eyes and leaning back in my chair, “Fine, fine, I’m sorry.” Dealing with my mother this afternoon has me acting like a petulant child. “I just feel kind of... hopeless.”

Phil takes a beat, then asks quietly, “Like you’re sliding down a hill, out of control?”

I nod glumly, “That’s exactly what it feels like.”

He leans a little closer to the camera, “Yeah... you’re an alcoholic. There’s always going to be something pulling you down, towards despair. Today was a shit day, and tomorrow’s probably gonna be a shit day, too. You’re in for a lot of those shit days, and, I’m sorry to tell you, with your Mom’s diagnosis, you’re gonna be in for a lot of shit days. Frankly, it’s gonna be a lot of shit years, Randall. So you have a choice to make -- do you want to keep on sliding down that hill and give in to the despair, or do you want to anchor yourself and stop the fall? I know which one that I want you to pick. Remember that hike we took in Muir Woods? Imagine throwing a chain around one of those giant redwood trees, and anchoring yourself to it. That’ll stop your fall down that hill.”

Another roll of my eyes at him, Phil’s always coming up with these visualizations for me to picture. Another loud sigh. “Fine, fine, I’ll imagine the chain and the tree. And I’ll go to a meeting tomorrow night, I promise.”

“Good man.” He leans back away from the camera, nodding his head, “I’ll text Gregg to let him know to expect you tomorrow. And, listen, you call me if you feel that anchor giving way, you hear me? Day or night, 24x7, that’s what I’m here for.”

I give him a little mock salute along with a half-hearted smirk, “Aye aye, captain. I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Go get some sleep.”

Before he can object, I reach forward and disconnect the call. I leave the phone propped up against the whiskey bottle that I bought on the way home tonight. The unopened bottle that I’ve been staring at for three hours. My One Year chip sits on the table next to it.

Wednesday

Gregg caught up with me as I was reaching for the door, “Randall, hold up a second.”

I had made it to a meeting after all. At least for one night, the thought of disappointing Phil was stronger than the sense of hopelessness I was feeling. But I’d been sullen and hadn’t really participated in the meeting, and Gregg wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily. “Hey Gregg...”

The meeting leader gave me a pat on the back, “You sure you doing okay, Randall? You were pretty quiet tonight, wasn’t like you.”

“Yeah, yeah, just having a bit of a rough patch at work, it has me distracted.” I wasn’t lying to Gregg. I’d had my ass chewed out by my #1 client, and my boss told me I was on thin ice with them. If I lose this client, I’m out of a job.

“Are you sure that’s all? How’s your Mom doing?”, asked Gregg. I’d previously shared at meetings that my mother wasn’t doing well, but hadn’t told anyone about her Alzheimer’s diagnosis other than Phil, and Phil wasn’t about to share anything with Gregg about me. Phil’s my Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor, after all.

“She’s getting by, you know how it is with older parents... thanks for asking Gregg, it means a lot.” It didn’t mean a lot, I just wanted to get out of this conversation as quickly as possible. “I gotta run, I’ll catch you soon though!” I gave him a fake grin and slipped around him to leave St. Anthony’s.

Three minutes after I hit the street, like clockwork, the FaceTime call came from Phil. Before he could even say a word, I leapt into the conversation, “Hey Phil, I’m just leaving St. Anthony’s after the meeting. Gregg said to say hi.”

“That’s good, buddy, glad to hear you went,” he replied. I was walking briskly, making the camera bounce for him, knowing it would dissuade him from wanting to have a long conversation over FaceTime. “How’s the anchor holding, Randall?”

“Well, I don’t feel like I’m sliding down the hill anymore.”

Phil wasn’t going to let me off the hook quite that easy, though. “But...?”

I slowed my walk, and let out one of my patented heavy sighs, “I think I’m going to lose my job... My client said I’m hopeless.” There. I said it out loud. “So now it feels like I’m circling a giant whirlpool in the ocean. Way stronger of a pull.” I can only bullshit Phil for so long.

“So anchoring to a tree isn’t going to do you any good while you’re lost at sea, huh?” On the iPhone screen, Phil scratched at the 5 o’clock shadow on his chin, thinking what he could say to keep me from spiraling further. “Okay, what’s a good thing to anchor to at sea? How about a battleship? An aircraft carrier? Something that isn’t going to get bothered by some choppy waters and a whirlpool.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Yeah, I’ll try to visualize that, see if it helps. I dunno if the metaphor holds up as well as you think, though. I mean, you don’t anchor to a battleship. A battleship has an anchor.”

Phil chuckled, “Smartass. They aren’t all winners, my boy. I’m proud of you for going to the meeting though, Randall. You gotta keep working the steps, every day.”

Getting to the front door of my building, I tried to hurry Phil off the call, “I know, I know. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? I’m pretty wiped out, and it’s 3 hours later for you, so I don’t want to keep you up any longer.”

“Okay, buddy, get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Phil disconnected the call.

As I let myself into my apartment, my eyes went straight to the unopened bottle of whiskey that I had left on the kitchen table yesterday. Closing the door behind me, I made a beeline for the bottle. I tore the plastic off the top, and unscrewed the cap, breaking the seal, and then I put the opened bottle down on the table.

I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at that open bottle. In my imagination, I was chained to a battleship that was circling around the open mouth of the bottle, a vicious whirlpool pulling the giant ship into its open maw.

Eventually, the spell broke, and I capped the bottle. I muttered to myself as I walked away to go to bed, “You sank my battleship.”

Thursday

The buzzing of my iPhone on the kitchen table causes me to lift my head from my forearms. I know it must be just after 10:00 PM, but I have no idea how long I’ve been laying my forehead against my arms. I know that it was getting dark outside when I slumped over, and now the iPhone screen is the only light filling my darkened apartment.

I don’t even need to look at who’s calling when I stab my finger out at the screen to answer the call, “Hey Phil.” I rest my chin on my elbow, staying out of the view of the camera while it points up at the ceiling.

Phil’s tiny voice comes from far away, “Is there something wrong with your camera, buddy? Randall? I can’t see you.”

“No,” I answer quietly, “I just don’t feel like holding the phone.” This is going to set off alarm bells for him, I know it even as I speak the words.

“What’s the matter, Randall? Are you okay? Where are you?” I can hear the concern in his voice.

The sigh that I let out is softer than my usual loud sigh, which even I notice. “I’m home. I’m fine, Phil...” I let that obvious lie hang out there for a few beats. “Well, no, I’m not fine.” I reach out to pick up the phone, propping it up against the still-full glass of whiskey in front of me. Now Phil can see me in the dark, though he can’t see what his image is resting against. “We lost the client today, and my boss wants to see me first thing in the morning. I’m gonna get fired.” I let him stare at me while I tell him my double-dose of bad news. “And my mom had a meltdown at the facility today. She decked one of the orderlies, said he was trying to steal her purse, then she got hysterical and wouldn’t stop crying and yelling. They had to restrain her and give her a sedative.” I can feel the tears welling in my eyes, threatening to spill over. “She was catatonic when I got there. It was awful.”

Phil listens silently while I tell him my woes, and I can see him squint at me. “Have you had anything to drink, Randall?” He’s trying to read my eyes, but it’s too dark in my kitchen for him to make out if they’re bloodshot.

“No,” I answer simply, with a tiny shake of my head, my chin rubbing sideways against my elbow.

Not yet, at least.

Not for lack of opportunity. I’d poured myself a very healthy glass when I’d arrived home, and then I guess I dozed off while staring at it. But the glass never touched my lips.

“I want a drink, though. Real bad. I feel..” I trailed off.

“Still like you’re getting pulled into a whirlpool?” he asked gently.

“No, worse.” I could feel the first tears spill, running down my cheeks. “It’s like a black hole, and I’m getting pulled towards it. Y’know not even light can escape a black hole? They have so much gravity that they suck the light out of the universe. How am I supposed to stay sober without light? It’s hopeless.”

“Hey.” Phil’s voice is firm, and he says says it again, louder. “Hey, you listen here, pal. It is not hopeless. Today was a shit sandwich, no two ways about it. And I’m sorry your firm lost the client. And I’m real sorry that your Mom is having a bad time of it.” He’s glaring at me now, getting angry with me. “But it is not hopeless. Hopeless is when you’re not staying strong. Hopeless is when you give in to that darkness and go out looking for a drink.” He takes a deep breath, gearing up for the rest of his sermon, while the tears start flowing freely from my eyes. If he only knew that the drink was within arm’s length. “Remember I said to anchor yourself to a battleship? Well, if it’s a black hole, then anchor yourself to the fucking moon. I just need you to slow down that gravitational pull, Randall, I’ll be home tomorrow and we’ll spend as much time as it takes for you to feel more in control.”

I choke back a sob, nodding my head slightly but perceptibly. Can I hold on for one more night before Phil gets back to save me?

“You’re already home, that’s good. I’m going to keep an eye on you with Find My Friends, so just stay home until morning when you have to go to work. If I see that you’ve left, I’m calling Gregg to track you down.” Shit, I forgot that I’d given Phil access to my location with that app.

“I’ll stay home, Phil, fine.” As if I couldn’t just leave my phone behind. Or cut off his access to my location. Or just drink this entire fucking bottle that I already have in front of me.

“Seriously, anchored to the moon, Randall. You just make it through the night, and then go to work to deal with whatever’s coming your way.” Phil can’t stifle his yawn fast enough, giving me a view of the gaping maw of his mouth. Another black hole for me to stare in to, another void that’s threatening to pull me in. “Sorry, it’s late. I’m on an early flight tomorrow, and with the time difference, I’ll be landing at SFO mid-morning. You’re my first stop, we’ll grab coffee and talk as soon as I get there, okay?”

I nod glumly, wiping at the tears with the back of my head like a child. “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning, Phil. Have a safe flight.” Before he can say anything else, I stab at the screen with my index finger, disconnecting the call, and put my phone facedown on the table.

I stand up from the table, fishing my One Year chip from my pocket. I stare at it in the dark for a moment, then drop it with a plop into the glass full of whiskey. I step back from the table, keeping a wary eye on the glass as I walk backwards to my bedroom.

It’s going to be a long night.

Friday

And yet, somehow I made it. I don’t know that I slept more than an hour or two, and what little sleep I got was fitful at best. I’d sweated through the sheets, which were in a complete disarray.

But I made it through the night.

The first thing I did when I got out of bed in the morning was fish my One Year chip out of the glass of whiskey, then pour the glass and the entire rest of the bottle down the sink. I rinsed off the chip and my fingers, as tempting as it was to just have a little taste.

I texted Phil, knowing he’d already be in the air and wouldn’t be able to reply: “Made it through the night, still on the wagon. Thank you.” And then I got my tired ass into the shower and dressed for work.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, when I went in to my boss’s office first thing, I left with my walking papers. Sure enough, losing my top client was the end of the line for my job. I texted Phil as I left the office building with my things in a small banker’s box, letting him know the news, but knowing he was was still at least an hour from landing by that point.

I lugged my sad little box of belongings over to Mom’s care facility to check on how she was doing. The nurse on duty at the ward, used to delivering this sort of news update to family members, told me that when they had tried to bring Mom out of sedation that she’d started thrashing around and lashing out again, screaming at the staff. They had to put her back under sedation for her own safety, and they had her hands and feet in soft restraints.

How had she gone so far downhill so quickly?

How much longer was she going to live in this state?

How was I supposed to pay for her treatment without a job?

As I was leaving the facility, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. It was Phil texting me back that he’d landed, and he was hopping in an Uber in to the city, that he’d meet me at the Starbucks near St. Anthony’s in 30 minutes.

I knew there was a meeting in an hour at St. Anthony’s, and that he’d want to drag me to it. He’d tell me that even though I was feeling at my lowest, that was exactly the right time to go to a meeting. He’d try to offer me hope that things will get better, that there were other jobs out there, that there could still be good days ahead for Mom.

He was going to have a real hard time selling me today.

I walked the street with my sad little box, aiming nowhere in particular. I wasn’t paying attention to the time, and I’m sure I wasn’t heading towards the Starbucks near St. Anthony’s.

The only place I was heading was into the black hole. I wasn’t going to be able to escape its pull any longer. The massive gravitational pull was getting stronger, and I was accelerating towards it, faster than the speed of light.

I stop on the sidewalk, letting the darkness rush over me, and the only light I can see at that moment is the red neon of the liquor store’s OPEN sign on the street corner.

I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, over and over. I ignore the calls, surely from Phil. The only thing that matters is what’s inside the liquor store. The entryway is the black hole, and it’s pulling me inside. Me, and my stupid, sad, pathetic little banker’s box of belongings that I’ve been lugging around all over the city.

The anchor to the moon isn’t holding. I can feel the chain straining. Light is bending towards the liquor store doorway as the supermassive black hole pulls everything towards it.

I feel the moon that I’ve been anchored to slam into my back.

“Ooof!” My little box goes flying, and I stagger forward, nearly tripping over the step of the liquor store’s entrance.

That’s no moon, though.

“Sorry! Oh my God, sorry!” A woman’s voice behind me as I catch my balance. I turn around to see who’s bumped into me.

“Are you okay? I wasn’t watching where I was going.” The source of the woman’s voice is like a supernova, the light that’s coming from her is overpowering.

What black hole? There’s no black hole here.

There’s still the buzzing of my phone in my pocket, but that’s vibrating on a frequency that’s no match for the brightness.

The words trip out of my mouth, “No, don’t worry about it, it’s fine.” I think that’s what I said? I’m starstruck by this woman. Somehow I gather my wits enough to extend a hand towards her with a smile, “Hi, I’m Randall.”

She smiles coquettishly, taking my hand, “Hi Randall, I’m Hope.”

No. Fucking. Way.

“Oh, you dropped your things!” Hope lets go of my hand, and crouches down to help gather my meager belongings back into my banker’s box. With what I can only assume is the widest grin ever on my face, I join her in crouching down to collect my stuff.

I hear my name being shouted, “Randall!” It’s Phil, running up the sidewalk, his phone in his hand, out of breath. “Randall you asshole, answer your damned phone when I call!” He pulls up short, hands on his knees, huffing and puffing trying to catch his breath. I can see on his phone that he has the Find My Friends app open. He’s tracked me down, come to rescue me.

But I don’t need rescuing any more.

“Oh, hey Phil, sorry, didn’t realize you called.” I stand up straight, and offer a hand to help the woman up as well. She takes my hand, and rises up. She beams a billion-watt smile at me, and then at my AA sponsor, turning the wattage on him. “Hi Phil, I’m Hope.”

Phil blinks, his jaw dropping. He stares dumbfounded at this woman for a moment, then turns back towards me. He manages to close his jaw, a smile creeping across his face, and says to me, “You finally found it. I mean, her. Hope.”