32.
The bar was pretty much the same as I remembered it, down to the same chipped, overflowing ashtrays scattered everywhere, the same bartender working the bar - was he the only bartender that worked there, I wondered? I'd never seen anyone else - and the same edgy looking bouncer lounging in the corner. A few people looked up from their drinks as I entered, but no recognition showed on their faces. I knew some of them were probably also regulars, but they all looked the same to me, too. I pulled out a bar stool and sat down, and the bartender made his way over to me.
"Been awhile," he said, without any discernable emotion in his voice. "What'll it be?"
"Give me a glass of your best whiskey," I said, trying to supress a smirk. "On the rocks." When the bartender turned around I caved in and grinned, but that turned quickly to a frown when I saw him pick up the bottle of Southern Comfort.
"Should I put it on your tab, sir?" asked the bartender as he sat my drink down in front of me.
I had been planning on giving him a mighty tip, but that just pissed me off. "No," I said, "Can you break a hundred." I pulled a crisp 100-dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it to him.
"Let me check," he said, and walked over to the cash register. I picked up the whiskey and sniffed it experimentally. The bartender returned, and set down a huge stack of ones on the bartop. "Your change," he said.
"Thanks." Oddly enough, I realized, there was something familiar missing from the bar. The pirate, who I had narrowly defeated in Grod's drinking contest, was nowhere to be seen. I thought about asking the bartender about it, but he seemed to be keeping his distance.
A few SoCo's and an hour or so later a tall, grimy-looking man with a crooked, dirt-covered face and a mustache walked in. He sported an orange STIHL ball cap and carhart overalls over a green flannel shirt. This man's name was Abby, and he lived in the apartment adjacent to mine. If there was ever a time when things weren't going terrible and I thought life might be ok after all, I could always depend on Abby to remind me otherwise. As soon as I saw him I turned back around and hunched over my glass, hoping he wouldn't see me. But soon a hand crashed down on my shoulder, and I knew I had failed.
"Heeeyy, if it isn't Paul Crawford." Abby spun me around on my bar stool to face him, and his already whisky-soaked breath washed over me.
"Abby," I said, trying to suppress a grimace and also a cough as the breathable air around me parted for Abby's cloud of stench. "Haven't seen you for awhile." I hoped that the disappointment in my voice wasn't obvious, but it wasn't likely to make a difference anyway. Abby laughed deeply and sat down on the stool next to me.
"Wouldn't it be nice to have a job," asked Abby. "Oh wait. I have a job. It is nice." He turned to the bar tender, "Give me some cheap whiskey." The bartender emptied out the remaining whiskey from the bottle that had been filling my drinks and set its contents in front of my neighbor.
"You know what?" I said to the bartender. "His drinks are on me." I was briefly satisfied to see the look on Abby's face when I pulled out another crisp 100-dollar bill. The barkeep returned with another stack of ones making wonder how many ones he could possibly have. Then I realized the additional stack wouldn't fit in my pockets. I pushed the stack back across the bar. "Keep the change."
"Thank you, sir," the bartender said. He ducked beneath the bar and I heard a clink as the empty Southern Comfort bottle fell into the trash, or maybe onto the floor. Abby sipped his drink and eyed me warily.
"Don't tell me you went and got yourself a real job, now," he said, and broke again into mocking laughter. "Or did you get lucky with the lottery or something? Come to think of it, I haven't seen you in a long time. Larry says you disappeared. You stick up a bank or something? Been in hiding?"
I shrugged, determined not to give Abby anything to work with. I considered paying the bouncer to beat this man down, but only for a moment. I finished my half-glass of whiskey. "No, about a year ago, I think--hey, that's about the time you moved in--anyway, yeah, I started getting this smell from next door. And it just got worse and worse. I mean, it was like something died. I just had to get the hell out of there."
The man started to speak, but I interrupted him, "You know. I kind of smell it right now."
Abby stood up and smashed his fist on the bar.
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"Been awhile," he said, without any discernable emotion in his voice. "What'll it be?"
"Give me a glass of your best whiskey," I said, trying to supress a smirk. "On the rocks." When the bartender turned around I caved in and grinned, but that turned quickly to a frown when I saw him pick up the bottle of Southern Comfort.
"Should I put it on your tab, sir?" asked the bartender as he sat my drink down in front of me.
I had been planning on giving him a mighty tip, but that just pissed me off. "No," I said, "Can you break a hundred." I pulled a crisp 100-dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it to him.
"Let me check," he said, and walked over to the cash register. I picked up the whiskey and sniffed it experimentally. The bartender returned, and set down a huge stack of ones on the bartop. "Your change," he said.
"Thanks." Oddly enough, I realized, there was something familiar missing from the bar. The pirate, who I had narrowly defeated in Grod's drinking contest, was nowhere to be seen. I thought about asking the bartender about it, but he seemed to be keeping his distance.
A few SoCo's and an hour or so later a tall, grimy-looking man with a crooked, dirt-covered face and a mustache walked in. He sported an orange STIHL ball cap and carhart overalls over a green flannel shirt. This man's name was Abby, and he lived in the apartment adjacent to mine. If there was ever a time when things weren't going terrible and I thought life might be ok after all, I could always depend on Abby to remind me otherwise. As soon as I saw him I turned back around and hunched over my glass, hoping he wouldn't see me. But soon a hand crashed down on my shoulder, and I knew I had failed.
"Heeeyy, if it isn't Paul Crawford." Abby spun me around on my bar stool to face him, and his already whisky-soaked breath washed over me.
"Abby," I said, trying to suppress a grimace and also a cough as the breathable air around me parted for Abby's cloud of stench. "Haven't seen you for awhile." I hoped that the disappointment in my voice wasn't obvious, but it wasn't likely to make a difference anyway. Abby laughed deeply and sat down on the stool next to me.
"Wouldn't it be nice to have a job," asked Abby. "Oh wait. I have a job. It is nice." He turned to the bar tender, "Give me some cheap whiskey." The bartender emptied out the remaining whiskey from the bottle that had been filling my drinks and set its contents in front of my neighbor.
"You know what?" I said to the bartender. "His drinks are on me." I was briefly satisfied to see the look on Abby's face when I pulled out another crisp 100-dollar bill. The barkeep returned with another stack of ones making wonder how many ones he could possibly have. Then I realized the additional stack wouldn't fit in my pockets. I pushed the stack back across the bar. "Keep the change."
"Thank you, sir," the bartender said. He ducked beneath the bar and I heard a clink as the empty Southern Comfort bottle fell into the trash, or maybe onto the floor. Abby sipped his drink and eyed me warily.
"Don't tell me you went and got yourself a real job, now," he said, and broke again into mocking laughter. "Or did you get lucky with the lottery or something? Come to think of it, I haven't seen you in a long time. Larry says you disappeared. You stick up a bank or something? Been in hiding?"
I shrugged, determined not to give Abby anything to work with. I considered paying the bouncer to beat this man down, but only for a moment. I finished my half-glass of whiskey. "No, about a year ago, I think--hey, that's about the time you moved in--anyway, yeah, I started getting this smell from next door. And it just got worse and worse. I mean, it was like something died. I just had to get the hell out of there."
The man started to speak, but I interrupted him, "You know. I kind of smell it right now."
Abby stood up and smashed his fist on the bar.
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© 2006 Ian Blake & Marshall Scott
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