Jerry was sitting to the right of Rob. He was having a whisky double, but he was easily the youngest one in here. Only 24, from what I heard, but always had something interesting to say. His momma died when he was 16, and his dad was never much anything other than a drunk, but he did well. He was a big-shot manager of some store now, one he used to work at, but you could tell just by looking at him all the potential he had brewing inside.
I was surprised when he began to speak. Interesting things to say, sure, but he usually kept things to himself during these lock-ins. I’m interested in what he has to say, that’s for damn tootin’.
The car rolled over my dog once, hurling the lifeless husk into the air. I was standing there waiting for someone to yell “Pull!” as the legs dangled to the side. The shape of the car wasn’t any better; it was on its hood, knocking pebbles and dirt across the road as it found its home against the curb. The body of the dog (my dog) hit the ground seconds after the car came to a stop.
The driver was plenty shaken up. He opened the car door, falling on his back. I was standing with my hand over my mouth, choking back bile and trying to figure out what exactly I was supposed to do or tell my sister, or my mother, or my brother. There was nothing I could do, nothing I could say. The expression on the man’s face was alternating between one of pain, one of shock, and one of remorse before he blacked out.
He had swerved to miss a child who was running out into the street to catch a ball I had thrown for my dog. An odd coincidence that he swerved to miss the child, who the ball was never meant for, and hit my dog. You could have asked me if I believed in fate, or if I believed in Karma, divine retribution or whatever, but back then, I was just a furious youth. My dog had been killed, and the man who killed my dog had needed an ambulance.
The man, Alan Smith, was arrested for public intoxication, driving while under the influence, and reckless endangerment. He paid a fine, took a class, and it was like nothing ever happened. A note arrived in the mail the day after his class; it was something he had scribbled out in a hurry. I kept the note folded in my back pocket for a while, even though I didn’t need to open it. It was one of those things that sticks with you.
“I’m sorry about your dog. I’ll pay you back, if my life depends on it.”
I didn’t show the rest of my family. They were still upset over Tanner missing; we interred his body in our backyard, a public health violation if there ever was one. They kept a picture of him over the mantle; I kept a picture of him in my mind. He had been my responsibility, and I had let him die. I had thrown the ball into the street, I hadn’t looked both ways.
Of course, that was ten years ago. Days go by where I don’t replay it; it’s getting buried in the back of my subconscious. The little voice that wants to remember it is being strong-armed by my logic drive, pushed aside, walled up (with a fine cask of amontillado) and forgotten about.
I was at work, on my break in the locker room, sitting back and reading a dime-store novel and sipping on the first soda I’d had in a long time. It was one of those hot days where you’d rather be at home, but considering my home was a shoe-box apartment and it didn’t have air-conditioner, I was honestly tossing about the idea of sleeping at work.
The soda was cold, diet, flavorless as it slid into my belly, hitting the heat center and spreading out, sending waves of chills every time I took a slow chug. The bubbles burned my throat like nothing else, and before long, my attention turned full blast on the story. Paperback heroes running around paperback adventures courting dime-store dames and saving the day. Before I knew what was what, my watch started to beep. Yeah, it was time to clock in again.
I picked my legs up off the floor, looking around for the soda-cap. I wanted to save this bad-boy for the walk home from work (staying the night was viable, but so was setting off the alarm), but I also wanted it to be carbonated. The bottle was yellow, the cap was orange, one of those “Enter the code to gain points and win a jet!” deals, garish, but it would keep the gas in. I looked high and low, but couldn’t find the cap.
The bottle was half-full. With no other option (other than wasting a perfectly good soda) I quickly chugged the rest, tossing the bottle in a waste-bin and running to the clock-in machine. A friendly beep and I was once again getting paid.
After a quick sweep of my floor, I walked into the bathroom, looking at my scarred up face in the mirror. A quirky customer had been by earlier, told me I had a nice ass, and left. I sat there dumbfounded, unable to grasp the concept that a woman might be interested in me, and let her walk away into the rest of the world again. I could see disappointment in my eyes, but I couldn’t feel it. It was just another day.
But the sugar in my stomach wasn’t leaving me alone. I leaned down, my mouth hitting the pre-vomit stage where it lubricates itself with a huge amount of spit that runs out of your mouth in thick rivulets, the tell-tale sign that something is coming out that really should be staying in. I closed my eyes, clutched my stomach, and turned the faucet on.
Some kids came running into the bathroom behind me. I guess they weren’t paying attention to where they were going, but the group of them (four or five, from what I could tell) ran into me, knocking me into the wall below the mirror. I fell to the ground, head tilted to the side, and vomited. The force knocked my head back, but I wasn’t conscious after that.
My supervisor woke me up an hour later. He thought the manager had sent me home early, no one had bothered looking. But according to him, “From what I can tell, you’re lucky. Looks like you just banged your head on the wall, but if you had hit the mirror, you probably would be a little worse for the wear, you know? Glass in the skull isn’t something too many people take to well.”
I sighed, grunted, and stood. He handed me a mop, pointed at the vomit, and told me I could clock out when I was done.
I was walking home work ten minutes later than I was supposed to, blisters from the mop forming on my hand. I was staring at my feet as I came to the intersection, not bothering to look up. If I had, I would have seen the man in front of me, I wouldn’t have bumped into him, and he wouldn’t have fallen in front of the taxi.
If, if, if. He fell, the taxi tried to stop. There was a horrible screaming sound, not coming from the man, but the brakes on the car. They were in worse shape than I was. A horrible noise of a two-ton machine rolling over a man who weighs less than an eighth of that, combined with the glasses he had in his pocket breaking.
Naturally, I ran over to him. He stared up at me, with those glossy eyes. Recognition blinked over his eyes, registering with me. Yeah, you guessed it. Same jack-ass that hit my dog. Small world, small world. Humanity.
“I told ya’ son,” he coughed. Blood dribbled onto his chin and all I could do was wonder if he had the same slick coat of saliva over his mouth that I had earlier. “Besides,” he coughed, “You’re more valuable to everyone alive than dead.” He blinked once, twice, and the glow of recognition disappeared. His hands fell to his side.
In his left hand was a bright orange bottle cap. Garish, and rife with the promise of points if you entered the thousand digit code correctly. I blinked twice, not knowing quite what to make of it.
He killed my dog, I killed him.
He said I was more valuable alive than dead. But he was dying; he could have meant anything. I have the distinct feeling he knew what he was talking about, but that was that. He was dead, I couldn’t ask anything.
Is life trivial enough to throw away on a bottle-cap? Was his? And who am I that is that important? Or were they random synapses firing off before he died. I don’t know yet.
But I have a feeling I’m going to find out.
I was surprised when he began to speak. Interesting things to say, sure, but he usually kept things to himself during these lock-ins. I’m interested in what he has to say, that’s for damn tootin’.
Bar Story 2:
Full Circle
Full Circle
The car rolled over my dog once, hurling the lifeless husk into the air. I was standing there waiting for someone to yell “Pull!” as the legs dangled to the side. The shape of the car wasn’t any better; it was on its hood, knocking pebbles and dirt across the road as it found its home against the curb. The body of the dog (my dog) hit the ground seconds after the car came to a stop.
The driver was plenty shaken up. He opened the car door, falling on his back. I was standing with my hand over my mouth, choking back bile and trying to figure out what exactly I was supposed to do or tell my sister, or my mother, or my brother. There was nothing I could do, nothing I could say. The expression on the man’s face was alternating between one of pain, one of shock, and one of remorse before he blacked out.
He had swerved to miss a child who was running out into the street to catch a ball I had thrown for my dog. An odd coincidence that he swerved to miss the child, who the ball was never meant for, and hit my dog. You could have asked me if I believed in fate, or if I believed in Karma, divine retribution or whatever, but back then, I was just a furious youth. My dog had been killed, and the man who killed my dog had needed an ambulance.
The man, Alan Smith, was arrested for public intoxication, driving while under the influence, and reckless endangerment. He paid a fine, took a class, and it was like nothing ever happened. A note arrived in the mail the day after his class; it was something he had scribbled out in a hurry. I kept the note folded in my back pocket for a while, even though I didn’t need to open it. It was one of those things that sticks with you.
“I’m sorry about your dog. I’ll pay you back, if my life depends on it.”
I didn’t show the rest of my family. They were still upset over Tanner missing; we interred his body in our backyard, a public health violation if there ever was one. They kept a picture of him over the mantle; I kept a picture of him in my mind. He had been my responsibility, and I had let him die. I had thrown the ball into the street, I hadn’t looked both ways.
Of course, that was ten years ago. Days go by where I don’t replay it; it’s getting buried in the back of my subconscious. The little voice that wants to remember it is being strong-armed by my logic drive, pushed aside, walled up (with a fine cask of amontillado) and forgotten about.
I was at work, on my break in the locker room, sitting back and reading a dime-store novel and sipping on the first soda I’d had in a long time. It was one of those hot days where you’d rather be at home, but considering my home was a shoe-box apartment and it didn’t have air-conditioner, I was honestly tossing about the idea of sleeping at work.
The soda was cold, diet, flavorless as it slid into my belly, hitting the heat center and spreading out, sending waves of chills every time I took a slow chug. The bubbles burned my throat like nothing else, and before long, my attention turned full blast on the story. Paperback heroes running around paperback adventures courting dime-store dames and saving the day. Before I knew what was what, my watch started to beep. Yeah, it was time to clock in again.
I picked my legs up off the floor, looking around for the soda-cap. I wanted to save this bad-boy for the walk home from work (staying the night was viable, but so was setting off the alarm), but I also wanted it to be carbonated. The bottle was yellow, the cap was orange, one of those “Enter the code to gain points and win a jet!” deals, garish, but it would keep the gas in. I looked high and low, but couldn’t find the cap.
The bottle was half-full. With no other option (other than wasting a perfectly good soda) I quickly chugged the rest, tossing the bottle in a waste-bin and running to the clock-in machine. A friendly beep and I was once again getting paid.
After a quick sweep of my floor, I walked into the bathroom, looking at my scarred up face in the mirror. A quirky customer had been by earlier, told me I had a nice ass, and left. I sat there dumbfounded, unable to grasp the concept that a woman might be interested in me, and let her walk away into the rest of the world again. I could see disappointment in my eyes, but I couldn’t feel it. It was just another day.
But the sugar in my stomach wasn’t leaving me alone. I leaned down, my mouth hitting the pre-vomit stage where it lubricates itself with a huge amount of spit that runs out of your mouth in thick rivulets, the tell-tale sign that something is coming out that really should be staying in. I closed my eyes, clutched my stomach, and turned the faucet on.
Some kids came running into the bathroom behind me. I guess they weren’t paying attention to where they were going, but the group of them (four or five, from what I could tell) ran into me, knocking me into the wall below the mirror. I fell to the ground, head tilted to the side, and vomited. The force knocked my head back, but I wasn’t conscious after that.
My supervisor woke me up an hour later. He thought the manager had sent me home early, no one had bothered looking. But according to him, “From what I can tell, you’re lucky. Looks like you just banged your head on the wall, but if you had hit the mirror, you probably would be a little worse for the wear, you know? Glass in the skull isn’t something too many people take to well.”
I sighed, grunted, and stood. He handed me a mop, pointed at the vomit, and told me I could clock out when I was done.
I was walking home work ten minutes later than I was supposed to, blisters from the mop forming on my hand. I was staring at my feet as I came to the intersection, not bothering to look up. If I had, I would have seen the man in front of me, I wouldn’t have bumped into him, and he wouldn’t have fallen in front of the taxi.
If, if, if. He fell, the taxi tried to stop. There was a horrible screaming sound, not coming from the man, but the brakes on the car. They were in worse shape than I was. A horrible noise of a two-ton machine rolling over a man who weighs less than an eighth of that, combined with the glasses he had in his pocket breaking.
Naturally, I ran over to him. He stared up at me, with those glossy eyes. Recognition blinked over his eyes, registering with me. Yeah, you guessed it. Same jack-ass that hit my dog. Small world, small world. Humanity.
“I told ya’ son,” he coughed. Blood dribbled onto his chin and all I could do was wonder if he had the same slick coat of saliva over his mouth that I had earlier. “Besides,” he coughed, “You’re more valuable to everyone alive than dead.” He blinked once, twice, and the glow of recognition disappeared. His hands fell to his side.
In his left hand was a bright orange bottle cap. Garish, and rife with the promise of points if you entered the thousand digit code correctly. I blinked twice, not knowing quite what to make of it.
He killed my dog, I killed him.
He said I was more valuable alive than dead. But he was dying; he could have meant anything. I have the distinct feeling he knew what he was talking about, but that was that. He was dead, I couldn’t ask anything.
Is life trivial enough to throw away on a bottle-cap? Was his? And who am I that is that important? Or were they random synapses firing off before he died. I don’t know yet.
But I have a feeling I’m going to find out.
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