The Cold, Cold, Heart − 3 December, 2007
It's been a while since I've attempted a piece of fiction. These days it seems I've no time for such things, and even when I do I lack the confidence to even try. But tonight, for some reason, as I was sitting at my cluttered desk, upon which a pile of wrinkled one dollar bills sat, a story began to work its way into being. It's rough, and maybe not the best thing I've ever written, but maybe it means that I can start writing again. Anyway, I thought I'd share. Let me know what you think.
He tossed a handful of crumpled bills onto the bar and said, "George Dickel, on the rocks." He paused for a moment and added, "Hold the rocks."
The man looked as if he could have been fifty, and felt every bit of eighty. As he waited for the bar tender to pour his drink he tugged on the hair of his chin, a habit he'd never been able to break. He let his mind wander and he listened to the canned country music floating to him from a dusty juke box in the corner. It was an old one, and sounded as worn and used as the chair upon which he sat. He fumbled through his memory but couldn't recall the singer.
You know you need and want my love, yet you're afraid to try
Why do you run and hide from lies? To try it just aint smart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind, and melt your cold, cold heart?
Some disillusioned country boy, he thought, spouting heartbreak like it was Armageddon. The man closed his eyes and inhaled deeply the musky scent of the bar. It smelled of sweat and cheap whiskey, of forgotten dreams and ruined plans. What was it Hughes had said about raisins in the sun?
He was pulled back to Earth by the click of glass upon the bar in front of him.
"There y'are, bud," said the bartender. "A Hank Williams fan I guess?"
That's who that was. "Ah, no, not particularly. What makes you say that?"
"You were singing the words, so I just figured."
Strange. He hadn't been aware he was doing it, but evidently his mouth had formed the words around the old country song. He offered the bar tender a relenting Hm and poured a swallow of the drink down his throat. It burned a trail on the way down, and he sighed a sour breath. The bar tender shrugged and went about his business.
The man shifted on his stool and pulled a slightly smashed cigar from the back pocket of his jeans. He called to the barkeep.
"You got a light on you, my friend?"
The bar tender reached under the bar and produced a book of matches embossed with the bar's name and slid them in front of the man, who thanked him and with a pop of one of the matches lit the already burnt tip of the cigar. He shook the match out and dropped it into a nearby ashtray. He finished the remnants of his drink, and pushed the glass forward. "Top me off, cap. It's been a long day."
"Don't you sit there and get slobbering drunk at my bar, old man," he said with a cockeyed grin. It was a college boy grin, and it hurt the man to look at. It wasn't so long ago that he'd worn the same confident, albeit ignorant, expression. It didn't feel that long ago.
"Oh, not tonight, kid. Miles to go, and all that." He took a puff from the cigar and blew out a cloud of thick, dank smelling smoke. "Calms the nerves, helps me think. You know?"
"Eh, not really. I'm not a big drinker."
This made the man laugh. "A barkeep that doesn't drink. Almost like a prostitute that doesn't fuck, isn't it? If you'll excuse my mouth."
"I just might, if you quit blowing that shit in my face. I get enough of that at home, thank you so very much." There was that wry smile again. Like he held all the aces. The barkeep pushed the newly filled glass in front of him.
"You don't drink, you don't like smoke in your face, kid you got to get yourself another profession." The man chuckled and knocked back another swallow. He could feel the tenseness building in his shoulders. Three or four more of those, and he would be drunk. That's a long walk when you're drunk, he thought.
"Yeah, that's what girlfriend says," said the bar tender. "She says I smell like a goddamn bum when I come home. Won't let me into bed until I take a shower."
"Sounds like a charmer, that one."
"Oh, she's something else, alright."
"You love the girl?"
"I do." He paused. "I suppose."
"You suppose? You either do, or you don't, son. There's no supposing about it."
"Well, alright, I do. But it's so hard sometimes, you know? Like... it feels like more work than it should be. Sometimes I don't think things are going to work, and I get panicky and start fights and shit." The kid stopped talking suddenly, as if he felt he'd said too much to this stranger. He shrugged and began fidgeting with something behind the bar. "I don't know."
The man smiled, and realized he was beginning to like the boy. He seemed so sure of himself, but even still it was like he knew he was sailing against the wind. He reminded him of himself, if that's not too conceited. "I'm John, by the way, or Johnny if you prefer it."
"Adam." The kid offered him his hand and they shook, sealing their fate forever after.
"Let me tell you something about this love bullshit, Mister Adam ---"
"Oh, hey, no. It's cool, I just say shit some---"
"Shut up, kid, I'm talking to you. Now, this is important. If you love this girl, I mean, if you really do, then fuck, it's going to be hard. And it should be. There's not a damn thing in this world that's obtained easily and still worth shit. What you have to do is go home every night, look her in the eyes and give her everything you are. When you really love someone, you don't dick around, you don't make excuses, and you don't half ass it. Because if you will be left out in the cold." John killed the last of his drink and pulled heavily on his cigar. He turned his head as he exhaled. "Trust me."
"You talk like you know a thing or two about this shit."
"I might, or I could be bullshitting. You never know."
Adam laughed and taped the rim of Johnny's glass. "Can I get you another fill?"
He frowned and shook his head. "Nah, not in much of a drinking mood tonight after all. I think I may head out."
They sat in the dim light of the bar for a few moments, quiet and thoughtful, and not at all awkward as it sometimes is when two strangers are confronted with such a situation.
"Actually, I should be getting on my way." Johnny rose slowly to his feet and stretched his muscles. Damn, that felt good. How long had he been sitting there?
"Miles to go, right?" Adam said, taking the dirty glass from the bar.
"Absolutely. Take it easy, kid." Johnny turned to leave, but stopped when a thought bubbled suddenly to the surface of his mind. "Say, have you ever read anything by Langston Hughes?"
"I have, actually." He cleared his throat and took a breath, and began to recite.
" What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up, like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- and then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags, like a heavy load. Or does it explode?"
He finished, and with an embarrassed laugh said, "Senior lit. I had to memorize it. Still held on to it for some reason."
"Hm. Well, maybe it's a good thing to have on hand." Johnny went to the door and opened it, saying over his shoulder, "Take care of that girl, kid. I'm serious. And make sure you mean it."
If the boy said something, he didn't catch it. Johnny was out into the cold and on his way before he got a word out.
He tossed a handful of crumpled bills onto the bar and said, "George Dickel, on the rocks." He paused for a moment and added, "Hold the rocks."
The man looked as if he could have been fifty, and felt every bit of eighty. As he waited for the bar tender to pour his drink he tugged on the hair of his chin, a habit he'd never been able to break. He let his mind wander and he listened to the canned country music floating to him from a dusty juke box in the corner. It was an old one, and sounded as worn and used as the chair upon which he sat. He fumbled through his memory but couldn't recall the singer.
You know you need and want my love, yet you're afraid to try
Why do you run and hide from lies? To try it just aint smart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind, and melt your cold, cold heart?
Some disillusioned country boy, he thought, spouting heartbreak like it was Armageddon. The man closed his eyes and inhaled deeply the musky scent of the bar. It smelled of sweat and cheap whiskey, of forgotten dreams and ruined plans. What was it Hughes had said about raisins in the sun?
He was pulled back to Earth by the click of glass upon the bar in front of him.
"There y'are, bud," said the bartender. "A Hank Williams fan I guess?"
That's who that was. "Ah, no, not particularly. What makes you say that?"
"You were singing the words, so I just figured."
Strange. He hadn't been aware he was doing it, but evidently his mouth had formed the words around the old country song. He offered the bar tender a relenting Hm and poured a swallow of the drink down his throat. It burned a trail on the way down, and he sighed a sour breath. The bar tender shrugged and went about his business.
The man shifted on his stool and pulled a slightly smashed cigar from the back pocket of his jeans. He called to the barkeep.
"You got a light on you, my friend?"
The bar tender reached under the bar and produced a book of matches embossed with the bar's name and slid them in front of the man, who thanked him and with a pop of one of the matches lit the already burnt tip of the cigar. He shook the match out and dropped it into a nearby ashtray. He finished the remnants of his drink, and pushed the glass forward. "Top me off, cap. It's been a long day."
"Don't you sit there and get slobbering drunk at my bar, old man," he said with a cockeyed grin. It was a college boy grin, and it hurt the man to look at. It wasn't so long ago that he'd worn the same confident, albeit ignorant, expression. It didn't feel that long ago.
"Oh, not tonight, kid. Miles to go, and all that." He took a puff from the cigar and blew out a cloud of thick, dank smelling smoke. "Calms the nerves, helps me think. You know?"
"Eh, not really. I'm not a big drinker."
This made the man laugh. "A barkeep that doesn't drink. Almost like a prostitute that doesn't fuck, isn't it? If you'll excuse my mouth."
"I just might, if you quit blowing that shit in my face. I get enough of that at home, thank you so very much." There was that wry smile again. Like he held all the aces. The barkeep pushed the newly filled glass in front of him.
"You don't drink, you don't like smoke in your face, kid you got to get yourself another profession." The man chuckled and knocked back another swallow. He could feel the tenseness building in his shoulders. Three or four more of those, and he would be drunk. That's a long walk when you're drunk, he thought.
"Yeah, that's what girlfriend says," said the bar tender. "She says I smell like a goddamn bum when I come home. Won't let me into bed until I take a shower."
"Sounds like a charmer, that one."
"Oh, she's something else, alright."
"You love the girl?"
"I do." He paused. "I suppose."
"You suppose? You either do, or you don't, son. There's no supposing about it."
"Well, alright, I do. But it's so hard sometimes, you know? Like... it feels like more work than it should be. Sometimes I don't think things are going to work, and I get panicky and start fights and shit." The kid stopped talking suddenly, as if he felt he'd said too much to this stranger. He shrugged and began fidgeting with something behind the bar. "I don't know."
The man smiled, and realized he was beginning to like the boy. He seemed so sure of himself, but even still it was like he knew he was sailing against the wind. He reminded him of himself, if that's not too conceited. "I'm John, by the way, or Johnny if you prefer it."
"Adam." The kid offered him his hand and they shook, sealing their fate forever after.
"Let me tell you something about this love bullshit, Mister Adam ---"
"Oh, hey, no. It's cool, I just say shit some---"
"Shut up, kid, I'm talking to you. Now, this is important. If you love this girl, I mean, if you really do, then fuck, it's going to be hard. And it should be. There's not a damn thing in this world that's obtained easily and still worth shit. What you have to do is go home every night, look her in the eyes and give her everything you are. When you really love someone, you don't dick around, you don't make excuses, and you don't half ass it. Because if you will be left out in the cold." John killed the last of his drink and pulled heavily on his cigar. He turned his head as he exhaled. "Trust me."
"You talk like you know a thing or two about this shit."
"I might, or I could be bullshitting. You never know."
Adam laughed and taped the rim of Johnny's glass. "Can I get you another fill?"
He frowned and shook his head. "Nah, not in much of a drinking mood tonight after all. I think I may head out."
They sat in the dim light of the bar for a few moments, quiet and thoughtful, and not at all awkward as it sometimes is when two strangers are confronted with such a situation.
"Actually, I should be getting on my way." Johnny rose slowly to his feet and stretched his muscles. Damn, that felt good. How long had he been sitting there?
"Miles to go, right?" Adam said, taking the dirty glass from the bar.
"Absolutely. Take it easy, kid." Johnny turned to leave, but stopped when a thought bubbled suddenly to the surface of his mind. "Say, have you ever read anything by Langston Hughes?"
"I have, actually." He cleared his throat and took a breath, and began to recite.
" What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up, like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- and then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags, like a heavy load. Or does it explode?"
He finished, and with an embarrassed laugh said, "Senior lit. I had to memorize it. Still held on to it for some reason."
"Hm. Well, maybe it's a good thing to have on hand." Johnny went to the door and opened it, saying over his shoulder, "Take care of that girl, kid. I'm serious. And make sure you mean it."
If the boy said something, he didn't catch it. Johnny was out into the cold and on his way before he got a word out.
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