Waiting For Those Words

Larry sat on a stool in the pub, staring out the window into the black darkness of the night. It had been raining hard. The pavement was dotted with puddles. He watched people try to dodge them as they scurried in case it started to rain again.

“Isn’t that just like life?” he thought to himself. “Dodging all the little setbacks that you can, but never quite knowing when life is going to dump another load on you."

He sipped his beer. Lined up were five empty glasses. He had rushed and drank three glasses quickly. Then, he realised he had a few hours left, so he needed to slow down. He didn’t like beer much. But he left home with only eighty dollars.  Beer was all he could afford since he’d be there all night.  Right up until the end.

A man came up to him while he was deep in thought.

“Can I sit here, mate?” he asked, pointing to the vacant stool beside Larry. Larry had positioned himself one stool away from the wall. He wanted to keep that distance and had no desire (or intention) of letting anyone sit there.

“Sorry, it's taken,” he replied in a firm voice, giving the guy a death stare straight from hell.

“Well, I don’t see anyone sitting there, but whatever, arsehole!”

Larry had been called far worse in his life, and on this evening, he really didn’t care what the guy thought. He was not an aggressive person. Exactly the opposite, in fact. He wondered how many times he had given in, walked away when he wanted to stay and fight. Maybe he was just a weak person.

He checked his watch. Less than an hour, and then it would be closing time. He felt around in his pocket and pulled out what money he had left. Thirty-five dollars, enough for another beer and a double brandy. He would save the brandy for the final drink. He had developed a love of brandy over his life. So many times, he had drowned his sorrows in a bottle of brandy. He almost felt ashamed, almost.

As he stared out the window again, he saw a middle-aged lady walking past. She was hand in hand with a gentleman dressed in one of those fancy brown New York coats. They seemed in love, but he didn’t believe it. He had lost all faith in love. So many times, he thought he had come across the right thing, only to be let down.

He went through his list of failed romances as they scurried along and out of sight. There was Christine, Susan, Mary, Leslie, Pam, Noelle, and the sexy blonde. What was her name? She had been the worst of all. Perhaps that was why he could not remember her name. Barbara, that’s right. Barbara the bitch. She had screwed good and proper. Life could have been different if he had not tried to hook up with her.

It wasn't just the money; moreover, it was the fact that she stole his heart and spat it out again as if he were nothing. Now he was nothing. In his mind, he was nothing. That is why he was here in the pub, by himself, doing what he was doing.

Sher had led him up the path and then slammed the door in his face just about when he was going to ask her to move in. Maybe there is some justice in the world. No, he quickly dismissed that idea.

He played with the money in his pocket, squeezing it hard with his hand without really realising it. His fingers found the small vial in his pocket. They circled the smooth, round surface as if stroking it to calm the anger inside him.

He looked at his watch again. Only 30 minutes to go till closing. He was eager to get tonight over with. “Time to get my final drinks,” he muttered to himself as he got up and walked toward the bar.

“What did you say to me?” asked the burly guy who could barely fit his fat arse on the stool.

“Nothing, I was talking to myself,” replied Larry, almost hoping that the guy would want to take it further. In his mind, he was almost begging him. It would have saved him a whole lot of trouble. He didn’t, and Larry had moved past him anyway.

“Another beer and double brandy, neat,” he demanded from the lady behind the bar. She was cute. Great body and lovely long auburn hair that flowed down her back like a silk sheet. Her face was nicely made up. A different time, a different place, he could have almost gone for her, but tonight was not the night.

“That’s thirty-two sixty, thanks, thanks, love,” with a smile.

He gave her the last of his money. “Keep the change, darling.”

She smiled back at him. That is the last time I call anyone darling, he thought, feeling the rage rise in his blood again. He calmed down again as he passed the burly guy on the stool, who just gave him a dirty look. He wanted to throw his beer over him, but thought better of it.

He approached his stool. The empty glasses and his half-finished beer sat on the bench. A young girl in a short skirt was trying to take the empty stool next to the wall.

“That's taken,” he quickly said.

“Don’t you want to sit next to me?” She playfully suggested, batting her eyelids and lifting her leg a bit.  He did. Hell, he wanted to take her home with him, but that was not going to happen. Not tonight and certainly not tomorrow night.

“No, it's taken. See, I have two drinks, so get lost.”

She recoiled, somewhat disappointed that her charm had not worked. He resumed his position. It was like his little fortress. No one entered or left without him saying so.

He looked at his watch again as if he were impatiently waiting for someone. Fifteen minutes to ten. Time for some Dutch courage. He downed the beer that was left in his glass on the bench in big gulps and then took three large sips from the new beer. He stared at his brandy. That would be his pièce de résistance. He stared at it. He salivated at the thought of how much joy he would get from drinking it. The joy that time would bring. The closure it would create.

He skulled most of his beer and looked at his watch again: five minutes to ten.

“Last call, last call,” came the announcement. Relief flowed through his veins. He put his hand in his pocket, took out the vial, and set it in front of him. He stared at it as he drank the last of his beer. His hands wrapped around the glass of brandy, ready to drink it like nectar from the gods.

“Not yet,” he cautioned himself, “not yet.” He had come too far to turn around now. “Ah! What the hell.”

He took the ten white pills from the vial. He tossed them back and eagerly drank the brandy in one go.

Fifteen minutes later, the bartender came round cleaning up the glasses.

“Hey, come on, buddy. Time to go; we're closing,” said the bartender, giving him a gentle shove on the back.

Larry toppled off the stool and hit the floor.  He lay there motionless.

“Damn drunk,” swore the bartender.

Little did he know.

“Last Call. Final call, we're closed now,” came the announcement over the loudspeaker.

******

 Entry in the "Last Call" challenge:

Till next time,

Calvin