Long ago this morning he was still married, and it is only now he suddenly understands himself to be actually not. There is a new and ongoing immediacy to everything, one which he cannot comprehend, has no desire to even, and so here he is, still.
Checking his watch he is surprised to acknowledge the bar is neither more nor less dark now than it has been these past several hours, its windows so small and distant from where he sits as to make no visible difference, any light muted by the hovering density of cigarette smoke layered and dissipating consistent with that moment of its exhalation, and his head aches as if every breath taken by each of those present irrevocably removes exactly that volume of air from whatever available, the resultant claustrophobic and smoke-filled vacuum fastening in tight around his scalp.
He clicks his fingers to again attract the barman, an inscrutable hovering cipher with no function beyond that of his employment, repeatedly pouring him those whiskies requisite to the drowning of his conscious self.
The scent of some manner of spice he remembers as hair tonic heralds the proximity of a man in many ways not dissimilar to himself, who assumes his place at the bar adjacent.
cog (extending his hand): Raymond.
and then withdrawing,
cog: Ray, you can call me Ray.
Pause.
cog: And you are?
Father: You’re damn right I am.
sneers, glancing down
Father: Nice tie, bud.
now pointing to the barman at the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the range, then holding up two fingers tight together, from which he makes a subsequent pistol to puff from off his temple.
Father: Sorry pal, I just come down from the hospital, the wife’s expecting but seems like she don’t want to surrender the kid.
His sitting down confirms upon his presence an air of at least semi-permanence, enough that Ray feels obliged to move his straw hat from the bar between them both, setting it off to his own side.
cog: So you’re taking a break?
Father: Damn right. That woman will still be there in the morning...
emptying his shotglass’ content in a single swallow and summoning its refill in what seems like one continuous movement
Father:..but this whiskey won’t.
cog (again checking his watch): Bud, it’s already morning.
Father (momentarily bewildered, then): Which... is exactly my point.
watching the barman refill his shotglass, and then indicating his neighbour’s with a finger,
Father: His too.
Having fulfilled his role, the bartender removes the dwindling bottle back to the shelf.
cog (raising glass): To the kid, whenever!
They knock the small glasses together, and drink.
cog: How’re you finding the leave-it state?
Father: Truth? I can’t fucking wait to leave it.
cog (laughing): Me, I already left it in the river.
holding up his left hand, one finger encircled by a band of pale skin secreted from daylight these two years.
cog: My wi-, well, my ex-wife as of this morning, yesterday morning,
flustered, swatting at his clumsy thoughts as they crowd in upon each other,
cog: Jesus Christ whenever the hell it was, the point is she was never interested in having kids. Least not with me anyway.
Father: She told you that?
cog: Not, not in so many words, but you can tell, you can tell.
Pause, again they drink.
cog: I could tell.
A telephone is ringing somewhere.
Father (to barman, indicating their empty glasses): Doubles.
then lifting the refilled shotglass from out its overspill, with left in its wake that map of its momentary absence.
cog: Roslyn.
Father: Huh? Roslyn? That-
cog: That’s... nothing, anymore. Nothing.
The barman returns.
deleted name: You the guy whose wife’s expecting?
Father: Who wants to know?
deleted name: The hospital, mister, you’re needed up there pronto.
Father (indicating the empty glass): Hit me.
deleted name: You okay to drive?
Father: Hit me.
deleted name (pouring): I can call you a cab.
The glass, empty.
Father (spits aside, waving car keys): You go ahead, tell him he can follow me.
dropping random bills upon the bar before glancing up now to concentrate on the clock, willing its features into focus to establish the time; it is just after three-thirty.
cog: Well, best of luck to ya bud.
slapping out at his turned back, only to flinch as his knuckles bark off the brutal and unforgiving metallic impediment of revolver tucked snug in the waistband.
Exits.
Skunk: It’s this, isn’t it? This. It’s always this, perpetually, inexorably this, forever and endlessly this.
Drains glass.
Skunk: Until, finally, it ends.
The glass, empty.
Checking his watch he is surprised to acknowledge the bar is neither more nor less dark now than it has been these past several hours, its windows so small and distant from where he sits as to make no visible difference, any light muted by the hovering density of cigarette smoke layered and dissipating consistent with that moment of its exhalation, and his head aches as if every breath taken by each of those present irrevocably removes exactly that volume of air from whatever available, the resultant claustrophobic and smoke-filled vacuum fastening in tight around his scalp.
He clicks his fingers to again attract the barman, an inscrutable hovering cipher with no function beyond that of his employment, repeatedly pouring him those whiskies requisite to the drowning of his conscious self.
The scent of some manner of spice he remembers as hair tonic heralds the proximity of a man in many ways not dissimilar to himself, who assumes his place at the bar adjacent.
cog (extending his hand): Raymond.
and then withdrawing,
cog: Ray, you can call me Ray.
Pause.
cog: And you are?
Father: You’re damn right I am.
sneers, glancing down
Father: Nice tie, bud.
now pointing to the barman at the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the range, then holding up two fingers tight together, from which he makes a subsequent pistol to puff from off his temple.
Father: Sorry pal, I just come down from the hospital, the wife’s expecting but seems like she don’t want to surrender the kid.
His sitting down confirms upon his presence an air of at least semi-permanence, enough that Ray feels obliged to move his straw hat from the bar between them both, setting it off to his own side.
cog: So you’re taking a break?
Father: Damn right. That woman will still be there in the morning...
emptying his shotglass’ content in a single swallow and summoning its refill in what seems like one continuous movement
Father:..but this whiskey won’t.
cog (again checking his watch): Bud, it’s already morning.
Father (momentarily bewildered, then): Which... is exactly my point.
watching the barman refill his shotglass, and then indicating his neighbour’s with a finger,
Father: His too.
Having fulfilled his role, the bartender removes the dwindling bottle back to the shelf.
cog (raising glass): To the kid, whenever!
They knock the small glasses together, and drink.
cog: How’re you finding the leave-it state?
Father: Truth? I can’t fucking wait to leave it.
cog (laughing): Me, I already left it in the river.
holding up his left hand, one finger encircled by a band of pale skin secreted from daylight these two years.
cog: My wi-, well, my ex-wife as of this morning, yesterday morning,
flustered, swatting at his clumsy thoughts as they crowd in upon each other,
cog: Jesus Christ whenever the hell it was, the point is she was never interested in having kids. Least not with me anyway.
Father: She told you that?
cog: Not, not in so many words, but you can tell, you can tell.
Pause, again they drink.
cog: I could tell.
A telephone is ringing somewhere.
Father (to barman, indicating their empty glasses): Doubles.
then lifting the refilled shotglass from out its overspill, with left in its wake that map of its momentary absence.
cog: Roslyn.
Father: Huh? Roslyn? That-
cog: That’s... nothing, anymore. Nothing.
The barman returns.
deleted name: You the guy whose wife’s expecting?
Father: Who wants to know?
deleted name: The hospital, mister, you’re needed up there pronto.
Father (indicating the empty glass): Hit me.
deleted name: You okay to drive?
Father: Hit me.
deleted name (pouring): I can call you a cab.
The glass, empty.
Father (spits aside, waving car keys): You go ahead, tell him he can follow me.
dropping random bills upon the bar before glancing up now to concentrate on the clock, willing its features into focus to establish the time; it is just after three-thirty.
cog: Well, best of luck to ya bud.
slapping out at his turned back, only to flinch as his knuckles bark off the brutal and unforgiving metallic impediment of revolver tucked snug in the waistband.
Exits.
Skunk: It’s this, isn’t it? This. It’s always this, perpetually, inexorably this, forever and endlessly this.
Drains glass.
Skunk: Until, finally, it ends.
The glass, empty.
