There Again

            He was there again, hunched over the counter still as a gargoyle and twice as gloomy. The same old sweater, same torn overalls, and the same newsie cap with the brim pulled low. One thing was different; the flecks of dried vomit in his grizzly beard had built up. His eyes were fixed on his empty mug, nursed lovingly to the last drop of affordable swill.

            The barkeep, a sharp and shaven young man, paid him little mind aside from a passing glance as he presented his next drink. Occupying himself instead with pretty women and polishing mugs spotless with his rag. But as the night grew later and the saloon emptier it became harder to ignore the wretch, even as he melted in with the shadows. He would check his wallet even if he knew he was spent. Maybe a sneaky piece of change had hidden from him. After that he would lift the mug again and just take in the scent for awhile longer. Finally his bum leg would leave its perch on the stool and he would slide off with a groan as he hobbled out in that slow, bent walk of his.

            The barkeep’s eyes would follow him out the door as he took the old man’s mug and polished it. Every night he swore the old man would start keeping a tab he couldn’t pay, but the drunk always came in with a few more dollars. God only knows where he got them. Unlike everyone else in town that man’s story was a mystery to the barkeep, and no matter how mundane it was he couldn’t help but speculate.

           

            The barkeep had set a mug aside for him, an odd one just a tad larger than the others. A small courtesy, and the drunk scarce seemed to notice the difference. He probably didn’t care a lick, just as long as he could get liquor in his body. Maybe to forget himself, or maybe just because he liked the taste.

A lot of drunks had a tear-jerker or excuse they would mutter every time he saw them, but not that one. Silent and reserved, that one. He had worn a copper and garnet ring once. Might have pawned it to keep up his habit, might have stashed it to keep that stoop rat Henry from nabbing it, or maybe Henry had.

A shatter called the Barkeep from his dreaming and to the old drunk’s stool. His eyes were off the broken mug and on him. It was the first time he had seen them, they were stone cold and tired.

“I’m done…” the old man grumbled and left his last dollar to pay for the mug. He hobbled across the room, looking stronger and straighter.

The barkeep smiled just a little and nodded to him. He cleaned up the shards and closed up the saloon for the night.

Shame was the old man turned up in the river a few days later, still in the same clothes with the vomit flecked beard. He didn’t seem any different, just as lifeless as before.

Connor L.