“The Red Bulb”
It so
happened one night two young men found themselves sitting together alone at the
bar. The younger of the two stole a glance
from the older who'd been staring at his drink.
“How
much of the world that is have you seen?” he asked.
The
older young man laughed an empty laugh, as dry as sherry, and picked at the
basket of fries the bartender had set out in front of him.
“Not
enough, I guess,” he said after another quiet chuckle. “Who are you?”
The
younger of the two young men brushed his hands on his jacket, leaving marbled crumbs
from his Reuben on the lapels.
“You
can call me Anthony,” he said, sticking out his hand in greeting.
The
older of the young men had better manners.
He pulled a napkin back and forth and between his fingers before shaking
Anthony’s hand.
“I’m
John; what do other people call you?”
“Most
guys call me Tony, and I just hope the girls call,” Anthony answered, his white
teeth flashing in the bar's dim fog.
“Well,
Tony,” John started.
“Anthony,
for now,” Tony cut him off, wagging one finger.
“Anthony,
sorry,” John paused, Tony waved a hand and shrugged. “How much of the world
have you seen?”
Anthony
took another bite of his sandwich, mumbling through the thick slices of meat
and bread. “Enough of the world that is,
and everything in the world that could be,” he replied; John couldn't claim to
understand.
Anthony
stood up, fishing his wallet from the hidden pocket in his jacket. Cracked, torn, an old leather checkbook like
his great-grandfather would've carried. He left a hundred dollar bill folded up
in the plastic basket that held the remains of his dinner. He signaled the bartender.
“I’ve
got his,” he said, winking at John.
“You
don’t need to,” John protested; Anthony was walking out the back door. John watched the bare red bulb blink behind
the bar before the door shut and he was left alone with the bartender.
II.
John
ducked into the alley. He snuck under
the awning behind the butcher shop to escape the rain. He told himself that he wasn’t crying, that
his face was wet because of the storm. He shouldn’t have told her he didn’t want to
talk. He hadn’t wanted to talk for
weeks; ever since the rumors started. He
knew he was going to be one of the unlucky ones. He had only been there for eighteen months
and already his salary was too high. He
should have known she was upset.
The
bare red bulb burned his bloodshot eyes, so he walked around to the entrance of
the bar. The heavy door crashed shut
behind him, but the only ones inside were the bartender and a single patron who
was nursing a tall amber beer with his head in his hands.
John
noticed the man was missing the ring finger on his left hand. He remembered his sister telling him about
their cousin who'd been mugged for the diamond she wore. He pulled up a stool and ordered a double of
Wild Turkey. John nodded and raised his
glass to the other man, who frowned but politely sipped from his beer.
III.
When
Elizabeth left, he hadn’t expected her to take Damascus with her. As he stared into the short glass of
glittering tequila, he realized that he should have. She picked out the dog that day at the
shelter. He looked around the bar. He was alone again, save for a couple huddled
in one of the corner booths, taking turns pointing at a shared menu.
The
girl was smiling and squeezing her lover’s hand. John wondered how long that would last. The shadows made it hard to see, so John
almost dropped his glass when the boy came up to the counter to order. The poor kid had only a nub of scar-tissue
where his right ear should have been.
John sighed, wondering how he could spend so much time worry about his
dog. At least he had found another job. Elizabeth might still come back.
“It
didn’t hurt,” the boy said, startling John again. “I saw you.”
“I
didn’t mean,” John trailed off.
“It’s
okay,” the boy admitted, the words sliding together into two sibilant
syllables. “I think it comes down to
what you’re willing to lose.”
The boy
took the beer and a plate of potato skins back to the girl, and John heard them
lose themselves in laughter.
The
door opened. Anthony walked in, folding
his apron over one arm, holding up a finger to order a drink.
“How
are you, John?” he asked, pulling up a seat next to him.
“Hmm,”
John mused, “could be worse.” He had no
reply when Anthony started laughing.
IV.
The
bartender had a shot of whiskey ready for him when he sat down, setting his
suit jacket on the stool. He put the
funeral notice on top, face down, to avoid reading the letters again. He couldn’t afford to fly back, and his new
boss had denied his vacation request. He
hadn’t been working long enough.
He
tossed the whiskey back and pushed the glass forward for another. There was a much older man sitting across
from him. It looked like the stranger
was trying to talk to him. John took his
refill and walked over.
“It’s
nice to know what might have been,” the old man said.
“I
hadn’t talked to him in a while,” John said, sipping his drink. “My name’s John.” He held his hand out for
the old man to introduce himself.
Instead, he grunted and twisted in the stool, showing John the stump
that had been his right arm.
“In the
war?” John asked, remembering that his father had fought.
“No,”
the old man said, pulling up his shirt so that John could see the long crescent
shaped scar. “That was, though.”
“My dad
never liked to talk about it.”
“Ah, my
da was the same,” the old man whispered.
The
bartender poured the old man a new drink, but John waved off another refill.
“So,”
John asked.
“Your
da and I might’ve something in common,” the old man said with a throaty cough.
“Might you want to ask him though.” The
old man pointed at where Anthony was walking out of the back door of the bar. John heard the bare red bulb sizzling in the
black of the night beyond. By the time
he got there, Anthony'd vanished. He
turned back to see the old man leave out the front door.
V.
After
Elizabeth left, John’s apartment was almost empty. His new girlfriend hadn’t even bothered
laying claim to the medicine cabinet. He assumed she didn’t think they were
going anywhere. He picked up the remote.
He was flipping through the few channels he still had when his phone rang.
“John,”
he answered.
“I hope
so, that wasn’t a question, was it?”
It took
him a second to recognize the voice. “I don’t
remember giving you my number,” he said, failing to not sound rude.
“After
seven shots of Wild Turkey, I’m not surprised.”
John
shrugged, pushing the mute button on his remote. He didn’t remember seven shots, either. “So, how are you, Anthony?”
“Hey,
it’s Tony now. I was just calling to see
if you made up your mind.”
John
tried to recall the lost time at the bar, but his memory seemed fixated on the
buzzing red bulb.
“I
don’t know,” he admitted.
Tony
scoffed. “You’ve only got one chance,
you know.”
John
wished he had a beer. He wanted to ask
Rebecca to pick some up when she came over.
“Sure,” John said, “Can I call you back?”
“Don’t
worry about it, I’ll see you at the bar, you can tell me then.”
“Okay,
later, Tony.”
Anthony
hung up the phone. John pressed mute
again and looked out the window at the stars.
VI.
When he
woke up, the dog was barking and his phone's calender was buzzing, reminding
him of a meeting later that day. John
slipped out of bed and waddled to his bathroom. The water was hot and he was washing his hair
when he felt her arms wrap around him.
Her skin was wet and smooth when she pushed up against him. He felt himself stir as she purred in his
ear.
“How
about I take care of this,” Elizabeth said as she held him.
He felt the soap slip down his legs
as she stroked his thighs. He could see
Damascus’ shadow through the fog on the shower glass. He realized he had forgotten to ask how much
time he had purchased. He touched her
hand where it circled his knee, feeling his leg flex beneath her fingers.
“Long enough,” he managed.
VII.
It had
to be.
