The bar was a cesspool of broken dreams and rot, the kind of place where all sense of right and wrong went to die. It was the one place Jack could be himself. It suited him, matched that deep stench that festered inside. He shouldered through the scuffed wooden door, the rusted brass handle nearly coming off in his hand. That familiar aroma of stale beer, cheap cigarettes, and even cheaper perfume hit him like a gentle slap as he stepped inside.
The dim, flickering neon signs cast an eerie glow over the dingy interior. The walls were a patchwork of peeling beer labels, yellowed posters, and faded photographs of forgotten faces. The ancient jukebox in the corner wheezed out a mournful country tune, barely audible over the clamor of clinking glasses and slurred voices.
The bikers at the pool table, congregating under a haze of smoky light from the low-hanging Tiffany lamp, leered at him as he passed. But he shut them down with a black look. They knew better than to screw with him. At least not that early in the night.
He slouched onto a barstool, the cracked red vinyl farting under his weight. The scarred oak bar top was sticky with spilled booze and dotted with burned-out cigarettes. The bartender, a scrawny runt with faded prison tats snaking up his arms, eyed him warily from behind a row of half-empty liquor bottles. Jack curled his lip. “Whiskey,” he spat. “Neat.”
The bartender hesitated. Jack slammed his palm on the sticky bar top, making the runt jump. “Did I stutter, you little shit? Pour the fucking drink.”
Amber liquid sloshed into a filthy glass. Jack threw it back, relishing the familiar burn. A comforting jolt ran down his spine, reminding him why he did that night after night. It was the only thing he could feel these days. Well, that and the anger. The rage sat in his gut like a coal, hot and heavy. He welcomed it, stoked it. It was better than the alternative.
Behind the bar, the phone started shrieking. Jack hunched his shoulders, wishing he could drown out the sound. He knew it was Lila. Calling to bust his balls again, like always. The incessant ring cut into his skull. He banged his hands on the bar.
Thwap!
Thwap!
Thwap!
And roared, “Someone shut that fucking thing up!”
The bartender, a scrawny runt named Tony with faded prison tats snaking up his arms, shot Jack a wary look before reaching for the phone. “Yeah?” he grunted into the receiver, his voice barely audible over the clamor of the bar.
Jack’s eyes stalked him from behind the bar, studying every word that Tony inaudibly mouthed Lila. Jack was pretty convinced that Tony was half a fruitcake but he could never be too careful about those things. He sipped his whiskey slowly this time, feeling an uncertain rage boil as his lips hid behind the glass.
Tony listened for a moment, then shook his head. “Nah, he’s not here. Haven’t seen him all night.” He hung up the phone with a clatter.
Jack frowned. “Who was that?” he barked, his voice rough with cheap whiskey and cheaper cigarettes.
Tony shrugged. “Some broad. Asking for a Michael – Hey, Mikey, your old lady is looking for you. Might want to head home soon.”
“Oh. Thought maybe it was Lila. She’s really been on my ass lately. Probably on the rag. I dunno.” He forced a cough and looked down. He tapped his empty glass on the bar. “Gimme another why don’t you. And make it a double.”
Tony hesitated, eyeing the row of empty glasses in front of Jack. “You sure, boss? Maybe you should slow down a bit.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You questioning me, Tony?”
Tony held up his hands. “Nah, boss. Just looking out for you, is all.”
“Well, I don’t need you to look out for me. I need you to pour me a damn drink.” Jack’s voice was low and menacing, almost whispering, his fists clenched on the bar top.
Tony sighed and reached for the bottle of J&B. He poured a generous double and slid it across the bar. “Whatever you say, boss.”
Jack grabbed the glass and downed it in one burning gulp. The whiskey seared his throat, but he welcomed the pain. It was better than the dull ache in his chest, the ache that Lila’s absence always seemed to bring.
“Again.”
Tony obediently obliged and generously poured another double.
He was about to toss back his drink when the door creaked open, spilling light into the fetid gloom. He squinted against the sudden brightness, his eyes struggling to adjust. Then he saw her.
Lila. The sight of her hit him like a sucker punch. She didn’t belong here, in this shitstain of a bar. She was too clean, too good. The thought twisted in his gut like a knife. He turned back to his drink, wishing he could crawl inside the glass.
Her heels clicked on the grimy floor, sharp and precise. Each step was like a nail in his coffin. She stopped beside him, close enough to touch. He could smell her perfume, could feel the heat coming off her skin. It made him want to put his fist through something.
“We need to talk,” she said, her voice harder than a diamond.
Jack didn’t look up from his whiskey.
He could barely speak.
His hands shook. He clenched them into fists. “So talk,” he snarled.
Lila reached into her designer purse, a relic from her old life that looked jarringly out of place in the grungy bar, and pulled out a thick manila envelope. She slapped it on the bar in front of him, scattering a few crumpled napkins and a broken toothpick. “I’m leaving you, Jack. I talked to a lawyer. I can’t do this anymore.”
Jack stared at the envelope like it was a snake ready to strike. A divorce. So that’s what it had come to. He’d thought she’d never have the balls to go through with it, not after everything they’d been through. He’d been the one to pull her out of that dead-end art school. Promised her a better life. And this was the thanks he got?
He snatched up the envelope and tore it open, his eyes scanning the legal bullshit. His vision blurred. He felt the whiskey he just downed bubble up at the base of his throat. He gulped it back down. “You’re really doing this? After all I’ve done for you?”
Lila laughed, a harsh, brittle sound that cut deep into his ears. “All you’ve done for me? You’ve done nothing but drag me down with you, Jack. I gave up everything for you. My art, my family, my self-respect. And for what? To watch stare at the bottle of a bottle in this shithole?”
Jack surged to his feet, his stool clattering to the pitted concrete floor. The bikers at the pool table tensed, their cue sticks gripped tightly, watching him warily in the cracked bar mirror. They knew about his history, knew what he was capable of. But he barely saw them. All he could see was red.
Jack found himself an inch from Lila’s face.
“You think you’re better than me, is that it? You think you’re too good for this place, for me? I’m a goddamn business owner. You’re just a housewife.” He crumpled the divorce papers in his fist and hovered them against her cheek.
Lila stood her ground, her chin lifted. “I know I am, Jack. And I’m not going to let you destroy me like you destroyed yourself. I’m done.”
She turned to leave, but Jack grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her skin. She winced, fear flashing in her eyes, and for a moment, he felt a twisted thrill of satisfaction. But then he saw the bruise already forming on her pale skin, and nausea rose in his throat. He let go of her like he’d been burned.
“Lila, wait. I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean to—”
She turned on her designer heels and walked away, weaving between the mismatched tables and chairs. Her perfume lingered in the air, a fleeting sweetness soon overpowered by the stale stench of the bar. She shoved through the door, the neon signs outside casting a red and blue glow on her face for a moment before she disappeared into the neon-lit night.
Jack stood there, staring at the space where she’d been. The bar seemed to close in around him, the nicotine-stained walls pressing in, the air thick with smoke and regret. He looked down at his hand, still clutching the crumpled divorce papers, the edges damp with beer and sweat.
He looked around, suddenly feeling like an outsider in his own bar. The bikers were watching him, their eyes glinting with a predatory light. They sensed weakness, sensed opportunity. They’d be coming for him soon, and he wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to fight them off. Not tonight.
He turned back to the scarred oak bar, ready to drown himself in whiskey and self-pity. But then he caught sight of his reflection in the grimy, cracked mirror behind the bar, wedged between the half-empty liquor bottles and a faded Cubs pennant. He hardly recognized himself. When had he gotten so old, so bitter? When had he become the very thing he’d always despised?
His father’s face seemed to leer at him from the mirror, mocking him. “You’re just like me, boy,” he seemed to say. “A mean, drunk son of a bitch. You’ll never be anything else.”
Jack’s hand tightened around his glass. No. He wasn’t like his father. He wasn’t. He’d prove it. He didn’t know how, but he’d find a way. He had to.
He picked the barstool off the ground as he did his best to avoid making eye contact with any of the patrons. He slouched onto a barstool, the cracked red vinyl farting under his weight. The scarred oak bar top was sticky with spilled booze and dotted with burned-out cigarettes. The bartender, a scrawny runt with faded prison tats snaking up his arms, eyed him warily from behind a row of half-empty liquor bottles. Jack curled his lip. “Whiskey,” he spat. “Neat.”