By William Danton
VO By Nick Pasta
A rainy fall morning in small town, USA. The sky wept down upon the old town cemetery. The gentle pitter-patter of raindrops fell upon a wooden coffin. Jack watched with a somber face as it slowly descended into the Earth. A grizzled Gulf War vet in his early fifties with a prosthetic left leg. He buried the only good thing in his life. A final goodbye to his wife, Jane. Cancer. A tough hand, but she put up one helluva fight.
Several days following the funeral, Jack laid awake in bed staring blankly at the ceiling. Dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept a wink since the service. He glanced over at Jane’s side of the bed, then over at a digital clock on the nightstand. 12:01 AM. Jack let out a tired sigh, then threw the covers off of him. He needed sleep, but the trailer home kept reminding him of her absence. Time for a change of scenery.
Jack took the bus into town. He stepped out into the crisp night air, then lit up a cigarette and took a few drags. He glanced down at his smartphone. A picture of Jane hugging him in his Marine uniform illuminated the screen. An old photo from before his four tours in Iraq. The phone read: 12:58 AM. He buttoned up his jacket and ran his fingers through his hair to at least appear somewhat presentable. He wasn’t fooling anyone though. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a store window. He looked ready for the firing squad.
A red neon sign above him flashed, The River Styx, a local dive bar that Jack used to frequent before Jane made him sober up for good. He stubbed out his cigarette on a bus stop trash can, then went inside.
The bar’s interior was equally as underwhelming as its exterior. Classic Americana themed with a pool table and dartboard. A melancholic country song played softly over the stereo. Typical Sunday night. Just a few lost souls remained gathered around the bar counter like pilgrims at a shrine.
“Last call! Last call for alcohol!” cried the bartender.
Jack took a seat at the far end of the bar counter away from the others.
“Now there’s a face I haven’t seen in a long while. Good to see you, Jack,” the bartender said.
Jack nodded solemnly.
“What’s your poison?” asked the bartender.
“Whisky. The good stuff,” replied Jack, holding up two fingers.
The bartender poured Jack three shots.
“You look like you need one more,” said the bartender, “third one’s on the house.”
“Thanks, Ron,” said Jack with a faint smile as he pulled out his wallet.
“Just happy to support the troops any way I can,” said Ron.
Jack handed Ron a twenty, then downed his three shots in quick succession. Ron moved away to serve another patron. Just then, a man wearing a black hoodie and jeans sat down beside Jack at the bar counter. Tall, gaunt, and slender with a pale face obscured by his hood. Jack clocked an ivory skull ring on the man’s right index finger. The guy had a peculiar aura about him.
“Do I know you?” asked Jack.
“You will someday,” replied the rogue in a deep otherworldly voice.
“Excuse me?” uttered Jack, caught off-guard by the man’s cryptic comment.
The man paid Jack no heed, and produced a silver dollar from his waist side pocket. He rolled it up and down his knuckles effortlessly, then slapped it down on the bar counter.
“My condolences about your wife, Jack. She had a pure soul. Hard to come by these days. Just thought you should know that.”
With that the stranger stood up and made for the door.
“Wait!” called Jack, “who are you?”
“Everything and nothing,” said the hooded figure, “until we meet again.”
The man left the bar, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts. Jack stood up and ran outside into the street to confront the stranger.
“Where is she?” asked Jack desperately, “please… I have to know.”
“You’ll meet again, but not yet,” whispered the man, “you still have time, Jack. I suggest you make the most of it. It comes down to a simple choice: get busy living, or get busy dying.”
And with that, the stranger vanished into thin air.
Just then a horn blared! Jack whipped his head around and saw a bus barreling towards him at full speed. He stood there like a deer in the headlights. Life flashing before his eyes. The bus plowed into him. And in that fleeting moment between everything and nothing, Jack felt his wife welcoming him into the warm embrace of eternity.
Jack awoke slouched over the bar counter the next morning.
“Mornin’ sunshine,” chuckled Ron as he cleaned a glass pitcher over the bar sink.
“What… what happened last night?” groaned Jack.
“You don’t remember?” said Ron, “you drank your shots then passed out. I didn’t have the heart to wake you, so I figured it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. You alright?”
“Yeah… I just… strange dream,” Jack mumbled, “thanks for lettin’ me stay the night, Ron. I’ll get outta your hair.”
Jack slowly sat up and stumbled off the bar stool. He made for the door.
“Hey! You forgot something!” yelled Ron.
Jack turned and went back to the bar counter. Ron pointed out a silver dollar lying heads-up on the counter-top where Jack had passed out. Jack stared at it in sheer disbelief.
“Ain’t seen one of these in a while. Where’d you get it?” asked Ron.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Jack, “it’s all yours. Consider it a token of gratitude.”
“Much obliged,” said Ron with a subtle smile, “take care, Jack.”
With that, Jack stepped outside into the morning light. His spirit rekindled. A bus pulled up to the curbside stop. The doors swung open, and the driver addressed him.
“Where you headed?” asked the driver.
“Home,” Jack responded.
“Need a ride?”
Jack approached the bus door, then paused.
“On second thought… I think I’ll walk.”
“Suit yourself,” said the driver, “have a good one.”
The bus pulled away. Jack watched it go, then began his long walk home. He didn’t mind though. For the first time in ages, he was just happy to be alive.
Images Courtesy of Nickpasta