Empty whiskey bottles sat where they poured their last shot.
Dusty glass reminders of a life thrown away. The runner on a rocking chair was
split, but it didn’t stop him from rocking. His blank stare a reminder of
nothing left to see. His tobacco stained shirt and trousers Hadn't seen a
washing to far back to recall. It didn’t matter to him; nobody was ever going
to see him anyway. He closed his place, going on three years he reckoned. Weren’t
no customers come by after the factories closed up. He tried to make a go of it,
putting out bologna sandwiches for free, but they still didn’t come back.
The town was all but empty, not just because of the shutdowns,
but a sickness spread across the land that nobody saw coming. Killed thousands
of folk across the nation, but he didn’t get called, no he was spared for
reasons he drank about. He lived upstairs just like his daddy and mom did who
ran the bar for near fifty years. He took over after daddy passed on, leaving
his mom to die of a broken heart four months later. It was just a corner bar,
nothing fancy: one pool table and a dartboard in the back room.
They had a fish fry
on Fridays that brought people in from miles around. It was mom's secret batter
that made it so tasty. He’d asked her a thousand times what it was, but she
kept him waiting until she was nearly gone—whispering in his ear, “molasses,”No
more fish fry or games of pool. A silent jukebox with haunting memories of
favorite songs. It’s all gone now, and it isn't coming back. Leastwise not for
him. The booze was almost gone, maybe a bottle or two that he figured he’d
leave behind for somebody to find, they could trade it for something badly
needed. Lots of that going on now in this so-called new world.
He raised the bottle of vodka, leaning back in the rocker
and tilting his head to accept the final swallow of sorrow and sadness. It
happened fast that sound of wood snapping as the rocking chair splintered, his
neck smashing down upon a jagged edge of a dusty bottle. Death was swift just
the way he would have wanted it to be, I suppose. That place just stands there
now waiting for a wrecking ball that’s working its way up the street heading for that nice little family bar that had a great fish fry.
‘\Very nice job Mr. O’conner We wish you great success, your autobiographies are wonderful, everyone should have you do one for them, photos and other momentous are soon forgotten but a book that lays on on the shelf for years may one day be picked up by our grandchildren, wouldn’t it be nice for them to know what your life was and how life was in our generation.
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