Excerpt from Henry's Re-entry: Henry Meets Clarence
HENRY STOPPED BEFORE A SCARRED WOODEN STOOL CAPPED WITH A WORN OUT GREEN NAUGHAHIDE SEAT.
A woman’s nasally voice resonated from somewhere back in the shadows. She was singing a sorry song about wandering around alone in the middle of the night looking for a supposed lover who clearly didn’t want shit to do with her.
He groped his way up onto the seat, and leaned heavily into the faded Formica bar counter.
The long wooden back bar looked like a refugee from a western movie set, complete with a warped mirror bearing a spider-web crack at one corner that looked unnervingly like a gunshot wound. A pair of Grecian-like pillars stood at opposing ends of the bar, each supported by a naked, portly woman with a cherub smile and breasts one size too small for her body. A clock with no crystal and a yellowing face listed languidly on a dusty shelf above the bottles. The second hand hobbled forward in palsied beats as it counted down his wait. It told Henry it was three forty-seven, but Henry was pretty sure it told everyone that.
The space running in between the front and back bar was devoid of life. Where the hell was the bartender? He needed his bloody medicine. He drummed his fingers on the scarred counter as he looked out into the tables. Maybe there was a barmaid around.
Cigarette smoke swirled the room, as thick and physical as water tainted by drops of milk. The ghosts of two old cowpokes haunted a table beneath a dusty ceiling lamp made from an old wagon wheel. They hunched under their sweaty cowboy hats, holding onto their sweatier beer cans like lifelines. Two more cowpunchers huddled in the back behind a pool table that’d been old when jukeboxes made their debut. They were leaning languidly into their pool sticks with the remnants of cigarettes pasted to their lips. They looked like they were serving a sentence, like they’d been playing that very same game for years now and had no hope of finishing it anytime soon. The sight gave Henry pause.
He wondered for just an instant if maybe his outing had been a success after all. Maybe the alcohol had finally driven him into a tree somewhere in the emptiness of the Wild, Wild West, and this was some kind of divine intervention, punishment for a life so poorly executed. Maybe he was doomed to an eternity haunting the planks of a backcountry saloon, alone and forgotten, and listening to classically depressing old country western singers.
Yet, even as he considered such a sentence, he knew it was little more than wishful thinking. It could never go that easily, not for him. Dying now would be like declaring karmic bankruptcy. He still had a lifetime of penance to pay, a lifetime of regret and guilt to endure. He’d taken everything she had. He’d taken her heartbeat, for Christ’s sake! A mortal lifetime suffering in atonement for his deeds would barely pay the interest on a crime like that. The principle would start when hell claimed him.
“What are you drinking, boy?”
Henry nearly jumped off the stool. The bartender might as well have materialized from the smoke.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Henry snapped at the man.
“Chicago, originally. But I’ve lived mostly right here.”
Henry just looked at him. The bartender was like the comic relief in an otherwise serious John Wayne movie. He was a ninety-year-old version of Stan Laurel, complete with a shock of white hair and an expression of shrewd bewilderment. He wore a denim work shirt with matching yokes, and pearl snaps buttoned up to his Adam’s apple. The frayed collar was choked into compliance by a cheesy turquoise bola. It almost made him blend in.
“What are you drinking?” the bartender asked again. He didn’t sound like he cared.
Henry slid his last rumpled twenty across the fossilized rings left by long extinct beer bottles. “Direct and straight to the point,” he said, “I admire that in a bartender.”
“No need to butter me up,” the bartender said, “I’m obligated to serve you unless you’re drunk or violent. What would you like?”
“Bourbon.”
“Rocks?”
“Neat.”
“House?”
Henry looked down at the twenty pinned between his fingers. “Sadly, yes.”
“Judging by your smell and the telltale glow of an unhappy liver, I’d say water would be your wiser choice.”
Henry scowled at him. “Trying to poison me? Just be a good old cowpoke and bring me my medicine.”
The bartender shrugged and turned away.
“Water,” Henry said with a little laugh, “Plan’s too near to perfect to ruin now.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed his hands back across his scalp. He massaged his temples and brow, and tried to coax the agony away. Chicago, he thought. Hilarious. The old prick was a real joker.
“Here you go, boy.”
Henry flinched again. He scowled up at the old man. “What the hell!” he said, “You know it’s rude to sneak up on people, right? I mean, that’s a true statement pretty much everywhere, even out here in purgatory.”
The bartender slid a drink across the counter. But instead of his bourbon, Henry found a sweating glass of water. A glob of stale looking ice floated miserably at the top of it. The old man was holding his bourbon back on the counter behind the poison.
“What’s this?” Henry asked him.
“You look like hell,” the man said as casually as if observing the weather.
“Well, of course I do, Slim. It’s perfectly keeping with the plan.”
“Gonna get yourself a kidney infection.” The man actually looked serious.
“I ordered bourbon,” Henry said seriously, “I didn’t ask for—”
“Drink.”
Henry studied him a moment. The old man studied him back. Even for such a cartoonish morning-after, this was too surreal.
“Let me get this straight,” Henry said, “You’re holding my liquor hostage until I pay up by drinking the poison?”
“You’re a quick study, boy,” the old man said, “Direct and to the point. I like that in a customer.”
“You’re blackmailing me?”
The bartender shrugged and sniffed. “More like extortion, I expect.”
“Extortion?”
“It means getting something from a person through the abuse of one’s office or position of authority.”
“I know what extortion means! I mean, what gives you the right to hold back my drink?”
A wry grin pushed the old man’s thick wrinkles out of alignment. “I’m the bartender. You don’t like it, there’s another bar thirty miles due east of here. You could probably thumb it in about a week. Naturally, that would be depending on the traffic.”
A woman’s nasally voice resonated from somewhere back in the shadows. She was singing a sorry song about wandering around alone in the middle of the night looking for a supposed lover who clearly didn’t want shit to do with her.
He groped his way up onto the seat, and leaned heavily into the faded Formica bar counter.
The long wooden back bar looked like a refugee from a western movie set, complete with a warped mirror bearing a spider-web crack at one corner that looked unnervingly like a gunshot wound. A pair of Grecian-like pillars stood at opposing ends of the bar, each supported by a naked, portly woman with a cherub smile and breasts one size too small for her body. A clock with no crystal and a yellowing face listed languidly on a dusty shelf above the bottles. The second hand hobbled forward in palsied beats as it counted down his wait. It told Henry it was three forty-seven, but Henry was pretty sure it told everyone that.
The space running in between the front and back bar was devoid of life. Where the hell was the bartender? He needed his bloody medicine. He drummed his fingers on the scarred counter as he looked out into the tables. Maybe there was a barmaid around.
Cigarette smoke swirled the room, as thick and physical as water tainted by drops of milk. The ghosts of two old cowpokes haunted a table beneath a dusty ceiling lamp made from an old wagon wheel. They hunched under their sweaty cowboy hats, holding onto their sweatier beer cans like lifelines. Two more cowpunchers huddled in the back behind a pool table that’d been old when jukeboxes made their debut. They were leaning languidly into their pool sticks with the remnants of cigarettes pasted to their lips. They looked like they were serving a sentence, like they’d been playing that very same game for years now and had no hope of finishing it anytime soon. The sight gave Henry pause.
He wondered for just an instant if maybe his outing had been a success after all. Maybe the alcohol had finally driven him into a tree somewhere in the emptiness of the Wild, Wild West, and this was some kind of divine intervention, punishment for a life so poorly executed. Maybe he was doomed to an eternity haunting the planks of a backcountry saloon, alone and forgotten, and listening to classically depressing old country western singers.
Yet, even as he considered such a sentence, he knew it was little more than wishful thinking. It could never go that easily, not for him. Dying now would be like declaring karmic bankruptcy. He still had a lifetime of penance to pay, a lifetime of regret and guilt to endure. He’d taken everything she had. He’d taken her heartbeat, for Christ’s sake! A mortal lifetime suffering in atonement for his deeds would barely pay the interest on a crime like that. The principle would start when hell claimed him.
“What are you drinking, boy?”
Henry nearly jumped off the stool. The bartender might as well have materialized from the smoke.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Henry snapped at the man.
“Chicago, originally. But I’ve lived mostly right here.”
Henry just looked at him. The bartender was like the comic relief in an otherwise serious John Wayne movie. He was a ninety-year-old version of Stan Laurel, complete with a shock of white hair and an expression of shrewd bewilderment. He wore a denim work shirt with matching yokes, and pearl snaps buttoned up to his Adam’s apple. The frayed collar was choked into compliance by a cheesy turquoise bola. It almost made him blend in.
“What are you drinking?” the bartender asked again. He didn’t sound like he cared.
Henry slid his last rumpled twenty across the fossilized rings left by long extinct beer bottles. “Direct and straight to the point,” he said, “I admire that in a bartender.”
“No need to butter me up,” the bartender said, “I’m obligated to serve you unless you’re drunk or violent. What would you like?”
“Bourbon.”
“Rocks?”
“Neat.”
“House?”
Henry looked down at the twenty pinned between his fingers. “Sadly, yes.”
“Judging by your smell and the telltale glow of an unhappy liver, I’d say water would be your wiser choice.”
Henry scowled at him. “Trying to poison me? Just be a good old cowpoke and bring me my medicine.”
The bartender shrugged and turned away.
“Water,” Henry said with a little laugh, “Plan’s too near to perfect to ruin now.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed his hands back across his scalp. He massaged his temples and brow, and tried to coax the agony away. Chicago, he thought. Hilarious. The old prick was a real joker.
“Here you go, boy.”
Henry flinched again. He scowled up at the old man. “What the hell!” he said, “You know it’s rude to sneak up on people, right? I mean, that’s a true statement pretty much everywhere, even out here in purgatory.”
The bartender slid a drink across the counter. But instead of his bourbon, Henry found a sweating glass of water. A glob of stale looking ice floated miserably at the top of it. The old man was holding his bourbon back on the counter behind the poison.
“What’s this?” Henry asked him.
“You look like hell,” the man said as casually as if observing the weather.
“Well, of course I do, Slim. It’s perfectly keeping with the plan.”
“Gonna get yourself a kidney infection.” The man actually looked serious.
“I ordered bourbon,” Henry said seriously, “I didn’t ask for—”
“Drink.”
Henry studied him a moment. The old man studied him back. Even for such a cartoonish morning-after, this was too surreal.
“Let me get this straight,” Henry said, “You’re holding my liquor hostage until I pay up by drinking the poison?”
“You’re a quick study, boy,” the old man said, “Direct and to the point. I like that in a customer.”
“You’re blackmailing me?”
The bartender shrugged and sniffed. “More like extortion, I expect.”
“Extortion?”
“It means getting something from a person through the abuse of one’s office or position of authority.”
“I know what extortion means! I mean, what gives you the right to hold back my drink?”
A wry grin pushed the old man’s thick wrinkles out of alignment. “I’m the bartender. You don’t like it, there’s another bar thirty miles due east of here. You could probably thumb it in about a week. Naturally, that would be depending on the traffic.”
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