/with deepest apologies and acknowledgment to Blaxabbath

He was alone, again, and again with a drink in his hand that he didn’t recall ordering.  The bar was small and dimly lit and he liked that but he’d be damned if he could recall the name.  His drink, whatever it was called, felt cold in his hands and that was good, but not as good as the sting it delivered to his throat.  He’d order another if he could remember the name, but judging from the four empty glasses in front of him it was probably time to go home; even if he did know the name of the drink this round it was a fair bet he wouldn’t remember it after the next.

No.  The best place to be now was home.  He just needed to get there.  The only problem was that he wasn’t sure where he’d left his car and even if he did know where it was there was no way he should be driving.  Hell he wouldn’t even know where to aim it.  And was the car a stick or automatic?  That seemed like a pretty important detail but damned if he knew at this point.

The man sighed and finished his drink.  Still toying with the idea of another drink he twirled the glass; the clinking of the ice gave him a moment of happiness but only a moment.  It was time to go home, wherever home was.  He raised a large and ill-used hand and signaled the hostess.  She was at his side almost before he’d put his hand down, as though she’d read his eyes as easily as cornerbacks once had.  “Another Shirley Temple sir?”  He’d had five already and couldn’t recall her name.  The buzzing in his ears was almost enough to keep him from hearing her question.  He focused his attention, squinting against the dim light and managed to respond “No, I’ve had enough; I’m going to purple monkey dishwasher.”

The hostess paused for a moment before laying a hand on the man’s shoulder.  The squeeze was barely noticeable but it was there; not one of desire, not one of despite, but one of sorrow for what could have been.  “I understand sir.  Give me just a moment.”  Her hand lingered for a moment , then she turned and made the brief walk to the bar.  There she leaned into another man, a man who sat cupping a nearly full beer, a man staring into that beer as though it contained all of the answers to all of the questions, one of which would tell him what his future held and if he was truly as doomed as he suspected he was.

She leaned in a little closer and, in a voice that was clearly used to giving important information to those who needed to hear it, and only those who needed to hear it, said “Mr. Welker, it appears to be time for Mr. Green to go home.  Shall I call him a cab?”

Welker shuddered.  He took a quick swig of his beer and pushed the rest of it away.  Bracing himself against the bar, still unable to look the hostess in the eye, he answered “Thank you but no Lin Sue.  I’ll see him home.  It will be my turn soon enough.”

Lin Sue watched them leave, both limping, one not sure of who he was or where he was going and the other only sure that one day soon he would be like the first one.  As the door closed she turned back to the bar and whether that was a tear in her eye or just the light playing tricks off the mirror well buddy, you’d need to be a better man than Jeff Triplette to make that call.