Last Call....
The bell rang to signal last call. He didn’t even have to raise a finger. Almost in reflex, Skipper ran the bell, filled another shot glass to the brim with Jameson, and placed it on the bar. Rock reached forward, showing none of the drunken effects the whisky had imparted on him, and grasped the glass. Pausing for a moment before lifting the whisky to his lips, Rock said the same prayer he repeated before every drink, and then swallowed it down in one gulp with his eyes closed.
“Damn it,” he whispered aloud as he opened them. “Still here.”
“Hey Rock, you ok?” Skipper asked. The young, but keenly observant bartender, had sensed that “Rock,” Rockford
“I’m fine, Skip, It’s just been a long week.”
“Well, in an event,” Skipper began. "You about polished off an entire bottle of Jameson by yourself. You know the rules.”
With a reluctant sigh, Rock reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew his keys, and tossed them on the bar. “In that case one more won’t hurt.”
Skipper scooped them up and dropped them into the bucket that sat beside the cash register. “You’re gonna drown yourself to death on this stuff one of these days,” Skipper quipped as he poured.
“I keep prayin,” Rock replied as he slammed down his last drink of the night. The burn in his throat had long since faded, and the alcohol did little more than dull his senses. That was all he needed – not to feel. If he couldn’t feel, he couldn’t hurt. Rock closed his eyes again and really couldn’t tell if he had fallen asleep or simply lost himself in thought, but when his eyelids parted the bar was pretty much empty. The clock on the wall read 1:56 a.m. and Skipper had turned off most of the lights. Only Skipper, Rock, and Fiona remained.
“Come on, Rock, I’ll take you home,” Fiona said in an almost apologetic tone. Rock had been a regular there every Friday night for the better part of the last year, ever since the accident took his wife and young son. A strong man broken, Rock still somehow managed. He didn’t miss a day of work, and had in fact been promoted. Yet there he was, every Friday night, sitting in the same seat at the same bar drinking the same whisky week after week.
Without a word Rock rose from his bar stool and remarkably showed no signs of the inebriation that would have felled a lesser man. Fiona slid her arm around his waist just in case, and he draped his arm across her shoulders. He had no trouble climbing into the passenger seat of her truck, and stared silently at her as she drove. Each passing street light cast an ethereal glow across her face and illuminated her emerald green eyes. Even her obviously dyed, blonde hair shimmered.
Rock didn’t say a word until they reached his doorstep. He, like Fiona, knew that there was no reason to accompany him all the way inside. Still, she did so just the same.
“Stay with me,” Rock finally said.
“Rock, I can’t,” Fiona replied with not truth behind her words. “You’re drunk, it wouldn’t be right.”
“It wouldn’t necessarily be wrong.”
“I, I need to go. You get some rest.” Fiona reached up and gave Rock a soft kiss on the cheek, but made no movement for the door. They stared into each others’ eyes for a brief moment before Fiona blushed and looked away.
“Fiona, look, I like you. You know I’ve liked you from the moment I started coming around. If you want to stay, stay. If you want to leave, leave. I’m still going to like you in the morning either way.”
Fiona looked up, smiled, and looked away again. She wanted to respond, she really did, but the words escaped her far more freely than did her inhibition. Rock was an attractive man. The waves of his age lapped lazily at the shores of forty, and the grey in his temples was the only sign of the fact that he was twelve years her senior. It was that excuse that she used to prevent herself from throwing herself into his arms.
“I’m going to go upstairs, brush my teeth, and go to bed. You’re welcome to join me, crash on the couch, or if you’re more comfortable, go home. Like I said, no matter what, I’ll still like you in the morning. I think you know that.” Rock gave her a kiss on the cheek, turned his back, and disappeared up the stairs. “If you leave,” he called back, “please lock the door.”
Fiona stood in the living room, dumbfounded. It was her choice. She could stay. She could stay and just lay next to him and she was confident that he’d do nothing other than lay with her. On the other hand, it had been some time since she had broken up with Donny, her abusive boyfriend of three years, and she hadn’t been with anyone since. Hell, she was tired, and could just lay down on the couch in front of her, get a few hours of sleep, and be gone before Rock woke in the morning.
A chuckle escaped from her lips. She had just run through her options in her mind, and not one of them involved taking a single step towards the door. “Fuck it,” she said to herself, and climbed the stairs.
© J.J. Goodman 2013. All rights reserved.