Not Long to Go

A Story by Kirk_A.

"He thought it was love right then and there. And maybe he was right."

“Hey bartender, can I get a drink over here?”

“Yeah, what do you want? Pick your poison,” he said, gesturing the shelves of bottles.

“Double shot of that.” Tom said, pointing to some obscurely named bottle of whiskey on the bottom shelf.

Tom glanced at the clock on the wall, illuminated by an old, neon Budweiser sign. The time read 7:00. Another Friday night. Another s****y bar.

Tom’s shoulders slumped over the bar. Head down. His posture mirrored that scene in every movie where the depressed character goes to the local dive bar.

The radio rang out through the mumblings along the bar, I don’t know why you’re trying to hurt me so. If you’re trying to break my heart, you don’t have long to go.” Merle Haggard? Are you kidding me?” Tom mumbled to himself.

The next time Tom looked at the clock, the hands read 8:30. Or sometime around there. The hands quivered a little after his sixth glass of whiskey.

She still hadn’t called. But then again, she never calls anymore. Tom pulled his cheap flip-phone out of his pocket and opened it to see her smiling back at him. The image sent Tom soaring back to that day on the church steps, standing hand in hand, her dressed all in white, waving to her family, glancing back at him with that same smile he now saw on his phone.

That smile had long since faded. She won’t say that it’s because of the drinking, but everyone knows. It could be the money, too. He hadn’t sold a single record in three years. The tour offers had stopped coming, and so had the cash. Tiny bar gigs don’t pay much. They lost all of their money and had to move back home and leave their Nashville mansion behind.

“Can I get you another?” He snapped back to reality, to the mumble of glasses and bottles around him.

“Yeah keep them coming, and send one to the lady at the end of the bar. Whatever she’s having tonight.”

Blonde hair. Young college girl. Maybe even a high-schooler with a fake ID. The bartender placed the drink in front of her, and she shot a smile back to Tom across the bar. “She looks so much like my wife did at that age,” he thought, smiling to himself. He remembered the night he met her.

It was a night just like this, in a bar just like this one. He sent her a whiskey sour, and after a while she made her way over.

They talked until last call, when Tom invited her to his apartment. That was when he pulled out his guitar and played her some song about a starry-eyed girl. The type of song everyone’s heard a million times, but never goes away. It moved her to tears. He held her the rest of the night. He thought it was love right then and there. And maybe he was right.

The memory sent Tom to his car.

When he finally arrived home, he walked up the stairs to their bedroom. She was fast asleep. He grabbed his old Gibson Hummingbird, his favorite to play on tour, and sat in a chair beside the bed.

He strummed a couple chords and started to softly serenade his sleeping wife before she rolled over and bed. Still waking up, she said, “Oh, baby, I haven’t heard you play that song in so long.”

She shifted through the pile of sheets, emerged from the bed and planted a kiss on his lips. He cherished the soft feel of her lips as he felt them soak up the whiskey. Instantly sober, he muttered, “I know. First song I ever played you. You still remember that night?”