Paradise Lost

The rain pattered gently into the pooling city streets as Randall Mortensen sipped his whisky, contemplating how to get himself out of the mess he was in. The streetlamps had flickered on at least an hour ago, illuminating the drizzle that floated down from the sky, and Miranda was surely wondering where he was by now. He swirled the ice cubes in his slowly draining glass, picturing his wife pacing the kitchen in front of the casserole growing colder by the minute, fiddling with her freshly manicured fingers before giving in and putting them to work to dial his office. He could see her in his mind’s eye, in the blue gingham dress she was wearing this morning, walking determinedly to the rotary phone placed next to his reading chair in the living room. She would be tapping her stiletto-heel into the floor while biting the corner of her lip, as she often did when she was impatient or anxious, a hand on her hip as she waited for the operator to pick up.

That is, if she was even still alive.

The thought made Randall grimace, and he downed the rest of his drink in one fell swig to quell his mind. He signaled the bartender for another round, to which the man nodded and finished polishing the glassware to fetch the whisky from the shelf. Randall wasn’t much of a drinker to begin with – he was a miserable drunk once and swore off the sauce after the war ended, but he figured today was enough justification for a brief reintroduction. He had seen this bar called Paradise Lost many times on his commute into the city, and for the first time in a long time he felt compelled to take a seat at the bar inside, just as the first few droplets of rain fell from the sky. The interior was dimly lit but cozy in contrast to the grey skies outside, and the mournful crowing of a jazz trumpet played softly from the jukebox in the corner.

“Rough day?” A voice rasped at Randall, pulling him from his thoughts. The bartender was in front of him now, eyeing him curiously as he expertly poured a fresh glass of whiskey without spilling or breaking eye contact with Randall.

“More or less.” Randall responded meekly, saluting him with his glass as thanks.

“The missus be givin’ you trouble, son?” The bartender continued to eye him, with his expression neutral yet somehow empathetic.

Randall had taken the glass to his lips before pausing to observe the old man; he looked to be pushing late fifties, with his wispy metallic-grey hair greased over the top to hide the balding patch on his head. Patches of brown moles and aged skin dotted his forehead, with one pronounced mole making a summit on the bridge of his slender, hooked nose. His brown eyes were alert but weary, and they were focused on the face of the stranger that was on his fifth glass of Tennessee Sam’s Rye-Batch whiskey. Randall surmised with the sunken cheeks and bags under his eyes the man had seen a few troubling things in his lifetime.

“Not exactly…” Randall mumbled, taking another swig of his drink, wondering if he could even explain his predicament let alone trust the man with the information.

“I ain’t one to pry, and my eyesight ain’t what it used to be,” the bartender confessed, “but I got a knack for faces, and yours ain’t one that’s come around here before…” He paused, leaning in slightly, squinting his left eye as if peering at Randall through a telescope. He seemed to be taking in Randall’s features more closely, as though he was committing them to memory before he spoke again.

“Not even my regulars go through five glasses of that stuff, good or bad day. With the way you’ve been mopin’ over my bar, I’m gonna take a gander and say your day has been of the bad variety.” He leaned in even closer, his spindly arm propping up his weight as he gauged Randall’s reaction to his words. “Mind sharin’ what you got on your mind, son?”

Randall stared into his cup, a wry smile spreading on his face. He was reminded of his training in the military, specifically for interrogations of captured German soldiers to cajole them into giving away any information that might be useful before they bit off their own tongues. He could still see the blank, lifeless stare of a young man lying in a gushing cascade of blood from his mouth; moments before, he was begging for mercy before suddenly flipping his script and shouted glory to his füher as his last words. The boy’s anguished cries still echoed in Randall’s mind, almost drowning out the sound of rain that began to tap more insistently against the windows of Paradise Lost.

It’s not a matter of if you will break – but when.

“What’s your name, sir?” Randall asked the man quietly enough that he could barely be heard over the downpour outside.

“Frank.” The bartender responded flatly, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Share a drink with me, Frank?” Randall gave a small smile that did not reach his eyes, lifting his half-empty glass slightly as if to tempt the bartender.

Frank shrugged indifferently in response – the man was his only patron tonight, and he likely was not going to see anyone sauntering in from the soaking streets. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge the customer tonight. He turned to the shelf behind him and reached up to grab a dusty bottle off the top shelf. As Randall gulped down the rest of his drink, he noticed what looked like an eagle tattoo on Frank’s forearm, peeking out from his rolled-up sleeves.

The second most important rule to interrogations – be as vague as possible when giving details.

The bartender had returned with a bottle of brandy and a clean highball glass, pouring a serving for himself. Frank locked eyes with Randall as he poured the perfect amount of brandy into his glass, gazing at him expectantly. A flash of light streaked in from the windows, enveloping the bar in momentary whiteness as the rain roared down, louder now than before. A haunting melody from the jukebox continued to fill the stifling air that mingled between the two silent men. Randall finally broke the silence.

“Have you ever been desperate?” Randall asked his question to the swirling auburn liquid in his glass but lifted his gaze towards Frank for the answer. The bartender shrugged again nonchalantly, taking a ginger sip of his brandy before he spoke.

“Depends on how you define it, son. We’ve all had our back in a corner at some point; it’s how ya’ get yourself out that determines your desperation.”

A vision of the dead soldier with his tongue bitten off flashed in his mind again, and Randall knew he understood what the bartender meant.

“I borrowed some money from the wrong people.” Randall’s voice broke slightly in the confession that came tumbling out. Clearing his throat, he inwardly cursed himself and lifted the glass to his lips while muttering, “I may have backed myself deeper into the corner.”

Thunder rumbled soon after, rattling the windows some as he gulped down rich brandy that burned almost hotter than the truth. Randall always thought of himself as an upstanding citizen. He never broke the law once in his life and always paid his taxes on time. He went to war for his country without a single complaint; he diligently served six years fighting the Germans and then some and didn’t make so much as a peep against his government for dropping those nukes on innocent people. Randall just bottled it all up and only uncorked it with his whiskey when Uncle Sam released him into the world, nearly drowning in the resentment that left a bitter tang with every morning hangover.

Miranda was an angel, in looks and personality; her golden hair framed her heart-shaped face like a halo, with deep blue eyes that only held kindness and warmth in her gaze. She was the only one that did not see him as the booze-soaked gutter rat he had become, even on the nights she had to drive him home because he was too drunk to see straight. In her eyes, he was the man he wanted to be. She saved his life, and he only wanted to give her the world in return. The wedding, the house, the brand-new Cadillac all had a hefty price tag – it was the clothes, shoes, diamonds, pearls, hats, and salon trips that made him turn to the back-alley brokers. He swore with every loan that they would be paid back with interest, and the sharks that lurked in the darkness greedily took his word for it; even if it was a lowly bank teller, blood was blood, and they would get their dues one way or another.

Randall had every intention of paying the money back – his investments just did not pan out the way he thought they would, and now it was costing him more than just “interest payments”.

Frank raised his eyebrows at his patron’s revelation, immediately catching on to what Randall was saying.

“I see…” he mused, slowly taking a swig of brandy. The men sat in silence, the sheets of rain filling the brief silence. The jukebox played the next song; a bright trumpet and a woman’s silky voice rang out, and Randall paused before downing more brandy. He soon recognized it as the first song he and Miranda danced to on their wedding night.

Stars shining bright above you,

Night breezes seem to whisper, “I love you”.

He grew misty-eyed as he thought of his wife. She always looked beautiful, but she was like an otherworldly goddess in her white dress that day, floating down the aisle to take his hand and his name at the altar. He remembered the way she blushed, her cheeks a rosy pink that made him feel a carnal kind of hunger for her. The delicate sounds of her gasps and sighs the first time they made love was like a siren song to his ears. His stomach dropped with dread at the thought of never holding her again.

Birds singin’ in the sycamore tree

Dream a little dream of me.

The world began to tilt sideways, and Randall could taste the bile in the back of his throat. Lightning struck the streets and pierced the wall that had been his moral consciousness; he realized he was a fool.

“I gotta…go…” He mumbled incoherently to Frank while frantically searching his pockets for cash to pay the man. Where had his wallet gone?

“Woah, woah, slow down, son!” Frank cried out as Randall tried to stand. He had lost his balance and stumbled a little, gripping the counter to steady himself; it seemed the liquor was taking effect now, but Randall could not let that stop him. He had left his wife alone while hiding behind the booze of some bar in Chicago, like a coward.

Say “nighty-nite”, and kiss me

Just hold me tight an tell me you’ll miss me

Cursing to himself, he managed to locate some crumpled bills and tossed them onto the bar. Frank raised an eyebrow at him while making an exasperated sound, to which Randall could only half-smile apologetically in response as he fumbled for the car keys in his coat pocket. Suddenly, a gust of frigid wind swept into the bar and caressed the back of Randall’s neck. A voice he didn’t recognize called out to him.

“Time to pay up, Mr. Mortensen!”

When I’m alone and blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me

Randall barely turned to see who entered the bar when the guns began firing. Glass shattered on the shelves and bullets whizzed by his ears. He barely made out the sound of Frank cursing and screaming in agony behind him. Sharp, searing pain sliced through his chest and abdomen with every impact. He might have screamed out, had it not been for the bullet that ripped through his throat and shredded his vocal cords, instead of a desperate gurgling squeak. Blood erupted from his mouth, and everything tasted of copper as Randall collapsed to the floor, suffocating slowly from the wounds that left holes in his lungs.

Stars fading but I linger on dear

Still craving your kiss

The door to the bar had closed again as two shadows streaked across the walls through the windows of Paradise Lost and disappeared into the rain-soaked night. Traces of gunpowder and smoke wafted lazily above Randall as he struggled to breathe. His ears were ringing but he could still hear the jukebox carrying on with its romantic tune as if nothing had happened. Wet, warm liquid pooled in his mouth, and he made a wet gagging noise in an attempt to cough; he could feel the wound in his neck oozing out crimson liquid and pool beneath his head. Randall thought briefly of the soldier who bit off his tongue and wondered if this was the same choking feeling he had in his final moments.

I’m longing to linger ‘til dawn dear,

Just saying this

Suddenly Randall felt a firm hand grip his right shoulder, followed by a frightened face looming over him. Frank’s forehead was covered in blood, his eyes wide and his bottom lip trembling slightly; Randall couldn’t help but smirk a little as it reminded him of a child that had just lost their balloon and was watching it drift away. He then felt remorseful that this stranger had to get caught up in his irresponsibility. Frank spoke to him, but it sounded like he was underwater. He could hear the high-pitched whine of sirens approaching.

“You’re okay, son…just hang in there…they’re on their way…you’re gonna be okay…”

Sweet dreams ‘til sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

Another face had appeared behind Frank, and Randall’s vision became laser-focused on it. Miranda was peering down at him, her golden hair framing her rose-colored cheeks like a halo. She batted her sapphire eyes and smiled at him shyly – just as she did on their wedding day. He felt the gentle touch of her hand cradle his blood-soaked cheek, and although her lips didn’t move, he could hear her speak to him, soft and soothing enough to melt away his pain. "Randy, darling…I’m here now."  A single tear slid from the corner of his eye and Randall’s final breath came as a sigh mixed with contentment and relief. His angel was here to take him home at last.

But in your dreams, whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me