At Whit's End

   “George, the new book donations are piling up in the back storeroom. I just haven’t had the time or the inclination to catalogue them. No matter how hard I look for it, I can’t find enough time for anything.”

    I nodded, never looking up from the tedious task she had assigned me earlier in the day.

   “The president of the Library Board of Trustees is coming by  in the morning. Can you give me a hand?  George? Give me some attention, George! I’m at my wit’s end.”

    “What did you say?” I looked at my boss, the chief librarian with the wrinkled brow and the perpetually etched frown lines protruding from her lips.  

      “My wit’s end, George. My wit’s end. I thought you were well read. Aren’t you familiar with the work of William Langland? He was a 14^th century poet who.... Oh never mind! Haven't you ever heard that old expression? Being at your Wit’s End?

       My back stiffened; my hands began to shake.  “Yeah, Ms. Hardy. Right. I’ve heard of it.”   I tried to go back to repairing the binding on the book I was working on, but the harder I struggled, with the strips of leather and the bottle of Aleen’s Leather and Suede Adhesive. the more distracted I became. It was futile.  

     “Sorry, Ms. Hardy. I can't work on these repairs any more tonight."  I pushed the stack of tattered books across the desk and tapped nervously on the torn cover of  a copy of Tchaikovsky’s ‘Children of Time.’

     “I’ve got somewhere I’ve got to go.”   I picked up my briefcase, grabbed my coat, and walked out the door, leaving the cranky head librarian  glaring angrily at my back, rubbing her chin in distaste.

      As I climbed into the cab, at the corner of Main and Schooner Streets, the memories of Whit's Inn came flooding back. It had been a while since I'd thought about it, but it hadn’t been long enough.  Not nearly long enough. I knew that this time I couldn't simply go home. 

    “You got that damn kid with you, Maggie?” Whitney O’Hara stood behind the bar drying glasses with a ragged cloth. “OK, he can stay, but make sure he doesn't get in the way.”

    “Thanks, Whit.” My mother shooed me behind the bar, and sat me on the cold floor with my G.I. Joe and a Flintstones coloring book. “I won't forget this.”

    Mom smiled down at me as she handed me a box of broken crayons. “Now, Georgie, you keep real quiet, and keep your eyes to yourself.”

    I was six that first time I spent an evening at Whit’s Inn. My mother was a barmaid in the waterfront tavern and she worked long hours trying to make enough money to keep the rent paid.

    “Hey, Maggie, we need some attention over here!” I watched as my mother smiled and delivered a round to the corner table. A bald, round faced customer patted her bottom and tossed her a single bill. She tucked it into her blouse and the room echoed with drunken laughter. It danced on the stagnant air and wrapped around me like a cold wind.

    “Play it again, Sam!” Someone shouted at the little man sitting at the piano, and he began to play. I didn't understand then why they called him Sam. His name was Billy. I watched and listened; his trembling hands lumbered over the ivories, and every now and then, he paused to gulp down another swig of straight Jack Daniels.

  "Left on Marlin Road, then right on Atlantic Avenue,” I directed the cabbie as I stared out the window. Some things down at the docks had changed, yet somehow, it all remained the same…the old tuna cannery stood cold and dismal in the shadow of the neon lights that reflected off the wet sidewalks. The smell of rotting fish and rock gut whiskey permeated the air. The cheap whores stood under the streetlights on the corners near the pubs; their broken-toothed smiles seemed all too familiar.

     "Drink ‘em down, boys!”  Whit called out as a tall man in a longshoreman’s jacket took a swing at a guy who had been sitting at the bar. I watched as his bottle of Budweiser flew across the floor and shattered into sharp-edged splinters. It sent smelly brew over my coloring book, ruining the picture I had just finished.

     The wind was brisk on Atlantic Avenue as I stepped out of the cab. I wrapped my coat more tightly around me and flipped up my collar against the chill.

    “Last call for alcohol!” Whit’s voice rang out in the dimly lit room. The last of the customers bellied up to the bar for one final shot. They guzzled their poisons, and made their final propositions. The most convincing fast talkers walked off slowly in pairs. I watched as my mother picked up her coat, took a wad of bills from inside her blouse and tucked them into her pocket

.

    “Come on, Georgie,” her speech was slurred. She grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the door. I looked back over my shoulder. My colored picture lay on the floor soaked in beer and covered in grime from Whit’s dirty shoes.

    I pushed open the door and walked into the inn. Not much had changed in 27 years. A vacant-eyed clone of Whitney O’Hara stood behind the bar, pouring a shot of whiskey into an ice filled tumbler.  

    There were only a few patrons in the smoky barroom.  I stared into the same kinds of faces, the same lost souls, all looking for answers but never really understanding what the questions are.

    I sat down on a barstool, ordered a bottle of Jamison’s Irish Whiskey and a glass, and stared at my reflection in the mirror above the bar. My eyes looked almost as vacant as the bartender’s and I couldn’t help but wonder what his story might be. I watched as deadbeats pinched painted ladies who bought them round after round of booze, knowing that they wouldn't remember each other’s names in the morning. A buxom redhead in tight jeans sat down next to me. I was at my wit's end. I motioned to the bartender, “On second thought, I'll take that bottle to go.”

     A Nor’easter was blowing in as I walked out the barroom door and down along the Atlantic Avenue dock. Sitting down on the weatherbeaten boards of the dock, I pulled the fifth from under my coat, and broke the seal. I took a long slow swig. It burned my throat with the callous sting of reality. I was the product of old Billy the shaky-handed piano player, and the bartender who had pity on a drunken waitress and her bastard son. I was my father’s one night indiscretion, my mother’s little problem. I was one of those Children of Time. I was Ms. Hardy’s s flunkey, and no matter how I tried to escape, I was who I was because of where I’d been.  I was me, George Mahoney.

    I paused for a moment, listening to the sounds of the ocean. I could hear the buoy bell ringing in the distance, but it was almost too dark to see beyond this place where the pathetic past met the undecided future. I was looking for answers, but I'd never truly understood the questions. Not until now…

    It was my choice. My life. My last chance to put it all into the proper perspective.

    I raised my arm and threw the glass bottle into the ocean’s receding foamy waters.  I pulled out my cell phone and called for a cab.  It was time to move on.