Old Life for a New One

       The dive bar is cold inside and smells of cheap liquor embedded into ancient floorboards and stale cigarettes of years past. The barflies all carry dour looks on their faces, dressed in cheap apparel. No one looks at me as I, a young man of twenty-three, nervously walk toward the back. They may as well be trapped in here- their own purgatory of drunken loneliness.

             My footsteps almost echo off the stained wood and brick walls as an old song plays hauntingly on the jukebox.

             “…they call the Rising Sun.”

             I find who I am looking for sitting at a small table with an empty chair across from him in a darkened corner.

             “Sit down, Dennis,” a hoarse voice tells me. How does he know my name? “I know the names of all my costumers,” he answers- as if reading my thoughts, “now, have a seat.”

             My arms and legs tremble as I pull the dusty chair from the table and sit down.

             “… and it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy…”

             The man wears a dusty black coat, it reminds me of that one song by Nick Cave. His hands are adorned with all kinds of big rings and tattoos depicting odd shapes and symbols. The man’s face is partially hidden in the shadows of his long, greasy black hair under the brim of his black cowboy hat. Through the darkness, I see a scarred face with piercing dark eyes and stubble sticking out from his cheeks and chin as if he hadn’t shaved for the last two days. The man is also massive- even while sitting down over his drink.

             “… and God, I know I’m one.”

             “Would you like a drink?” The man asks. He seemingly produces a small whiskey glass from thin air and picks up the half-empty bottle from beside his own glass.

             “No, thanks,” I answer in a horribly nervous voice. It might have cracked, I can’t be sure.

             “Have one anyway, son,” he says and pours me a healthy serving of dark brown liquid, “it will cool the nerves.” I drink what is served to me. It burns like I am pouring liquid fire down my throat.

             “W-what is your name sir?” I try to make conversation. The drink already has a cloudy effect on my mind.

             “I have been called many things over many years,” he answers back, downing his glass then pouring himself another to finish just as quickly, “you can just call me your fortune tonight.”

             I try to remember how I even got here. I found a small business card on my doorstep after a long day of caring for my father with Dementia. He had spent the entire time telling me how I threw my football talents away to fail at writing and that it should have been me that was killed in the car accident instead of my brother. The same stuff he would tell me in drunken fits before delivering beatings and locking me in the cellar with all the spiders. He knew I hated spiders.

             After that, I put my father to sleep with an extra dose of medication and drove my car out to this bar in the middle of the fields without even thinking about it.

             “… the only time he is satisfied is when he’s on a drunk.”

             “Now Dennis,” the old man says after a third drink, “I am a man who makes old lives disappear in order for people like you to make new ones.” I start to wonder what he means by that, “Of course, I always need a payment for my work.”

             “Well, sir, I don’t have much money,” it pains me to say that. I had made the Dean’s list at college before having to drop out to help my father with his decaying mind.

             The massive giant of a person across from me laughs maniacally, “No, Dennis. I do not wish for money.”

             “Th- then what do you want?”

             “… Spend your lives in sin and misery…”

             “I want people, Dennis,” he replies, “I take the ones who have done you wrong and I give you wealth and happiness beyond your wildest dreams. I will give you the life you’ve dreamt about since your mother gave you your first book before she walked out on the family. All you have to give me is your father.”

             “My father?” I ask partially in shock, partially in curiosity.

             “Yes, Dennis, your father,” the stranger tells me, “your father joins me and you get to break yourself free of the bonds and live the easy fast track to best selling author and screenwriter.”

             “But… but what would you do with my father?” I ask, “He isn’t worth much anymore.” My dad had been a football star in high school and college before being the Golden Gloves boxing champion in the Marine Corps. Even with a failing brain and a withering body, he would still fight tough against me when his fits got too bad. I had many scars and bruises from a life of him being disappointed in me.

             “He would join the patrons at this bar, doing what he loved to do,” the man said, “he could drink and fight for eternity here. All you have to do is give him up and he will be mine and you will be free.”

             I start to picture it. Winning awards for writing- I had already done so my entire time throughout school- but I picture bigger better things. Bram Stoker awards, Number One Bestseller, movie rights, maybe even a Pulitzer Prize one day.

             “Yes, Dennis, it will all be yours,” he says he reads my thoughts- I know this for sure now, “So much more too. You will be the biggest thing since Stephen King- bigger. Your works will have more recognition than Fitzgerald, Rice, Dickens, anyone, Dennis.”

             The promise becomes almost tangible. Like reaching for a diamond ring that is out in the open. The keyboard in the song picks up tempo as the singer starts to belt the lyrics out.

             “I’ve got one foot on the platform, the other foot on the train!”

             Yes! Yes! Finally away from it all. Living life on my own terms for the first time ever. No more bonds of the past holding back my dreams and goals. It feels so wrong though.

             “This man prayed for you to die instead of his other son. The favorite. He called you all sorts of names before delivering beatings. Your own mother abandoned you to escape his wrath. You can reunite with her- even. Just give him the eternity he deserves.”

             My mind starts to race. It feels like a projection of feelings spinning around on one of those carnival rides that holds you to the wall through centrifugal force.

             “…it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy..!”

             “Yes!” I scream without realizing it, “Take him! Anything! Give me fame and wealth!”

             The man smiles and we shake hands to solidify the deal. My life will begin a journey to betterment when I wake up tomorrow I am told. I walk past the souls of people forever trapped in this bar.

             “…God, I know I’m one.”