The Man

Part I: Dave’s Diner

Pellets of rain pounded on the windows. The constant drumming on the glass was broken only by sporadic claps of thunder. It was dismal and dreary, with barely any life to be found within miles of the solitary diner. A tiled floor of shockingly black and boldly white squares lay beneath the cushioned, crimson seats of the diner’s booths. I sat across from these, at the bar.

Dave’s Diner was mostly quiet, beyond the dirty rag being rubbed squeakily along a clean countertop. To my right and left were nothing but empty stools, embedded into the floor. My fingers were wrapped around the handle of my coffee cup, ready to lift, but patiently awaiting the right time for another sip.

“This is my ex-wife's favorite place,” I said in the least subtle manner possible. I wanted to talk to someone about the divorce, but something like that doesn't just come up naturally.

“Ex?” the man behind the bar, Ronny, prodded. “Thought you two were goin’ strong.”

“Same here, Ron,” I said, punctuating that statement with a sip of coffee. 

“Did she tell ya why?” he asked absentmindedly, furtively rubbing an already pristine spot on the bar.

“Nah, she didn't tell me nothin’,” I said flatly. Ronny scoffed.

“Ya see, that’s the thing about women, yeah? Ya see, they’re always gettin’ up in yer face for sum’m and--”

“Actually,” I said, cutting Ronny off. It was irritating that he was interjecting his own opinions. I just wanted to vent to someone. “Yeah, she did tell me somethin’,” I began. “She said that I’m a selfish, no-good, sleezebag. Can ya believe that?” I informed him, before taking another sip of my coffee. I can believe it, I thought. If I were to ever stop and evaluate myself, I’d see that she was right. My job always came first, and naturally I’d become convinced that I was working for the good of our relationship. I had believed that paying for meals and trips for us was more important than my presence. That was part of the reason I had come to Dave’s Diner. I wanted to find out if I was in the wrong, just to prove to myself that I had been a good guy. After telling Ronny about my wife’s reasoning behind leaving me, he stopped wiping and looked at me for the first time in a while.

“You kiddin’ me?” he half-shouted.

“Nope.”

“Diane. Said that. About you?” he asked, punctuating his sentence in random locations.

“Yep,” I confirmed.

“Well… I had no idea she was such a ragin’ whore.”

It was then I realized I hadn’t painted the best image of my ex-wife. Ronny had probably never cared to pay much attention to my marriage with Diane. Even if he had, all he would have seen was the fighting and yelling for the moribund stage of our relationship, since it was all I’d ever brought to him. Not many people ramble about what makes them happy.

“Alright, Ron, go easy on her, will ya?” I said, trying to strike a perfect balance between sounding like I cared, without sounding like I was ready to defend her honor with my life. It seemed I had chosen incorrectly, however, because Ronny threw his towel on the counter and his jaw hung open. His gawking expression threw me off, I hadn't anticipated this reaction.

“Why, you son of a-- you’re still in love with her, ain’tcha?” 

“What? Well, I don't… I mean…” I sputtered. I realized the error of talking to Ronny about this. He sits in this plain diner, talking to the same handful of people each day. He listens day in and day out, so when he finally gets a juicy piece of drama, tender and fatty and dripping with flavor, he sinks his canines into it and won't let go. That wasn't what I needed right now. I needed to talk things out, not be interrogated and psychoanalyzed. 

Thankfully, before having to answer Ronny’s moral dilemma of a question, something happened to distract both of us momentarily. A man walked into the bar. He was dowdy, and wore a black trenchcoat slick with rain, which was draped over his body. His hair was messy, and despite the wetness plastering it to his head, was evidently once quite shaggy. He stalked across the room, shoes squeaking and filling the quiet diner with their pervasive high-pitched shrieks. Of all the stools in the diner, he chose the one next to me. He dropped his sopping wet arms to the bar and a droplet of rain flicked onto my cheek. 

“What can I getcha?” Ronny asked him.

“Out of this town,” the man said distantly. 

Ronny nodded and turned around to begin wiping down a shelf behind him. I tilted my gaze to the right, cocking my head at the new arrival. It wasn't often a new customer waltzed into Dave’s Diner. I could spin around with my eyes closed, hand outstretched and finger poised, and more often than not, I could tell you the life story of the patron on which it landed. 

The man kept his head sunken beneath his shoulders, staring at his own lap. I eyed him up and down. He seemed like he’d be precisely the quiet listener I needed for my problems with Diane. I brainstormed for a good opener.

“In my professional opinion, you look like garbage,” I told him. I hoped a little comedy would turn him around. He gave a quick exhale of laughter out of his nose. He looked up at me with the face of a man who wished to smile, but couldn't. He looked softly at me, with one hazel eye, and one light gray.

“Thanks. I know it sounds dumb, but your professional opinion was really helpful just now.”

“I ain't no therapist,” I told him.

“You don't need to be.”

“How so?” I prompted, taking a sip of my coffee and wondering approximately how much I needed to listen to him before I could discuss my ex-wife. I checked my watch. It was roughly 9:32. I figured that 9:34 would be a good time to switch topics.

“Well… I don’t know. Sometimes, whenever you need help, you find it in weird places.”

“Help? Whatcha need help for?” I wondered, thinking that five more questions would be enough.

“Nothing, I guess.”

“That ain't no answer. I like answers. Hey, Ronny!” I called. “Let’s get this man a coffee, on me.” I figured a hot cup could ease his nerves, make him forget his problems, and lower my time down to three questions before I could speak.

“No, really, you don't have to do that,” he told me.

“I know the coffee here is overpriced, but don’tcha worry, it’s no sweat off my back.”

“You don't need to waste your money on me,” the man said. It felt less like he was trying to coerce me, and more like he was begging me.

“We can sit here and bicker all night, but either way, Ronny’s comin’ back with some coffee. Now, I already got a cup. So, you can drink the cup he brings, or you can let it go cold.”

The man was silent. He offered up a thank you, but the vague cheeriness I’d heard surfacing in his voice as we talked had receded again. 

“You don't spend money on a dead man,” he whispered to himself.

“Yeah ya do. Coffins? Funerals? Memorial services?”

“I suppose,” he mumbled. Another silence followed. It was painful. I figured I didn't owe this man any more conversation. 

“Yer in a sorrier state than me, when my ex-wife broke my heart,” I said confidently. The man moaned in response. Not knowing how to take that, I continued.

“Diane, was her name,” I began. The man stood up.

“Thank you for the… conversation,” he said through a clenched jaw. He spun on his heel and I heard the squeaks as they receded back out into the torrential downpour outside of Dave’s Diner.

“Wow, he sure was a tool, wudn’t he?” I inquired of Ronny. 

Part II: The Raise Your Spirits Liquor Shoppe

Just a few more minutes until closing time, I told myself. The storm raged outside as it had been for hours on end. I stood behind my register, hands on the countertop and fingers drumming incessantly. I kept glancing back at the clock, looking for when we would close up shop. This wasn't because I was anxious to leave, but in fact, I was praying for another customer. I was good at one thing, and one thing alone, and that was selling alcohol. 

After an unholy number of hours, the doors flung open and a dowdy man stepped through. He was dripping with rain, leaving a puddle under himself. He looked like a walking corpse. His head was hung low, his movements sluggardly and trudging as if wading through waist-deep mud. His shoes squeaked on the floors, wet with rainwater, as he made his way over. When he finally stalked his way up to the counter, snagging a bottle of vodka without even glancing at it, I could see his eyes. They were two different colors; one hazel, and one gray. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” I asked cheerfully, seeing the unwavering sadness in his eyes.

“Horrible,” he stammered, sounding choked up. I turned the bottle over in my hands, the liquor he was about to purchase. It was a low-end brand called “Otchayanie”.

“You know, you should really go for Vozrozhdeniye,” I told him, pointing to one of the fancier and more expensive bottles. “That’s where the real fun begins.”

“I don't have fun, and I’m not looking to taste it,” he said solemnly. Once again, I had no real response to this, so I continued with the sale.

“Is this all you’re getting?” I asked.

“A good final drink,” he claimed, nodding.

“Final drink? Are you going on some sort of diet? Sobriety pact, maybe?”

“I don’t know,” he responded.

“Well, if it’s a party you’re throwing,” I began. “I’d suggest a couple of lighter drinks to start with, then ease your way up to the big guys like this,” I said, gesturing to the vodka in my hand. 

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not throwing a party. I’m running.”

“Running?”

“I need to get out of this town. Away from these people, from this darkness.”

“Darkness…” I repeated, utterly confused. “You mean the nighttime? You don't have to run for that, you just have to wait it out!” I said helpfully, stuffing the bottle into a brown paper bag for him.

“The darkness always comes back. There’s no point in waiting. I’d rather just be done with it.”

“No matter where you go, nighttime will happen,” I said, still perplexed by the man’s vague wording.

“That’s what I’m afraid of…” he mumbled, barely comprehensible.

“Except some funky places like Alaska, I hear! They got, like, 20 hour days up there! Only 4 hours of nighttime! Or, maybe I have that backwards…” I trailed off, unsure of myself now, and unsure of how to liven this man’s spirits. I rang the man up, and he handed me a 100 dollar bill. I went to open the register and give him his change, but he turned and squeaked his way out of the shop. He didn't push open the glass doors, he fell into them shoulder-first and heaved them open with his body weight, seeming incapable of lifting his arms. His whole body seemed heavy, as if filled with sand. 

I wondered what was up with him. He seemed to have been having a bad day. Nothing a bottle of good vodka can’t fix! I thought to myself. I heard the engine in his car start up as his headlights pulled out of my parking lot. The clock struck 10 PM, and it was time to close up shop. I’m a little put out, I thought. None of my usual sales tactics worked on the man. His day must have been truly tough, I told myself consolingly.

Part III: Hines’ Underpass

Where in the Hell is this guy? I thought angrily. I stood beneath the underpass, cars zooming overhead. I stood comfortably in the darkness, under the security of the road above. The rain dumped from the sky all around me, claps of thunder and lightning peppering the peaceful ambience. My hands were pressed tightly to my jacket pockets, inside of which were hundreds of dollars worth of sleeping pills. I checked my burner flip phone one more time. It was nearly 11 PM, almost half an hour past our 10:30 meeting time. Seeing that he hadn't messaged me in over an hour, I decided to call it quits. I ruffled the beanie on my head, sniffled deeply, and before I could take a step, I heard a voice.

“Wait… don't leave yet. I’m here,” it mumbled. 

“Ayo, don’t be hidin’ in the shadows like dat’!” I called out to him.

“You’re right… I’m so, so sorry…” he murmured. As he stepped closer, I could see he was a dowdy looking man. He wore a black trenchcoat, which was very inconspicuous for a drug deal. His hair was matted, and there was water running down his face. Whether the streams pouring down his face had their origins in the storm or from his heterochromatic eyes-- one brown, one gray-- I could not tell. But either way, I didn't really care.

“Hey, don't be upset, yo. I’m just messin’. C’mon, smile more!” I said with tattooed arms outstretched in an emphatic gesture. The man said nothing. He simply continued to stare. Not at me, mind you. And not even at the ground, where his head was angled. He seemed to be staring through the floor, his mind so far removed from reality. He’s probably just tripping already, I thought to myself. This kind of behavior wasn't unfamiliar to me, I figured it was probably mushrooms or LSD. I assumed it could be why he was late to our meet-up, as well. 

“Well, you got the cash?” I asked, seeing that this man was straight down to business. Wordlessly, he pulled out his wallet, and handed me thousands of dollars in cash. 

“Woah, woah, I don’t need all this, man,” I said, desperately wanting to snag it and run.

“It’s yours. I don't care anymore. I’m running away from here, and where I’m going, stuff like that doesn't matter,” he said. I reached into my pockets and slipped out the bags of pills, which he took from me as he promptly turned and stalked away, out from the underpass and back into the rain.

“You just come into some money? You like Heisenberg or somethin’?” I called after him, but to no avail. He stepped out from the murky blackness of the underpass and into the raging rainstorm that was striking the ground in perpetuity. 

Part IV: Denouement Park 

My hands seemed ghostly as they clutched the steering wheel. I shot down the roads, slick with rain from the storm overhead. The bottle of Otchayanie vodka and the endless supply of sleeping pills rattled in the passenger seat next to me. I was racing toward the only place I knew that would be safe. Away from the things chasing me, away from my problems, away from the darkness. I was headed to Denouement Park.

I came to a stop in the gravel parking lot. The large bear statue glared down at me judgingly, but I was done acknowledging what others had to say. The skies thundered above me, and the time on my dashboard struck 12 AM right as I shut off the car. My headlights died and the grass which had been illuminated eerily had vanished, absorbed and consumed by the darkness, just like I had become. 

With the bottle of vodka and bags of pills in hand, I worked my way over to my favorite tree. It had low hanging branches. The neighborhood kids often sat in them, climbing up and down, playing silly games with one another. I had done the same as a child, too. A wooden picnic table sat directly below one of these branches. This was my destination. I just had to keep my feet moving, as I yanked them along, each step painfully slow, my entire existence, my every molecule being weighed down by a ball and chain. 

I sat on top of the table, the wood was sopping wet against my already soaked clothing. Originally, my trenchcoat had taken the brunt of the storm, but eventually, the water had seeped through it all, making it to my jacket, my overshirt, my undershirt, and deep into my bones and every fiber of my being. I clutched the bottle and bags, my heart pounding. I could feel it in my throat, trying to jump out of me. But I wanted it inside, I wanted it to die with me. I felt numb, I felt empty, and I needed to fill myself with cheap alcohol and out-of-date prescriptions.

Part V: Somewhere

The next morning rolled around. His body lay on the table, appearing to be resting peacefully. The golden glow of sunlight was cast upon Denouement Park. Families would walk past, keeping their children close, assuming him to be a drunk homeless man. They were unaware of the horror hidden beneath that permanent smile, his first one in ages. Finally, his pain was over, and the darkness was gone. But, so was everything else. So many conversations the previous night, each one having the potential to save a life. And yet, his body still sits on the picnic table. You stop to ask why these things have to happen. Truthfully, they don’t. There are no parameters, no guidelines stating what has to happen. Every plan can be changed. And yet, Henry died all the same.