At the bar

Ok, this is another one from a prompt. I was a little bored... so I thought, why not write something. I got it from

http://creativewritingprompts.com.

It's number 58, if you're curious. It's a little cheesy, I guess... and I also don't have any idea where I want to go from here, or even if I want to continue the story, so it's a beginning with no end. Let me know what you think.

# 58

The bar is sticky. I can actually see gelatinous rings of residue from the too-many beers and the dried-up puddles of mystery liquid. My water sits sweating in front of me. I watch another bead roll down the long, foggy glass towards the dark surface of the bar.

I’m not drinking that.

There are dusty motes floating in it and I shudder to think how many mouths have touched that glass before mine. I run a finger down the side of the glass and almost expect it to come away grimy, but it doesn’t. I don’t know why I agreed to meet here.

That’s not true.

I know perfectly well why I agreed to meet here. I came because I wanted to see my dad again. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But when he called and asked me to meet him….

I’ll be honest. I probably would’ve gone anywhere.

On some level, I know I shouldn’t be here. I mean, the man walked out on us when I was eight. I should be furious, shouldn’t I?

But I’m not.

Really, I just want to see him. Even now, fifteen years later, I’m still the eight-year-old girl bringing home gold stars and misshapen pottery. Trying to make him proud.

I turn the glass around on the counter, leaving yet another water stain on the dark wood.

I know he’s not coming. Like he even gives a shit about me.

I’ll give him five more minutes, I think, promising myself and trying to cling to my dignity. I’ve already given him fifteen years. Why the hell not give him five minutes?

I’m not alone in the bar. I guess this place wouldn’t stay open if it didn’t have customers. I can hear a handful of old men playing pool in the dim back room and there are a couple of sallow-faced guys scattered around me on bar stools.

So far no one’s approached me other than the bartender.

He made a face when I ordered the water. Well, maybe he made a face. I can’t tell if he always looks like that. So far, everyone has kept their distance. The footsteps rattling against the wooden floor behind me come as a surprise.

Maybe it’s him?

I plant a smile on my face and turn around.

It’s not him. I’m not sure I would recognize him after all this time, but the man lurching toward me does not bear even a shadow of resemblance to my memories of my father.

The green military jacket hangs on him like a blanket and his dirty gray-and-white streaked hair is a strange halo around a creased and unshaven face. I can see the holes in his shoes from here and it’s hard to tell what color his pants were initially. They’re a strangely mixed grey now.

It’s not him. I’m praying. Please let it not be him.

I can smell him, a mixture of unwashed flesh and garbage, as he bangs into the bar stool next to mine.

“Hiya Janie,” he slurs, plonking his mostly empty bottle of beer onto the bar next to my water.

I let out the breath that I was holding. Thank God. It’s not him. I almost smile, but I choke on another whiff of homeless hobo instead.

“My name is not Janie,” I tell him, trying to avoid eye contact. “I don’t know you.”

What else do you say to a crazy man?

“Sure you do,” he says, grinning. I try not to flinch as he claps me on the back. “Like I wouldn’ recognize ya here, when I seen ya drinking here every Friday night since you was old enough to get a fake id.”

I turn to face him and try to make it as clear as possible.

“I don’t know you. My name isn’t Janie. It’s Margaret. Leave me alone.”

I move over to the next bar stool but he slides over next to me.

“I don’ know why yer bein’ so hostile, Janie,” he slurs. “You know, just the other day, I ran into Old Pete and he asked how you was doin.’ An’ I told him, I says, next time I sees you, I’ll see if I can get you to do yer broken glass trick. You still remember how to do that?”

He’s leaning closer to me and I can see the light gleaming off of his crazy black eyes.

“I don’t know any tricks. I’m not Janie. Leave me alone!”

I pick up my purse and move to the other end of the counter, hoping he won’t follow.

I can hear him before I see him. He moves with a strange, lurching staccato and I hear the beat of his feet against the floor.

Suddenly, he’s close. I can smell him. I shudder a little as he looks me up and down and I feel his glance almost like a touch on my skin.

And now his face is inches from mine. His eyes are sharp and they are looking directly into mine.

“He’s not coming,” the man tells me. His voice is solid. There’s no slur in it now and I notice that there’s no alcohol on his breath. “He’s not coming for you and you’ll never see him again.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he whips around, marching out of the bar with a speed I didn’t think possible in such an old man. I’m right behind him, clicking along in my heels as fast as I can. He beats me out the door and it’s another second before I’m out, chasing him into the blinding sunlight.

It’s another block before I can get close to him.

“What was that supposed to mean?”

He turns around and looks at me, army jacket billowing in breeze like a cape. He smiles at me and I see rows of pearly white teeth grinning from a dark face. Not at all the toothless grin I expected.

“You’ll find out,” he says.

And then he’s gone.