Here is a short story I wrote a couple of years ago and included in a recent zine.
The Bar at Purgatory
You push through the doors and for a moment are standing in darkness. There is a gust of wind as the doors swing closed, and your eyes begin to adjust. Shapes emerge. In front of you is a dimly-lit bar, beautiful wood that curves through the room, with torn, red plastic stools and a short row of taps.
You sit and nod to the bartender and he slides across a beer and a shot. You didn’t order, but it’s what you would have. Have you been here before?
The jukebox is just background noise, not a song only a presence, and no television, just that midday hum common to dives where the patrons have nowhere to be and nothing to say.
“Thanks,” you say, and the bartender nods back. The napkins and coasters all say “God’s Bar,” and so you ask the question.
“Are you God?”
The bartender just gives a half smile and shakes his head. He’s heard the joke before, of course, twice already from you, but he acquiesces and tilts his head slightly, indicating a dark corner of the room.
“That’s the owner,” he says, motioning towards a man sitting by himself holding a newspaper.
“God reads the news?”
“That’s the racing form. He likes to bet.”
“Seems like he’d have an advantage.”
“You’d think, but he says the bookies are pretty good.”
You shrug and sip your beer, the cold bubbles soothing the back of your throat. You drink the whiskey. It’s nothing special but it doesn’t burn too badly and so you order another.
You turn around on your stool and examine the narrow room. The bar itself is scratched and scarred but appears well cared for. It is a long, dark wooden bar that doesn’t end so much as disappears off into the shadows. There are a few other people, two men and a woman, and they are all sitting alone. No one appears interested in conversation, just a place to wait out the day.
“So what’s God drinking?”
“Daiquiris.”
“Seriously?”
“He changes it up, but he does have some strange orders. Most days though, it’s just a beer.”
You peer into the darkness, trying to make out the man’s face.
“How long have you been working here?”
“Longer than you’d believe.”
You look around and nod. The place is familiar. “I’ve been here before,” you say, to no one in particular but the bartender notices.
“That’s right,” he says.
You shrug, playing it off, but you don’t remember this place. It is only the overwhelming sameness, beyond anything possible in anonymity or newness, which makes it so apparent. But you don’t recall; can’t remember. Where were you just before?
“I don’t remember,” you say, now speaking to the bartender. He’s listening.
“It’s fine,” he says. “You don’t have to.”
But you want to remember. Then, you feel you should remember. And suddenly there is the overwhelming need.
“When was I here last?”
“Does it matter?”
Does it? It feels like it does, the gnawing in your gut like waking up after a long drunk, memories with hazy spots that finally turn to darkness: What happened? Where were you?
“It seems like it should matter. I just don’t remember.”
The bartender puts down his towel and turns, serious. “You won’t. I have the only memory in this place, and trust me, it’s overrated.”
You finish your drink and look around. Other shapes lean over the bar, drinking their own. The bartender asks if you want another.
“Same thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe it’s time for something new?”
“Pour me something.”
The bartender hesitates. “You sure?”
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“It’s strong.”
“Good. Something to wake me up.”
The bartender turns and begins mixing, hands moving deftly, practiced. It is a simple drink, over ice, and looks like something you’d want on a hot summer day. You sip, and it is slightly sweet but in the place where you expect the alcohol, instead there is a lightness and purity that washes over the back of your tongue and into memories long forgotten.
You drink the drink in one long, refreshing gulp, feeling it wash over all the scars of a life gone by and as you reach the bottom, sucking on the ice cubes like a kid searching for the last drop of soda, you are free.
