Yard Dog and Snow by Randy Cockrell
I drafted this story in the middle of National Novel Writing Month. I had Johnny Cash’s song, Sunday Morning Going Down, rolling through my brain and this story just demanded to be written. There is the occasional swear word. You’ve been warned.
John rolled out of bed and landed on the floor, tangled in the sheet, on his hands and knees. He glared at the digital clock covered in cigarette ash. Eleven twelve. Damn. I’m gonna be late. His mouth tasted like the floor of the dive bar he frequented and his breath smelled worse. He struggled to his feet, fighting the stinking, sweat soaked sheet. He needed to be on time.
In the cubicle the apartment manager generously called a bathroom, John used his sprung toothbrush to hack at his teeth. Toothpaste was long gone and baking soda had never entered the apartment. Water would have to do. After looking at his bloodshot eyes and scraggly beard he splashed his face with water and with the last sliver of bar soap, scrubbed his face and dragged the year old razor over his face. He emerged from the bathroom, bits of toilet paper stuck to cuts on his sunken cheeks and chin.
He staggered to the broken chest of drawers. They were all open to some degree or other. None of them closed all the way. John suspected the dresser had been made in 1920 and experienced a life much like his own, broken and desperate. Not a single drawer held a clean shirt or clean anything for that matter. He rummaged through the pile of clothes kicked into the far corner of the room. From the middle of the pile he selected his cleanest dirty shirt. The clothes rack next to the pile held a hanger with two ties, dirty and dirtier. He picked the dirty one and hung it around his neck.
John stumbled down the stairs. He did not want to be late. On the way he stopped at a corner store and bought a travel size mouthwash. While walking along the sidewalk he bit off the safety plastic, unscrewed the top and swigged the alcohol tasting stuff into his mouth. He spit it into the gutter, ignoring the gasps and comments of the church-going passers-by.
Fuck them, he thought. He was going to see his only son. The wreaths on the lamp poles and silver garland in the shop windows were ignored. His son had called him, said he wanted to meet. John wasn’t going to miss that, no matter what.
The bank sign across the street said eleven fifty eight. John spit on his hands, smoothed his hair back and straightened his tie. Before he gripped the tavern door handle, he took a deep breath. His son said to meet him here, at noon. John opened the door and stepped inside.
It was a good old-fashioned bar. John could tell as soon as he took a breath. If it wasn’t 2014 there’d be sawdust on the floor. He looked around the dim room. Cool and inviting, there were only a few men in the room. Most sat at the bar, but one was in a booth. He walked to the booth.
“Jim?” he asked the guy.
The man looked up at him. This couldn’t be his son, he was too old. “No, I’m Sam.”
John shook his head and stared at the men at the bar. “Jim?” he called out. No one turned. He walked up to the bartender who was reading a paper. “I’m meeting my son, Jim. He been in yet?”
The bartender put down his paper and eyed John. “No, no one by that name today.”
John felt a flush of panic. It was noon. “I’m supposed to meet my son. Jim. Today.” He grasped the rounded wooden edge of the bar. “You haven’t seen him?”
The bartender folded his paper and glared. “Nope, no Jim.”
John walked down the row of men on stools, grabbing them and turning them so he could see their faces. He rushed back to the end of the bar where the bartender stood, hand under the bar top.
“Are you sure? I was supposed to meet him here. I’m John Delancy. He’s Jim. Jim Delancy.”
From the end of the bar an old man spoke. “Hey, Mike. Don’t you have a letter under there? I remember it.”
The bartender rubbed the two day rubble on his face. “Maybe. Let me look.” He rummaged under the bar for a minute until he pulled a small box out onto the bartop. “I may have something.” He shuffled the bits. From the bottom he pulled up a tattered, dirty envelope. He peered at the writing. “It’s to John Delancy.”
John leaned forward. Hope and eagerness filled his face. “That’s me!”
“You got ID?”
Stunned, John hesitated. “Uh, yeah.” He fumbled his wallet out of his inner sport coat pocket. The coat was shiny with dirt and sweat. He unfolded his wallet and pulled out a driver’s license, fifteen years out of date, and handed it to the bartender. “That’s me! Right there.”
The bartender looked at it and handed over the envelope. John ripped it open and nearly tore the letter as he pulled it out. It took him a second to open it. He spread it out on the the bar and squinted at it in the dim light.
Pa.
I expected as much. You just couldn’t keep our appointment. I thought you might change. I hoped you might change, now that there’s a grandson. How stupid could I be? I give up. You’ll never change. We’ll get along without out you, we always have.
Jim
John read the letter again and again. He finally looked at the very top, it was dated December 12th, 2013. He slumped onto the nearest bar stool. His face sagged. “Bar keep.”
“Yeah,” the man called from the other end of the bar.
“Beer.”
The End
950 Words
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