Afterward

Dirk, sitting in his apartment, was hungry for a cigarette. He fished through his crushed pack.

“God-dammit.” It was empty.

“You okay?” Bronson looked up.

Dirk tore the empty pack’s cellophane into bits. “No I’m not okay,” he said through his teeth.

“I was a little worried last night,” Bronson said. “When I left, you were on your ass.”

Dirk recalled pieces of the evening. While draining his 400th beer or so, he had approached Jill at the pool table. After that, who knew? He had patchy memories of staggering around. And he awoke feeling like a truck was doing wheelies on his head.

“Gimmee a cigarette,” Dirk said. He doubted he’d get one. Bronson was a chain smoker but hadn’t bought a pack, probably, since he was 12. Instead, he bummed impudently. And here he was now. Sitting on Dirk’s carpet, about to smoke more of Dirk’s pot.

Bronson didn’t acknowledge the request. Apparently, it was too absurd. He leaned his head over Dirk’s coffee table. He placed a bong against his lips and inhaled. Filthy black water bubbled. Smoke rushed through the pipe’s stem and into Bronson’s throat. Bronson removed the bong from his lips, stifling a cough.

“I’m surprised you’re out,” Bronson said, smoke dripping from his nostrils. “Last night, seems I remember you had a whole pack.”

Dirk reached out, pulled the bong close. He placed a pinch of marijuana into the bowl.

Last night, they had gathered at Harvey’s. A bunch of people from work, celebrating Bronson’s birthday. The usual sort of excuse to get plastered. Dirk lit the bowl and inhaled.

“Seems there were a couple guys,” Dirk said, releasing smoke. “One looked just like you. The other looked just like Finbar, wearing his dopey shades. Kept bumming smokes from me. Of course maybe it wasn’t you. Maybe the tooth fairy came in and took ‘em.”

Late morning sunlight streamed through the blinds covering Dirk’s front window, brightening the room. Both young men squinted.

The room was thinly furnished. Piles of books were scattered along the walls. Dirk sat in a reclining chair that was one of the few items he had kept from his former house. Accordingly, the chair was a favorite spot. Music played at low volume in the bedroom nearby.

“How late you stay?” Bronson said.

Dirk shrugged. “Beats me.”

“Anyway,” Bronson said, “Finbar needs those shades. He has an eye condition.”

“My ass,” Dirk said.

“Finbar’s a nervous guy,” Bronson said. “Last night he was especially tense.”

Bronson pointed at the baggie of pot, and the bong.

“Be my fucking guest,” Dirk said.

Bronson reached for the bong. “Before we got to Harvey’s last night, we were at the movies,” he said. “We were standing in line. There’s a real pretty teenage girl behind us. Finbar’s checking her out. He thinks you can’t see through his sunglasses. So, he’s like two yards away from ‘er, he’s staring at her. Thinks people can’t see his eyes.”

It made Dirk think of work a couple of weeks ago. He’d been on his knees digging through a file drawer. A pair of bare legs entered his vision. They rose strikingly into a skirt. Dirk was taken by surprise. He was awestruck and stared with admiration. When he regained his senses, he toppled to his side in embarrassment. He lay for nearly a minute. When he finally dared look up, Jill had gone.

“Finbar’s staring at her and nodding,” Bronson said. “Making expressions like ‘Boy, ain’t this worth seeing.’ Like he’s looking at an elephant, or something.”

“Ha,” Dirk said. “What an idiot.”

“I’m like, ‘Hey Finbar. Settle down,’” Bronson said. “But there’s a dude, probably her dad. ‘Hey you dumb bastard,’ he says.

“He makes a fist,” Bronson said. “Finbar moves just in time. Leaves, starts walking down the street real fast. The guy goes after him. Finbar runs. After a couple seconds, the guy comes back all red talkin’ to himself.”

“Great story,” Dirk said. “Great. I’m proud to know you guys.”

They smoked more pot. Dirk’s mind drifted in a way that slowed time. His headache remained, but felt inconsequential. Now, the music sounded clear. Johnny Cash. I-fell-into-a-burning-ring-of-fire. Burn-burn-burn. The-flames-grew-higher.

Last night, Dirk hadn’t said much to Jill. How can you talk in these loud, crowded bars? He recalled watching her pace around the pool table, staring at a lineup of balls. Her long brown hair was in a ponytail. When she bent, she had a ways to go. She was a tall woman. Dirk intended to join her in a game. Was that a crime?

“I don’t get a cigarette,” Dirk said, “I’m gonna strangle someone.”

Bronson patted his pockets -- as if there was a chance! “Looks like I’m out too,” he said.

“What a surprise.” Dirk said. He stood. “Let’s go to Harvey’s. Get something to eat.”

Bronson rose from the floor. He groaned and arched his back. He tilted his head from side to side. Dirk heard a sharp crack.

“You know what sucks about getting old?” Bronson, in his late twenties, said.

Dirk walked into the other room and shut off the music. He was a couple of years older than Bronson. “What?”

“You’re going along,” Bronson said. “Then you realize, hey, I haven’t taken a crap in a while. You start counting the days. Someone told me once, ‘the older you get, the more you piss, the less you shit.’ I’m starting to believe it.”

Dirk grabbed a flannel shirt. He inserted a wallet and keys into his pants pocket. “Goddamn you,” he called. “Now you give me something else to worry about.”

Dirk’s apartment was on the first floor of a residential house. The house was near the bottom of a steep hill, fourth one in from a traffic light. Its small yard fronted a road fairly busy with traffic. As Dirk and Bronson stepped outside, the sunshine clobbered them like a fist.

A couple of cars passed by, one going down, one chugging up, sunlight shimmering off their hoods. The air smelled from a mixture of grass and motor exhaust. Dirk and Bronson stood for a few moments, stunned by the sun, weaving back and forth and chuckling.

Bronson’s car was parked behind Dirk’s in the driveway. Bronson indicated he would drive. He had a gray Honda Civic, three years old. The men climbed in. Bronson turned the ignition key, and the engine responded. He shifted into reverse gear. He grinned and nudged the gas pedal with moderate force.

The Honda rumbled backwards and collided with the front right fender of a Jeep waiting in the road for the light. The noise of the impact -- metal and glass coming together -- was startling. Bronson swore. Dirk shook his head. Inside the Jeep a man sat behind the wheel, rubbing his nose.

Bronson got out of the Honda and approached the Jeep. Dirk figured he would be supportive, and followed. A couple of cars, stuck behind the Jeep, honked. Bronson walked to the driver’s window. Dirk was about five yards behind him. Dirk saw that the damage was minimal -- a mild dent near the bottom of the Jeep’s fender, no apparent harm to the Honda. Still, this was a pain in the ass. Bronson reached the driver’s window and with an expression of hope on his face pointed inside, at a pack of Salems on the dashboard.

---

At Harvey’s, the owner was moving glasses behind the counter. He said, “I’m surprised to see you.”

Dirk sat on a stool next to Bronson. A couple of other men sat at the bar, eating and drinking. Behind them, a few women and men sat at tables. Two men played pool in the back.

“Why’s that?” Dirk said.

“After last night, didn’t think you’d be ambulatory,” Harvey said. He wore a green golf shirt and was middle-aged. “Never seen you like that before.”

Dirk looked at Bronson. “What?”

“Don’t look at me,” Bronson said.

Dirk pointed at Bronson. “This guy just rammed another guy’s car,” Dirk told Harvey. “Then had the nerve to bum a cigarette from him.”

Harvey laughed.

“It’s true,” Dirk insisted.

“Ham and cheese on rye,” Bronson said to Harvey. “And a Heineken.”

Dirk took out his wallet, placed it on the bar. “I’ll have the same. With a Diet Coke.”

Harvey went away. Dirk looked in his wallet. He had less cash than he remembered. He stared at a TV that sat on a shelf high in a corner, above a row of translucent liquor bottles. Baseball highlights flickered from the screen.

Harvey put their drinks in front of them. “So what happened?” Dirk said.

“You don’t remember?” Harvey said.

“Not with absolute precision.”

“After a lotta noise, you tried to climb on the pool table. You fell off. A couple guys helped you outa here. One of them was the guy, always wears shades.”

“Finbar,” Dirk said.

“Why’s he always wear them things for, anyway?” Harvey demanded.

“He has an eye condition,” Dirk said.

"You didn’t really wanna leave,” Harvey said. “They pretty much carried, dragged you.”

Dirk cringed. “Holy shit,” he said.

Later, Dirk stared at his sandwich. Chills ran along his back and settled in his stomach, depleting him. He put his face in his hands. “I think I’m cracking up,” he said to Bronson.

Bronson put down his green-tinted beer bottle. He placed a hand on Dirk’s shoulder. He clapped Dirk on the back. “Nah. You’ll be fine.”

Dirk felt tears and wiped them away with a fingertip. He blinked at the row of liquor bottles whose colors kept shifting slightly under the wavering TV lights.

---

Late that afternoon, Bronson returned to Harvey’s. Finbar was with him. They sat next to each other on stools in the nearly empty bar. Bronson rubbed his hands together to convey happiness.

“Yeah, I think we’ll get to see this movie, this time ‘round,” he said to Harvey. “Looking forward to it. That is, if certain people can behave.” He looked at Finbar with mock annoyance. “Shot of Dewar's, and a beer.”

“Whisky and water,” said Finbar.

Harvey stared at Finbar’s sunglasses. “How’s your car?” he asked Bronson.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Insurance companies are looking into it, and shit. Not much damage. You could look at it in a certain way and say it was my fault, though. I have to admit that. Got a cigarette?”

“No.” Harvey started to walk toward the liquor bottles, then stopped.

“I almost forgot,” the bartender said. “Your buddy. Guy was in here earlier. What’s his name.”

“Dirk.”

“Dirk. Yeah.” Harvey held up a wallet, placed it on the counter. “Left this behind."

“I opened it to be sure whose it was,” Harvey said. “Couldn’t help noticing.” Harvey flipped open the wallet. There was a small black and white photograph of Dirk grinning. His arm was around a woman, who stood close. The woman had long dark hair, a long oval face and a pretty smile. Harvey, Bronson and Finbar hunched over, studying the image.

“It’s none of my business,” Harvey said. “But they were making a commotion last night. I thought he was hitting on her. So I couldn’t help but wonder.”

“It’s Jill,” Finbar said. “She works with us. We all work together.”

“They were married,” Bronson said. “Divorced maybe two, three months ago.”

Harvey nodded and handed the wallet to Bronson.

“He’s had, ya know, trouble dealing with it,” Bronson said.

Guess so,” Harvey said. He walked to the liquor bottles, turned up the volume on the TV and began mixing drinks. The early news blared through the large, empty room as Bronson and Finbar stared quietly again at the small photograph for a moment.

THE END

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