Chapter 1

Above the bar the televisions are showing the game. But Frank is not watching them, he is hardly focusing. Outside, First Avenue is turning gray as rain pelts window panes. To live in Seattle, you have to love the rain. And Frank loved Seattle. And he also loved Jefferson’s. It was a home away from home. A sanctuary from the world outside, that had rejected him. Where the barman knew his name and every other drink was on the house. Finding company among brethren, each with their own pitiful tales of misery and despair.

The inclement weather outside mirrored the troubled thoughts inside his head. Mid-forties and discarded at the peak of his career. Tossed out as though he were a piece of trash. Unemployed. Pulled hopelessly towards the welfare line with each passing failed job application. Had the information age finally caught up with him? Or was it just another passing recession perpetuated by another punctured Ponzi scheme. The redundancy check would last a few months. Assuming he did not piss it away first.

“Fuck ‘em.” He cursed beneath his breath nostrils flaring with resentment.

He sighs heavily.

“You okay there, Frank?” Asked the barman looking up at him.

“Yeah, I’m good ...” he lied, “... nothing that another one of these won’t solve.”

“Coming up.” Said Tomo.

Tomo, the Shaman and High-Priest of the bar, dispensing absolution, and bourbon. The crazy glue that held Frank’s life together. Numbing his senses, dumbing his mind to whatever he was trying to forget. Or desperately cling on to. Deferring any dependency issues, until after the next drink. He stared into the short glass for an answer. As if he was searching for something. His dignity perhaps. The ice cube that embodied God rattled against the sides of Frank’s universe. The dark thoughts return, spurred by a rumble of thunder outside, quickly followed by a flash of lightning. It was going to be a dark day in the office. Old wounds were open. He took a hefty swallow to cauterize the bleeding. Telling himself to suck it up and get on with his life. If not for himself, then for his kids. He had drawn a line in the sand and had stepped over it. Hoping each day to find the strength to take one more breath. Take one more step. Forward. Towards something he was sure that out there. Just around the next corner. He could feel it.

The bourbon aromas revived him like smelling salts. Gulping it down. He contemplates another. With little thought he looks over to the barmaid.

“One for the road thanks Chelsea.” Frank raises the glass and rattles the pathetic remainder of God about the sides.

It would only be his fourth, or fifth for the day. It all depended on how you looked at it.

Not that he was counting. He had no place to be. It would numb his thoughts for another hour. Imagining a candle flickering in the darkness. Hope. He would not surrender to the darkness so easily. Something would turn up some. It had to. This was but a temporal blimp on the economic radar. A small tear in the fabric of his life. It would heal in time.

Chelsea pushes a drink a glass in front of him.

“Thanks Chelsea.” Raising the glass.

Taking a swallow of the elixir that had kept him medicated the past months. How long had he been?

‘Five, six, seven? ...’, he pondered.

After a year he would be seen as damaged goods. Some absences could be conveniently explained away as holidays. Time out. But sooner or later the reality could not be so easily buried. Just then a couple exited the bar to the safe haven of their vehicle. A gust of wind rushes into the bar as though to escape the foul weather outside. Sending a cold draft through past him. The icy air slapped his face, and he reaches for the drink for insulation. Heavy rain pelted the window panes. The log fire at the far end of the bar flared with flames. Cremating the remains of the draft that had crept inside. The day surrendering to the darkness. Headlights flash by outside. Frank became reluctant to leave the warmth and comfort of the bar that had cocooned him for much of the afternoon.

His mind searched for life lines if things turned for the worse. There was Tomo. Looking up to see him racking glasses. Working. Content with his lot. With life. There would a couch for if he needed one. But it would be a last resort.

His mind shifted to his father. Long deceased, but still a pillar in his life.

‘What would dad say? ...’, he thought to himself, ‘ ... toughen up, have another drink, it’ll work out in the end. It always does.’

Grinning, he took his advice.

The television commentary became agitated, catching everyone’s attention. Frank looks up to see a fight had broken out at an ice hockey match.

“What are the chances of that?” He asked, watching two opposing players throw off gloves begin hitting each other in the head.

As though it was some kind of primal mating ritual ice hockey players did to find mates. Referees stood back and allowed padded Neanderthals to punch the other senseless before eventually pulling them apart. With no apparent injury to each other. The game resumed as though the fight had never happened and the clock counted down the final seconds. Seattle T-Birds win as the final hooter blows. The crowd erupts in a frenzy of victory chants. Tomo flicks through the channels to find something to keep the bar’s few patrons entertained for a while longer. Bums in seats meant drinks in hands and money in his cash register.

“T-Birds won again ... they could go all the way this year ...”, Tomo predicted, “... I could put a fiver on them for you if you like ... they’ll be paying good odds.”

“Yeah, I’ll be in.” Accepted Frank, reaching for a wallet and pushing a five dollar note across the bar.

Looking about the bar, he sees a young couple near the log fire. Holding hands. Laughing and gazing into each other’s eyes. Their future full of hopes, trials, and tribulations.

‘Good luck to them.’ He thought, wondering why some people breezed through life effortlessly while others stumbled and fell?

Would he have done anything differently if he had his time again? No matter what he had done, the outcome would always have been the same. As though it was being scribed by a divine hand beyond his control and he was but an actor, in a play on a vast stage. That was quickly turning into a tragedy. What happened to the happy ever after.

On hearing a newspaper rustle behind him he turns about on his stool at the bar, sees a man sitting at a corner booth reading a newspaper. He had never really noticed the man before. Looking content with a red wine at hand. Seemly without a worry in the world. He tried to unravel the man’s profession. Sharp dark suit. Brief case. Black polished shoes. A business man passing through he thought. Stopping in for a drink before retiring for the evening. Then pondered if the man was unemployed, running on fumes like himself. Blending in like a chameleon with air of respectability. Frank found himself becoming cynical. His analytical mind could not help picking away at someone’s life.

‘Who am I to judge when my own life was in tatters?’ He thought.

Returning his gaze to the drink, the ice had melted, his tongue searching for the flavors that had become diluted and weak. The drink numbing the gloomy thoughts now receding to the crevices of his mind for a while. A warmth seeped into his bones. Inhaling deeply, and sighs heavily.

“You, okay?” Tomo asked looking over to him.

“Yeah ... a lot on my mind.” He admitted.

“You know there’s always work here if you want one … it isn’t much ... but it will keep you off the streets.”

“Thanks mate ... but I still have a few irons in the fire ... I appreciate the offer.”

Working bar and flipping burgers was a far cry from his former profession. If he had to bite the bullet, he would. It would have to be the last resort. Did he really have irons he had in the fire. He had money in the bank but knew the vultures would soon be circling. Assuming the credit card company and IRS did not get to him first. Feeling he was under attack from all sides wondered how long he could keep them at bay. Beggars could not be choosers. And minimum wage was not going to match his commitments. He needed real work and real money, real soon. Bills would erode the nest egg he had stashed away for a rainy day. And today was a very rainy day looking at the darkening windows. The sound of rain and traffic filtered inside. It was going to be a miserable drive home he thought.

Taking out a note book he runs his eyes down a scribbled list of recent job applications. Ranking each with stars as to their probable success. His celestial prospects were not looking good.

“Hmm.” He grumbled.

Did twenty years count for nothing. Was he too long in the tooth to compete with the younger generation. Had he gone past his use by date? His mind was still sharp, but he had to accept that he was getting old. He could feel it in his bones and flat-footed feet.

“I’m not dead yet … you don’t get me that easy.” Frank muttered to himself.

“You good over there?” Inquired Tomo overhearing him.

“Yeah, yeah … all good ... just thinking aloud?”

Sucking in a deep breath released a deep sigh and noticed his glass was empty.

“One more for the road… it looks shocking out there.”

“Seasons changing, be glad to see the back of this winter ... it’s been brutal.”

“You got to love the rain to live in Seattle.” Frank added.

“That’s what they say.” Pushing another glass in front of him, splashing an extra shot on top.

“One for the road Frank ... on me.”

“Thanks mate ... they all help.” Feeling a warmth of gratitude.

Tomo was alright. He valued people. Understood them. Bartenders were like clergy who tend to the lost sheep that have wondered from the path. Albeit from First Avenue. The bar was no more than an open confessional. Where sins are confessed, and hearts are laid bare. Redemption could be found at the bottom of a shot glass.

Instinctively Frank looked around and catches the man in the corner booth looking at him. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and a chill comes over him. Looking to the door wondering if someone had entered but remained closed. Frank wondered if the man knew him, but nothing registered. The corner of the man’s mouth rises with a subtle grin, then flicked the paper lightly and returned to reading it. Frank returned to his drink feeling a little confused.

Perhaps the man had overheard the conversation with Tomo. He appeared unobtrusive. A kindly sort of gentleman. Frank dismissed the man as a patron seeking sanctuary from the inclement weather outside. He had a bigger concern on his mind. Marilyn.

What to do with Marilyn? ...