Old man

Jack was slouched over the bar with his ass hanging for dear life on the old stool. There was barely any life at all in the place, just a few of the regulars tucked away at the corners, shying away to their usual crevices. In a place like this, Jack thought, you could just disappear in a matter of seconds. All it’d take would be four or five drinks tops, and then you’d be seeking refuge from your own despair in some dilapidated corner booth. Christ this place could just suck the blood out of ya. Hanging along the walls were old rock band posters, most of which were peeling off of the wall. They were posters of bands that no one who ever came into that bar would have ever listened to. Bands like Anthill March, Chicken Noodle Soup Tyrade, and The Shins, of which they had a signed poster tucked away in back, barely visible underneath the Johnny Cash poster, which is more popular among the locals. It was a slow night, but then again, it’s always a slow night in the small town. Jack was trying to decide whether he wanted another beer or if he wanted to go take a piss first. He opted for the beer.

Just then, an elderly man, dressed in old, worn denim, came in dragging his muddy boots like they were the world’s burden. He eased into the stool next to Jack’s, despite having nearly every other seat to choose from in the bar. Jack didn’t even show any indication of noticing the old man’s existence; he just kept his gaze down on his beer.

The old man took off his weather beaten cap, so used you couldn’t even be sure whether it was once a cap for a football team or Chevron. He set it down between him and Jack, and ordered his drink in a hoarse whisper. In all of the bar, there wasn’t a word said, those who were there didn’t need to utter many words to each other, they’d known each other too long to waste their time on casual conversation. The old man shifted a little bit on his stool, trying to find a comfortable position to settle into his drink. He looked over at Jack, then around the bar at the various posters. Even the rock stars in the posters had a somber attitude. He could just picture the scene when they took the picture.

“Alright, there, now for this shot, just look at those mountains behind the camera and pretend you’re bored out of your fucking mind.”

“You sure that’s what people like?”

“I swear, the more bored you look in your poster, the more fucking famous you’ll be. Now stop talking and give me jaded…”

The old man chuckled a bit at the scene playing out in his head. He shook his head and continued his visual tour of the bar. He looked at the old broken juke box along the back wall, and wondered how old it was. It was a small game he’d played recently for himself. He’d look at something, and try to guess whether or not he was older than it. He looked back down to his drink and finished it off in a quick gulp. I’m probably fucking older, he thought.

“Hey, buddy,” he called over to the bartender.

“Yeah,” the bartender responded. He kept his gaze on the glass he was patiently wiping. He’d wipe, inspect, then wipe again, going through this cycle a few times for every glass.

“Just how old is that there juke box, buddy?”

“Not sure,” the bartender said. “That pile of scrap’s been here before I started working here. And that’s about at least ten years.”

“I see,” the old man said. He continued, “Well, if you had to put a number to it, ‘bout what would it be? Thirty, fifty, sixty?”

“Huh…” the bartender said, this time putting down the glass and looking at the old man. “Sir, I really don’t know. I couldn’t say…”

“Just put a number to it, just guess for chrissake.”

“What the hell do you care?” Jack asked. He looked up from his beer and sternly looked over at the old man. “Just what the hell do you care, seriously? It’s late buddy, not everyone wants to play your game.”

“I see, I see,” the old man said. He slowly picked up his cap and started walking back towards the juke box. Ignoring what Jack said, he continued, “You see, they just don’t make things the way they used to. You see, times sometimes change so fast you’ve gotta sometimes hang on to whatever you can. And sometimes, when you’re flailing for a hold, the only thing you catch is goddamn pile of junk just because it was made around the same time you were. I’m in a different country, kid, in a different era. I’m a foreigner in the fullest sense of the word, and, well, I’m just flailing for something that I recognize.” As he said this, we began to walk towards the door.

Jack, heavily turnin on his stool to face the old man, said, “Just hang on there, bud. If you’ve gotta know I remember my dad talking about that juke box working when he was teenager. That’d put it around sixty years old, at least. Why don’t you just come back in here, have another drink. I didn’ mean to ‘fend ya or anythin’.”

The old man stood by the door way, propping the door open with his foot. He looked outside, into the desolate city streets. From where he was he could see the yellow caution light blinking on and off, on and off. “Damn it I was right. Don’ stress over it, buddy, you’ve been much friendlier than some folks I’ve come across in my day. I better get moving, thanks anyways.”

Before Jack could say a word, he was left looking at the shut door the old man briskly walked out of. “Jeremy,” he said, turning back around and facing the bartender, “I’ve decided. I’m gonna take a piss.”