late night brewskies

copyright ©1997,2019 arden henderson

Outside, autumn leaves floated down on the Old City Grill deck tables and chairs. A cold wind whistled through Old City in downtown Knoxville. The sky was exceedingly dark, a low overcast with subtle city light cloud reflections. The hour was late. The wee hours were well underway. Last call had happened a little over an hour before. Last call in Knoxville was much later than Austin, Texas.

The old man was allowed to stay, to warm his usual bar stool at his usual place at the bar with one of his favorite stouts. Lights were subdued across Old City Grill. Dark shadows were everywhere. Chairs were neatly stacked upside down on the tables. Except for some of the staff still cleaning, the old man was the only one left. It was as usual.

She walked up beside him. He had been aware of her presence. He had known when she walked out of the video game machine and pool room.

The 3D immersion games were still in place, just like when they were moved in five, maybe six, years before. The pool tables, now on their fifth refurbishing, were like new. Games of those early days – Area 51, SoulEdge, the quickdraw six-shooter game (it never seemed to reliably holster), the jet ski simulator, Project 485, the others – all gone long ago. He still played SoulBlade, the console version of SoulEdge.

She moved just like he remembered, like a cat on the prowl, across the dark carpet floor. She made no sound and appeared as if smoke. He didn’t have to look to know she was beside him.

The bartenders cleaning up behind the bar paid her no attention. They were the fourth wave. Except for a few of the long-time staff (now owners), ones he had known from the early times had moved on long ago. Some now had their own bars. Others moved to other cities. Christmas cards maintained the paths. The owner from the early days had left (what was it, he tried to remember) maybe a few years ago. Or was it seven years ago? A decade? Something like that.

Every once in awhile a familiar face would appear in the teeming crowds, perhaps on a Tuesday night, now much older, grayer, just like him. Sometimes friends would cruise back into Knoxville, some from Atlanta, some from California, others from Texas. Some sad times had happened. Some had gone on. Yet there was always the good memories and new memories made. Local friends would drop in now and then for an ice-cold one and to laugh and smile.

The old man himself was a fixture. They gave him little jobs for a free brewski now and then, maybe a small box of wings or potato wedges to take home, piled high with all the fixin’s, just like he liked it, and exceptionally hot.

He never was lost in the haze. The beer was good. Moderation, it was. After all, he was fond of pointing out, many of the Apostles must have had a brewski on occasion, hailing from the docks, from the boats, from the mean streets, from the downtown. It wasn’t like Jesus recruited from rich-wife-hobby strip mall coffee shops in the burbs that served dainty sandwiches with cut-off crusts or from uptown-smooth “juice bars.” An oxymoron, that. (Once hearing this theory, expounded upon now and then at the bar, the Southern Baptists sitting nearby – the most robust of the pub bunch – always agreed with him vigorously, and toasted a hearty round or two or three.)

He had kept busy. The walk to the pub was not as short as when he first moved here, but still reachable. He moved much slower now.

She stood silently beside him. The old man didn’t turn from his gaze out over the bar. She leaned on the bar with a friendly smirk on her face, peering around at him with a twinkle in her eyes. Her raven hair, tousled from the battles, fell across her eyes. She brushed it away. Just this act alone was intriguing. He noticed she had a brew with her. She sat the glass on the bar. It was a dark beer, mysterious and unknown. The glass was almost empty.

For a spell they sat silently at the bar, she casting sly glances at him, he staring ahead thoughtfully. Finally he looked at her. She was young as she always had been, forever the same age, with that delicious confident look. She was dressed the same, this time in blue, other times in red. Her smile was stunning and spoke of secrets and promises.

She was in top shape, ready for battle. He had always admired when she spun and kicked. The starburst three kick sequence was still deadly as ever. Even with his dimming sight, he could recognize her. Her voice, the way she carried herself, the sheer alert intelligence looking out from her infinitely dark sparkling eyes, the humor. He lived for her banter and humor. He smiled to himself, glancing at her mischieviously out of the corner of his eye. He knew she was aware of why he smiled to himself; she would often catch the direction of his gaze following her as she walked away.

She shifted the weight of the weapons, adjusting the scabbard straps, and rested her chin on one hand, playing idly with the glass in front of her. He noticed she was packing all three swords of the bushido warrior: Katana, Diato, and Shoto.

They talked of old times, of many battles. They spoke of friends fighting side-by-side and laughs shared. Many a dollar ago. So long ago. She asked about his friends. He asked her about Jump Raven and Peter Parker and Li Long and Seung Mi Na. They traded gossip, they laughed at various stories. They remembered loves won, and loves lost. She joked about being a figment of imagination; he said he could relate to that.

He took a drink. His pint was almost empty. Her voice flowed softly through him like a pure river past green flowered meadows, pristine forests, snow-capped mountains lost in the clouds, her musical Asian accent drifted gently across him like a forever sky over a peaceful sea. Vaguely, he wondered why she was here this night, though he knew.

He asked her how everyone else was doing. She said fine. He asked if there were battles ahead. She said yes, there would always be battles, and laughed the laugh he knew so well, and had missed so much these long years, years that blurred together.

She seemed to become impatient, downing the last of her brew. He wanted to visit more. It had been so long. But that didn’t seem to matter now. Somehow he knew their conversations would not end the same this time.

She was ready to go now. Behind the bar, the bartenders continued to stow away glasses and clean and talk among themselves. The jukebox was playing some song… he didn’t recognize it. It was new, maybe been out for two years. Someone was running a vacuum cleaner over by the middle steps.

She tossed some errant dark strands away from her eyes. She shifted off the barstool, standing in her usual ready battle stance beside him, waiting. Tonight there would be no battle. Looking at him directly, with her trademark slight bantering smirk, she offered her hand. Her eyes were soft pools of darkness.

He pivoted on the barstool and glanced at her hand. He raised his faded eyes back up and looked into her eyes. Her dark eyes sparkled with millions of stars, of endless distant galaxies, pinwheeling swirls of white light sparkles in the dark bar as the shadows deepened around them.

“Time to go home now,” said Taki in a soft voice, smiling.

He smiled and took her hand.

From the August 28, 1997 weekly blip. This was inspired by a long ago bar the author used to live above, and frequent, in downtown Knoxville, Tennessee.