The bar is straight out of Fat City, a North Philly dive with a broken air conditioner, a grimy tin ceiling, and a graveyard of dead plants in the window. It reeks of disinfectant and old pork fat. There are two of us at the bar, four more scattered at tables. The jukebox plays Waylon Jennings.
I glance at the guy on my right. He is one of those Blake Edwards drunks, an extra in Days of Wine and Roses. He looks like he could use another. I get the guy's attention. "How's it going?" I ask. It doesn't take long for him to summarize. "Been better." "Who hasn't?" I reply. I point to his nearly empty glass. "One more?" He looks at me a little more closely, perhaps searching for motive. He'll never find it. His eyes are glassy, veined with drink and fatigue. There is something beneath the exhaustion, though. Something that speaks of fear. "Why not?"
I motion to the bartender, swirl my finger over our empties. The bartender pours, grabs my check, retreats to the register. "Tough day?" I ask.
He nods. "Tough day."
"Like the great George Bernard Shaw once said: 'Alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of life.' "
"I'll drink to that," he says on the tail of a sad smile.
"There was a movie once," I say. "I think it was with Ray Milland." Of course, I know it was with Ray Milland. "He played an alcoholic."
The guy nods. "Lost Weekend."
"That's the one. There's one scene where he talks about the effect that alcohol has on him. It's a classic. An ode to the bottle." I stand straighter, square my shoulders. I do my best Don Birnam, quoting from the movie: "It tosses the sandbags overboard so the balloon can soar. Suddenly I'm above the ordinary. I'm competent. I'm walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls. I'm one of the great ones.'" I put my glass back down. "Or something like that."
The guy stares at me for a few moments, trying to focus his eyes. "That's pretty fucking good, man," he finally says. "You've got a great memory."
He is slurring his words.
I hoist my glass. "Better days."
"Couldn't be worse than this one."
Of course it could.
He downs his shot, drains his beer. I follow suit. He begins to fish around in his pocket for his keys.
"One more for the road?" I ask.
"No thanks," he says. "I'm good."
"You sure?"
"Yeah," he says. "I gotta get up early tomorrow." He slides off his stool, heads for the rear of the bar. "Thanks anyway."
I drop a twenty on the bar, glance around. Four dead drunks at the rickety tables. Myopic barkeep. We don't exist. We are background. I'm wearing a Flyers cap and tinted shades. Twenty extra foam pounds around my waist.
I follow him to the back door. We step into the wet kiln of the late afternoon, emerging into the small parking lot behind the bar. There are three cars.
"Hey, thanks for the drink," he says.
"You are more than welcome," I reply. "You okay to drive?"
He holds up a single key attached to a leather fob. A door key. "Walking home."
"Smart man." We are standing behind my car. I open the trunk. It is lined with clear plastic. He glances inside.
"Wow, that is one clean car you've got," he says.
"I have to keep it spotless for work."
He nods. "What do you do?"
"I'm an actor."
It takes a moment for the absurdity to register. He scans my face again. Soon recognition dawns. "We've met before, haven't we?" he asks.
"Yes."
He waits for me to say more. I do not offer more. The moment drags out. He shrugs. "Well, okay, good seeing you again. I'm gonna get going."
I put my hand on his forearm. In my other hand is a straight razor. Michael Caine in Dressed to Kill. I flick open the razor. The keened steel blade shimmers in the marmalade-colored sunlight.
He looks at the razor, then back up into my eyes. It is clear that he now recalls where we met. I knew he eventually would. He remembers me from the video store, standing at the rack of classic films. Fear blossoms on his face.
"I… I have to go," he says, suddenly sober.
I tighten my grip on his arm and say: "I'm afraid I can't allow that, Adam."