With the exception of the barman and me, the bar was empty, somewhat sad looking, and depressing.
Sawdust and peanut shells littered the floor, an old trick used by lazy owners to hide dirt. Flat-panel televisions silently played sports;
hockey on one, baseball on another, NASCAR on the nearest one facing me, and the ever-present ESPN SportsCenter projected onto a four-foot screen, the picture blurry and pixilated.
I cradled a glass mug of Coors, my eyes drooping with fatigue, disappointment, and alcohol, while debating whether to finish the beer or just leave.
A vision of a dingy apartment filled my mind; Salvation Army furniture - all cast-offs from the sixties, the apartment wallpaper water-stained from long-ago leaks and partially peeling in the corners. Once again I was reminded how successful I was. Not.
The bar door opened letting in a cold blustery autumn wind, and a flurry of rustling dead leaves that scurried across the floor like frightened mice. The chilly breeze briefly permeated the warmth of the bar before heaters regained the upper hand.
The bartender, a large, bearded, mid-forties and tired-looking man with a stocky body, standing quietly while polishing a clean glass for no reason, other than he had nothing better to do, looked up at the door expectantly.So did I. Anything was more interesting than thinking about my situation.
An old man walked in. No. An old gentleman walked in. In his mid-seventies, he was slender, perfectly erect, spry, and wearing a long gray overcoat with black piping along the collar and a black Trilby hat. The sight made me smile.
I hadn't seen a Trilby in eons - an old movie if memory served, black-and-white at that. I think it had Humphrey Bogart starring. Maybe with Ingrid Bergman.
The man approached the bar, nodded in a friendly greeting and ordered a scotch, neat, his voice low and smooth. When the barman turned to the bottles lined up in front of a mirror backing the bar.
the old gentleman took his Trilby off revealing neat, short-cut gray hair and a high hairline. He glanced at me and smiled, nodding in greeting. I raised my mug, tipped it, took a sip, and turned my face back to the table to contemplate the taste of futility, an all-too-familiar taste.
I wondered at my stubbornness. I wondered why I was so gifted and so unsuccessful. Was it a cosmic joke I just couldn't see? Maybe I should chuck it in and become a garbage collector, an idea that had lately been whispering to me; "I'm your only talent."
"May I join you?"
Startled, I glanced up from the pee-colored beer I was sipping. The older gentleman was standing next to the table, Trilby in one hand, a glass of deep amber scotch in the other.
In one of those unusual occurrences, I noticed his fingernails were well manicured and impeccably clean, the back of his hands showing his age; wrinkled and liver-spotted. He was really the classical definition of a true gentleman. What was he doing in this dive?
"Sure. Why not," I replied being polite but wondering why he'd want to sit at my table. Every other table was empty.
Another gust of autumn wind rattled the front window. It was half frosted, the lower-half hiding sight of the street outside, neon beer signs hanging and blinking in the top half.
Casey's Tap Room was etched into the glass in an arch in reverse; mooЯ qɒT ƨ'yɘƨɒƆ from where I was sitting.
He sat slowly like an old man who was just being cautious, aware that some part of his aged body might break with the slightest provocation.
His Trilby, black with a dark gray silk band, was carefully set on the scarred and ring-stained table. He placed a small paper napkin down and rested his glass of amber scotch on it before holding his hand out to me.
"I'm Darren Faith," he said by way of introduction.
I shook his hand. It was frail, cool, and papery-dry, but he had a firm grip. "Mike Hope," I said.
"Yes, I know. Well, cheers," he said, raising his glass after unbuttoning his coat to reveal a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, an impeccably starched white shirt, and muted burgundy tie. A gold tiepin winked from reflected neon cast by the beer signs.
I tipped my mug towards him and took a sip, the Coors now lukewarm and tasting about how it looked, like weak piss. He sipped his scotch while I openly studied him.
What did he mean "Yes, I know?" He appeared to have a map of his life laid out in wrinkles, skin sagging forming half moons under alert pale blue eyes, a long nose, and a generous mouth with thin lips.
When he smiled at my inspection he revealed even ivory-white teeth.
I wondered if I should ask him what he meant.
Screw it. I didn't have enough curiosity or ambition left in me.
There was silence. Mr. Darren Faith studied me. Suddenly, he reached across and laid his hand on my forearm.
"Don't worry. No one was hurt." He patted my arm lightly and withdrew his hand, reaching for his glass of scotch to take another sip.
Opening my mouth to ask just what the Hell was he talking about, a loud screech of rubber, a car horn blaring, a loud solid thunk, and the tinkling of shattered glass stopped me.
They were the unmistakable sounds of a solid fender-bender, or worse.
Through the frosted glass window I saw shadows moving, people responding, and automatically wondered if anyone had been hurt.
What he'd just said registered with me. I glanced at him sharply.
Mr. Darren Faith smiled.
"Are you sure?" I asked before thinking.
He nodded.
"How?" I inquired. He now had my full and undivided attention. Was it coincidence?
He threw back his scotch. "Is your beer warm? Can I get you another?" Without waiting for a reply, he called out, "Richard, another round if you'd be so kind. That's a fine single malt scotch by the way; Glenlivit if I'm not mistaken."
The barman looked as surprised as I was. I didn't know his name was Richard and I'd been a regular customer for longer than I cared to remember.
Turning back to the old gentleman - Mr. Darren Faith - I asked again, "How?"
"Prescience, Michael. Do you believe in prescience?"
"Not until a minute ago," I replied truthfully.
Darren Faith handed a twenty Dollar bill to Richard as new drinks were set down. "Thank you, Richard. Keep the change, please."
Richard seemed a bit startled. He nodded and shuffled back to the bar, picking up another glass and polishing it as if it were his hobby, like knitting or needlepoint; mindless and rote.
"If I may be so bold, why do you dogmatically stick to writing novels?" Darren asked, his slender fingers idly turning the new glass of scotch on its fresh paper napkin.
I realized I didn't warrant a paper napkin. Maybe it was a scotch thing ... or the way he dressed; a step up from my worn, faded jeans.
"Because," I responded. "I write. That's my talent."
He smiled. "Do you believe a person's future is preordained?"
"Not at all." I didn't. It contradicted free will and I was a staunch believer in my own free will.
"Well, it is. To a certain extent, that is. You may decide to eat a tuna sandwich instead of a ham and Swiss for lunch, but you will eat lunch at that place, at that time. It's ordained."
"No it isn't," I said. There was something rather unsettling about that concept; sort of communistic or extreme socialism; you have free will as long as it's what we tell you to do or think. "I could get up right now and leave. Nothing is preordained," I added with certainty.
"Yes it is. Trust me. I know these things," he said with a friendly smile. "For instance, I know, despite never having met you, that you are twenty-two years old, almost broke, have written two novels and sold neither.
I know you have no car, live in a small one-room apartment, and will have a Michelina's frozen dinner tonight," adding with a smile, "Although which variety of the three in your freezer, I don't know."
I smiled a bit sarcastically. "In that case, I shall stop and have a burger on the way home."
"Hmm. If you say so."
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, my beer forgotten.
"I can't tell you. However, what I can say is you should forget about writing novels. You'll never be successful at it. You have talent but you're misusing it. Consider writing screenplays. Movies. You'll find success through scripts, Michael."
I didn't believe him, not for a minute. He threw back his scotch and stood slowly.
"Well, I need to get along. I just needed a bit of liquid warmth to protect against the elements.
It was nice meeting you, Michael Hope." He picked up his Trilby and put it on, adjusting it on his head before pulling his coat closed. "Oh, by the way," he added, leaning in slightly, his voice lowering. "The reason I stopped by was to give you the good news."
"What good news?" I asked.
He smiled. "Your wife was just born."
"What?" I asked in astonishment, thinking I'd misheard him.
"She's a pretty girl. You're very lucky Michael." He turned and headed towards the door. "By the way, she's called Amelia, Amelia Destiny," he said with a chuckle.
A chilly wind blew more dead leaves through the bar door when he left. I sat, still bemused. That, I thought, had to be one of the strangest encounters of my life.
Grinning, I decided it was all a con. My wife? Just born? Right! Pull the other one!
I soon began to reconsider, though.
That night, when I found myself seated at the table eating a Michelina Authentico Frozen entree that was about as authentic as stick-on finger nails, I paused and reassessed the whole event from bar-door-opening to bar-door-closing.
My mind mulled over movie scripts and Amelia Destiny, a baby, twenty-two years younger than me. No. It just wasn't possible. Was it? No.