Chapter - 03
A few days later, Jacob was in the newspaper office, diligently going about his work. The clatter of the printing press and the scent of ink were familiar and comforting, but today they did little to ease him. He had noticed Mr. Harris had not come to the office for the past two days and Jacob missed the man's presence.
It was late afternoon when a group of somber-looking men entered the office. Jacob looked up from his task, confusion etched on his face as they began to gather Mr. Harris's belongings. The sight of them packing up the old man's personal items—his favorite pen, a stack of books, his well-worn hat—sent a chill down Jacob's spine.
"Excuse me," Jacob said, his voice trembling slightly as he approached the men. "What's going on? Why are you taking Mr. Harris's things?"
One of the men, a tall fellow with a solemn expression, paused and looked at Jacob with a mixture of sympathy and sadness. "You didn't hear?" he asked gently. "He passed away two days ago, in his sleep. They buried him this morning at the town cemetery. We're just here to collect his things."
The words hit Jacob like a physical blow. He staggered back, his vision blurring as tears welled up in his eyes. "He's... gone?" he whispered, disbelief and grief mingling in his voice. "I didn't even get to say goodbye..."
The man nodded, placing a comforting hand on Jacob's shoulder. "I'm sorry, son. He was a good man. He'll be missed by many."
Jacob nodded numbly, the reality of the loss sinking in. Mr. Harris had been more than a mentor to him; he had been a friend, a father figure in a world that had taken his parents away far too soon. The thought of never hearing the old man's encouraging words or seeing his kind smile again was almost too much to bear.
After the men left, Jacob went through the motions of his work mechanically, his heart heavy with sorrow. The office felt empty and hollow without Mr. Harris's presence, and the silence was deafening.
Later that day, as the sun dipped low in the sky, Jacob received his end-of-week wage. Ten dollars—money that would inevitably go to his uncle.
He walked out of the office, his footsteps echoing in the quiet streets of the town.
Jacob stood on the sidewalk, staring at the sunset, feeling an overwhelming urge to escape the pain that gripped his heart. Home was the last place he wanted to be, where his uncle's gruff voice and harsh demands would only compound his grief. Instead, he found himself standing in front of the local saloon, a place he had always avoided. Jacob had never touched a drop of alcohol in his life, but today, the need to numb the pain was overpowering.
With a deep breath, he pushed open the saloon doors and stepped inside, the sound of lively chatter and clinking glasses washing over him. He approached the bar, feeling out of place. The bartender, a burly man with a friendly face, looked at him as he approached.
"What can I get you, son?" the bartender asked.
Jacob hesitated, then replied, "Whiskey. Just a glass of whiskey."
The bartender nodded and poured a glass of the amber liquid, sliding it across the counter to Jacob. He stared at the drink, the unfamiliar scent of alcohol filling his nostrils. With a shaky hand, he lifted the glass to his lips and took a tentative sip, the burning sensation spreading through his chest. It wasn't pleasant, but it dulled the edge of his sorrow, just a little.
Jacob sat there, nursing his drink and letting the noise of the saloon wash over him. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to forget the weight of his responsibilities and the pain of his loss. In that dimly lit saloon, surrounded by strangers, he found a small measure of solace, even if it was fleeting.
Jacob drank a few more glasses, each one more bitter than the last, and each sip sending a burn down his throat that he could scarcely tolerate. The alcohol soon began to cloud his mind, making him feel light-headed and disconnected from his surroundings. In his haze, his hand fumbled, and he accidentally spilled his glass of whiskey on the man sitting beside him. The liquid splashed onto the man's clothes, staining them instantly.
The man was a towering figure, all bulging muscles and surly demeanor. He was clearly well into his own drinks and didn't take kindly to the mishap. He rose from his seat with a menacing growl and yanked Jacob to his feet, clutching the lapel of his shirt tightly.
"You little runt!" the hulk of a man roared, his face contorted with anger.
Jacob's mind raced, panic rising in his chest. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice trembling. "It was an accident, I swear!"
The man's grip tightened, and he drew back his fist, ready to strike. "I'll teach you a lesson you'll never forget!" he spat, his voice filled with venom. The entire saloon seemed to fall silent, patrons turning their heads to witness the unfolding confrontation.
Before the man could land his punch, a calm, authoritative voice cut through the tension. "Hold on a minute there, friend," the voice said, and a hand appeared on the man's shoulder.
The hand belonged to a man who exuded an air of confidence and refinement. He was dressed in fine clothes—a tailored suit that fit him perfectly. His hair was peppered with grey at the temples, adding to his distinguished appearance. His eyes sparkled with intelligence and charm, and his presence commanded immediate respect.
"Why don't we all take a breath and settle down," the suited man said, his voice smooth and measured. "No need to ruin a perfectly good evening over a simple mistake."
The hulk turned to face the newcomer, still seething but slightly taken aback by the man's calm demeanor. "This kid spilled his drink all over me!" he snapped.
"I understand, and I'm sure he didn't mean any harm," the suited man replied, his tone soothing. "Let's not let a little spill get in the way of a good time. Here, let me buy you a drink to make up for it."
The hulk hesitated, the anger slowly draining from his face. The suited man's words seemed to have a magical effect, defusing the situation with remarkable ease. "Alright, alright," the hulk muttered, lowering his fist. "But he better watch himself."
"Of course," the suited man said with a charming smile. "Bartender, a drink for my friend here."
The bartender quickly complied, and soon the hulk was toasting with the suited man, his previous hostility forgotten. Jacob watched in awe, marveling at the way the man had turned the situation around with such grace.
The hulk downed his drink and, after a few more words exchanged with the suited man, lumbered away, leaving Jacob and his savior at the bar.