Excerpt: Vin du Pays

Chapter Two

Syncopated jazz music surged out the open door of the bar and bebopped along the sidewalk, twisting around passersby and pulling them into the dark, smoky interior with its promise of escape from the cares of the world. Stepping into the cave-like room with its mellifluous tones and smooth rhythms was akin to reentering the warmth and comfort of the womb. The patrons were cushioned and protected from outside worries, however briefly.

The bartender watched as Paul lurched through the door, and sized him up as a silent sufferer. He noted the disheveled state and automatically poured a double whiskey neat for him. He pushed it across the polished wood of the bar as Paul hitched one hip onto a stool.

“There ya go, buddy, you look like you could use it,” he commented, watching as Paul swallowed the liquid fire in one gulp without flinching. “You been at this a few days already, I’m thinkin’.”

“Don’t wanna talk. Just keep ‘em coming.” Paul dug his wallet out of his pants pocket and forked over a handful of bills. “Let me know when that runs out.”

“How about I save us both the trouble and just give you the bottle right now?” the bartender said, willingly giving up any hope of a tip to keep this customer happy. He placed a nearly full bottle of cheap liquor on the counter and pocketed the bills.

“Fine. Now scram.” Paul picked up the bottle and backed away from the bar, heading to a table in the corner, where he slammed the bottle and glass down before sitting in a rickety chair. He tipped the chair back until he was leaning against the wall, and propped his feet on the chair opposite him to discourage anyone from thinking he might be looking for company. He drank steadily, one long swallow or two at a time, eventually forgetting all about the glass and drinking straight from the bottle until it was half empty, mumbling to himself occasionally and wiping a hand over his increasingly bleary eyes.

Suddenly he slammed the bottle down onto the table, sloshing amber liquid into a puddle. The previously incoherent mumbles turned to shouts of, “I’m gonna kill the SOB. I’ll find him and kill him!” He pulled his revolver from the holster and fired off a round into the ceiling. “I’ll kill you when I find you, you coward!” he shouted, and took a swallow from the bottle. Another round into the ceiling, more shouting – “Run if you will, but you can’t hide! I’ll find you!” – more swallows. He kept firing and shouting until the pistol was empty, then continued to click the trigger long after the rounds were spent.

At the first gunshot, patrons dove for cover, overturning tables and crawling to find shelter. Chaos erupted, shouting, breaking glass, spilled liquor. The bartender, an old Army veteran himself, ducked behind the counter, counted six shots, then stood and strode over to Paul’s table, where the inebriated man was waving the pistol aloft, clicking, clicking, shouting, and clicking some more.

“Hey, buddy, I don’t know what’s eatin’ you, but we got payin’ customers in here, and we don’t like fireworks going off when everybody’s having a good time. Look what you did – you interrupted Happy Hour, and now I gotta clean up this mess. I think it’s time for you to leave.” He took the pistol from Paul’s hand and tucked it back into the shoulder holster, checking Paul’s pockets for extra ammo. Satisfied that the man was clean and no longer a threat, he hoisted Paul onto his feet and shoved the whiskey bottle into one of his coat pockets. “Time to go home to bed, buddy. You can come back another time when you’re not so drunk and disorderly.” He hustled Paul out the front door and onto the sidewalk.

Paul staggered a few steps before sinking down into a heap on the ground. He cradled his head in his arms and curled up like a baby. Boozy tears ran down his face, and he sobbed, “Celine, Celine,” over and over until he passed out.