《Closing Time (RRCM Jan. 2025)》


 Chapter One: Cornerstone

    ¡°Let¡¯s go to the Winchester, have a nice cold pint, and wait for this all to blow over.¡± - Shaun of the Dead


    <hr>


    At the end of the world, I went to the Cornerstone. This wasn¡¯t going to blow over, and I didn¡¯t go for a cold pint.


    I went because I wouldn¡¯t have to drive. The streets were a nightmare¡ªcars bumper-to-bumper trying to escape from the New Jersey side of the NYC metro area, and they¡¯d only get worse. But I also went because I couldn¡¯t wait alone in my third-floor apartment for the missiles to hit. It was where I ate and slept, but it wasn¡¯t home.


    A few years back, the Cornerstone Bar hadn¡¯t been anything special to me. I¡¯d been trying to pay for college, and my options were pretty limited by my school schedule, so I became a bartender. Necessity is the mother of invention, but sometimes, it¡¯s also the mother of enjoyment. It didn¡¯t take long before I was spending more time learning to mix cocktails than learning to mix chemicals in the lab, and not too much longer before the dive bar downstairs was home.


    And at the end of the world, I just wanted to be home.


    I figured the regulars would, too.


    The TV wasn¡¯t playing anything but news, and the news was all about the impending apocalypse, so I dug up a commemorative DVD from the Giants¡¯ 2012 Super Bowl run and tossed it in the player instead.


    Screw Barry. He¡¯d bitch about the Giants and talk about the Jets, but screw him. At least it was sports. I¡¯d kill for a cartoon or something¡ªanything to take my mind off things¡ªbut sports was close, and it was the last time a New York team had won anything unless you counted soccer. The regulars¡ªmeaning Barry¡ªdidn¡¯t, so football it was.


    Then I walked to the squeaky front door, unlocked it, and the bell rang as I opened the Cornerstone for the last time.


    <hr>


    The Cornerstone could have been any dive bar anywhere.


    Neon beer signs on the wall, half burnt out. An old jukebox, kinda beat up and permanently playing ¡®Closing Time¡¯ any time it was plugged in. I¡¯d unplugged it two weeks ago and never plugged it back in. No one had cared. Stale smells from spilled beer and even less pleasant ones from the technically clean but never spotless bathrooms. A few dozen bottles of hard liquor on the shelf behind the bar, and a dozen taps for beers like Budweiser and Miller Light.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    You know the kind of place.


    I ducked behind a wooden counter that never got the varnish it desperately needed, stared out at the plexiglass-covered tables, and cleaned a few pint glasses out while I waited.


    There were only a couple of folks today. The barflies. The regulars. No one else was crazy enough to go to the Cornerstone while the world ended. Everyone else wanted out of the New York area or to be with their families or something¡ªanywhere but at a dive bar. But they trickled in.


    Barry. Screw Barry. Kinda an asshole, in his fifties. Only talked about sports or the economy¡ªnever politics, and never anything outside the USA. I¡¯d rather hear about sports than money¡ªhence the Giants DVD. Whiskey on the rocks. He came in almost every night.


    Anette. She¡¯d been a big shot somewhere. I had no idea how she¡¯d found her way to the Cornerstone, but she was a fixture, too. Three or four times a week, she¡¯d be at the corner seat. She hadn¡¯t missed a Saturday since I started tending bar. Martini¡ªoccasionally, a negroni.


    And Randal. Big dude, mid-20s, jacked. I couldn¡¯t tell you why he hung out at the Cornerstone when he should have been at the gym or a real club. He could have had any lady he wanted¡ªtrust me. Sex on the beach and mimosas. Way too many of them. I ID¡¯d him every time. Every. Single. Time.


    Call it a running joke, flirting, or just doing my job. One of the three. Maybe two.


    He had his license ready, but I made a big show of it, even though I was a year or two younger than him. I had the apron on, and Randal didn¡¯t. That made me in charge. Then I poured four beers¡ªsomething light¡ªand passed them out. ¡°On the house.¡±


    The Cornerstone didn¡¯t do free drinks. It was one of the boss¡¯s rules. But¡­whatever. The Giants were playing the Washington Redskins on the TV, and they hadn¡¯t been named that in a decade. The rules didn¡¯t apply anymore, and I could give out all the free drinks I wanted.


    Barry didn¡¯t waste any time, either. His drink was halfway gone before I could even start mine. Drinking on the job: another no-no. I was such a bad employee.


    I took a sip. Then another.


    That beer always hit me like a whiffle bat. It was a personal favorite because it was cheap, and I could drink more than one before I felt it. Usually. But today? Today, even though it was just the tiniest buzz, it was still a buzz. And with that feeling of tipsiness came a revelation. I¡¯d seen Barry, Anette, and Randal almost every day, often for hours, and the only thing I knew about any of them was their drink of choice.


    Barry finished his beer and turned toward the game on the tube. The Giants were winning, but they¡¯d lost a lot that year. More than a Super Bowl-winning team should. He snorted. ¡°Lucky bastards.¡±


    It was stupid. The world was ending, and none of this would matter in forty minutes or so. But I had to know.


    I gathered my courage. Then, leaning on the bar counter, with my half-finished beer in my hand, I asked the most important question I¡¯d asked in years. ¡°What¡¯s your story anyway, Barry?¡±

 Chapter Two: Vacation Homes

    Barry glued his eyes to the TV. His hand reflexively reached for the empty beer glass, but he didn¡¯t say anything for a long time. For too long. Curiosity overwhelmed me; the end was coming, and now that I¡¯d started down this path, I had to know.


    ¡°Come on. It¡¯s okay to tell. Your secrets will be safe with me.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Barry asked. ¡°Because the world¡¯s about to end?¡±


    ¡°Yes. But also, I¡¯m a bartender. I¡¯m supposed to keep your secrets, but I don¡¯t know any of them, and that bugs me. I¡¯d like to fix that, and there¡¯s no better time than now.¡±


    Barry snorted. His eyes rolled. But he didn¡¯t start talking.


    Eli Manning got sacked, and the defeat music started playing as the Giants lost another game on their improbable run to the Super Bowl. Barry pumped his fist and ignored me, his other hand clutching the empty glass like a lifeline. He wasn¡¯t going to answer.


    I turned to Anette. She was more of a talker, and she was my best bet at leveraging Barry to tell me what I wanted to know. ¡°What about you? You were a CEO or something, right?¡±


    ¡°Right.¡± Anette¡¯s eyes pierced mine for a moment. I couldn¡¯t look away; the dark-haired woman¡¯s gaze was so intense it was captivating. Her eyes were like two pools of gray-and-black water¡ªsimultaneously full of emotion and completely, intentionally void of it. Then she sipped her drink. ¡°Listen, kid. You want to know, make it worth my while. That¡¯s how you learn about people. It¡¯s transactional.¡±


    That made sense. I thought about it. What could I offer Anette at the end of the world? It took me a minute, and she tipped her head at the shelves behind the bar.


    I grabbed a bottle of gin¡ªthe real good stuff. The Cornerstone had a few bottles that the owner had collected back before it was a dive bar in the 1970s, and he¡¯d told me that under no circumstances should I ever open it. They were decorative, not for drinking, and our client¨¨le couldn¡¯t afford it anyway.


    I pulled the bottle out and worked the stopper for a few seconds before it came loose. The glass bottle was so dark it was almost black, and its gold labels somehow managed to be ostentatious and understated at the same time. I poured it into a glass and added some citrus-flavored vermouth. Before she knew it, a martini¡ªpossibly the most expensive one I¡¯d ever made¡ªsat in front of her.


    She reached for it reflexively, but I held up a hand. ¡°This one¡¯s going to cost you.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡± Anette stretched, her back and shoulders popping. Then she cleared her throat and started talking.


    <hr>


    -Anette-


    Anette Fitzgerald was on top of the world.


    Literally.


    She¡¯d just finished a breathtaking run down a black diamond somewhere in western Colorado that wove back and forth through the ski lift and glades of trees before ending literally at her back door.


    She¡¯d taken a second-rate tech company that had only hired her because they thought it¡¯d make them more attractive as a merger target for Intel, Nvidia, or one of the other big-shot corporations. In the last eight years, she¡¯d maneuvered it through a dozen hostile takeover attempts, turned it into a mid-sized predator that ate start-ups a few times a year, and earned herself a hefty bonus in the process.


    She had a second home here in Colorado and a third on a beach near Miami. A yacht, a private plane, a loving husband and the societally recommended 1.7 children¡ªrounded up to two and both taken care of by a full-time, live-in nanny.


    Money couldn¡¯t buy happiness, but it sure removed a lot of the stressors that took it away.


    Not all of them, though. The one thing it couldn¡¯t get rid of was a nagging feeling of dread. It was a deserved dread, but even so, after years, it should have gone away. One bad decision¡ªa tough one, but one that had to happen for the company to survive¡ªhad led to another, and while most of Anette¡¯s fortune had been self-made, not all of them had been, strictly speaking, legal.


    She¡¯d had help to do it, but no one she trusted had any incentive to turn her in.


    And Anette Fitzgerald knew, even as she took off her boots for a little apr¨¨s-ski beer, that those legal misunderstandings would stay hidden as long as she kept them covered up. There was no way anyone could know about the books she¡¯d cooked or the shell companies she¡¯d used to hide her company¡¯s debts during the first year or two so it looked more solvent than it was. She¡¯d fudged plenty of numbers and outright lied about the company¡¯s outlook.


    And it had paid off.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    That was all buried in the past, and a beer was waiting for Anette in the ski house¡¯s kitchen.


    So was a man, but not her husband¡ªor the boyfriend her husband knew about and tolerated, either.


    This one wore a dark blue uniform, a badge, and a gun on his belt. He wasn¡¯t alone; two other officers stood near the bedroom door, and the front door hung open to let in both the cold and even more police. And just like that, Anette¡¯s carefully built house of cards collapsed.


    <hr>


    I slid the martini toward Anette. She sipped at it, then smiled sadly. ¡°Thanks, kid.¡±


    ¡°So, you got arrested. And then what?¡±


    ¡°Well, the company¡¯s stock tanked overnight. We went from one of the hottest handful of tech companies to the most toxic stock on Wall Street. They fired me two days later¡ªdidn¡¯t have to follow the Golden Parachute clause either since it was a firing because of legal issues related to how I handled the company.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± Barry asked from his perch by the TV. He paused long enough to shoot a halfhearted glare my way¡ªI got the feeling that if he¡¯d known I was offering bribes, he¡¯d have participated. ¡°What happened to you?¡±


    ¡°Jail,¡± Anette said shortly.


    ¡°Yeah, but what kind of jail? We¡¯ve all been in. Right?¡±


    I shook my head. So did Randal. He cleared his throat and, for the first time, said something. ¡°Momma raised me right.¡±


    Anette stiffened like he¡¯d smacked her across the face. Then she took a long pull from the martini glass, completely draining it. Her shoulders slumped a little as the booze hit her. ¡°Anyway¡­¡±


    Barry snorted. ¡°I bet you went to some Martha-Stewart-ass prison.¡±


    <hr>


    -Anette-


    Between the fines, the contractual take-backs as the company tried to push her under like a drowning man trying to save himself, and the economic collapse that wiped out her stock market portfolio while she was behind bars, Anette Fitzgerald was screwed.


    That fact hit her within about ten minutes of getting out.


    She¡¯d been in prison¡ª¡°yes, a ¡®Martha Stewart-ass¡¯ one, Barry¡±¡ªfor less than two years.


    In that time, her whole life had changed. She had money. Not enough to never have to worry about it, but enough to start over. And she had relationships. Not her husband or kids¡ªshe could have visitation, but he and his new wife had custody, and they¡¯d moved across the country to New York. She''d have to follow if she wanted any kind of relationship with the kids.


    That would burn through most of her savings, cut most of her ties in the San Francisco area, and leave her with¡­what, exactly?


    The voice on the telephone agreed with her. ¡°Listen, Anette, I¡¯m glad you¡¯re out. But you know I don¡¯t work for free, and I know you don¡¯t have the cash to make me worth your time. If you wanna grab dinner somewhere tomorrow night, I¡¯ll pay. Our business relationship¡¯s over, though.¡±


    ¡°No, Rog, that won¡¯t be necessary,¡± Anette said stiffly. ¡°But there must be something you can do for me.¡±


    Her former financial advisor¡ªand the only person who¡¯d known the full extent of what she¡¯d done for her company before the trial¡ªsighed. He¡¯d dodged the legal mess in part by cooperating with the investigation and in part by having books that were squeaky clean and exhaustive. He¡¯d never once left her hanging, but he¡¯d also made sure he¡¯d never done anything illegal.


    The phone went silent for so long that Anette was pretty sure Roger had hung up on her. Then he sighed again. ¡°Okay, look, Anette. You¡¯ve got, what? Three hundred K if you liquidate what¡¯s left of your portfolio, sell the cars, and dump everything else? That¡¯s not bad, but it won¡¯t be enough for New York City, and you¡¯re heading there, right? How about Jersey instead? East Brunswick or Bridgewater? They¡¯re smaller, and a little more out of the way. Cheaper, too.¡±


    ¡°Roger¡­¡± Anette trailed off. He was right. But she couldn¡¯t admit that. She¡¯d been on top of the world¡ªher picture had been on magazine covers as an up-and-coming glass ceiling breaker. Smaller and a little more out of the way sounded like a vacation, not an attempt to rebuild. She couldn¡¯t afford to be smaller and out of the way.


    ¡°Anette, I¡¯m gonna be honest. You¡¯re done. Toxic. Radioactive, even. There¡¯s not a reputable company in the world that¡¯ll take a chance with you. Find a small town, get a decent job¡ªbecome a teacher or a secretary or something¡ªand move on.¡±


    ¡°Shit, Rog.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I know. I¡¯ve gotta go. Client¡¯s coming in. If you change your mind about dinner, let me know. It¡¯ll be good for you to see a friendly face.¡±


    The line went dead, but Anette kept holding the phone to her ear like a lifeline. For almost a minute, she stood there, hoping it¡¯d ring again and Roger would call with an idea to get her back in the saddle again. A start-up or a struggling company somewhere. Anything.


    The call didn¡¯t come.


    Anette was alone.


    <hr>


    ¡°I caught a red-eye flight to La Guardia that night, landed in New York City at four in the morning, and hailed a taxi out to Jersey. It took less than an hour to find a condo but almost two months to get a gig as a secretary at a doctor¡¯s office. The whole time, my savings tanked,¡± Anette said.


    I couldn¡¯t decide what to feel. On the one hand, Anette had lost everything. On the other, she had no idea how comfortable her landing had been¡ªand I wasn¡¯t sure she deserved that comfort. She¡¯d cheated and broken the law to get where she¡¯d been. And from the look on Barry¡¯s face, I could tell he felt the same. He turned away and refocused on the football game.


    ¡°Did you see your kids?¡± I asked, trying to focus on what was important to her.


    ¡°I did. Every Saturday for a few hours. I never applied for joint custody, though. I read somewhere that it can really screw a kid up if their parents can¡¯t work together and co-parent effectively, and every time I saw Todd, it felt like another dagger in my heart. He abandoned me, just like everyone else. I still hate him. ¡±


    She said it with so much conviction and venom that I couldn¡¯t help but believe her. Her eyes, though¡­


    Both gray-black eyes glistened with moisture, and a single tear had escaped from the left one. Anette wiped it away absently, her gaze drifting toward the big city just north of us. ¡°They¡¯re probably evacuating. I hope they make it. Even Todd. But I¡¯m going to stay here.¡±


    The empty martini glass sat on the bar, overlapping a dark ring on the corner that¡¯d been stained into the finish. I stared at it for a second, unsure what to say.


    The TV flickered. So did the rest of the power. The already dim bar plunged into darkness for a second, and the cacophony of honking horns and sirens poured in from outside. Then the power flicked back on, and the Giants Super Bowl DVD showed its menu screen again.


    I grabbed the remote and flicked through the games. ¡°The Steelers¡¯ one,¡± Barry said a little too loudly. I winced but found the game and got the show rolling again.

 Chapter Three: Dropping the Ball

    With the TV running¡ªfor now¡ªI turned back to Anette. ¡°Is that why you¡¯re here all the time?¡±


    She smiled. The pain in her eyes shone through the mask she was trying to put on, but she smiled anyway. Then she shook her head, not in negation, but thoughtfully. ¡°I come in every night. I used to do it after I talked to my girls and told them goodnight. They¡¯re grown up now, and I try not to call them too often. They have their own lives, and I see them on some holidays. Beth¡¯s got a kid of her own now. I¡¯ll never get to see him again, though.¡±


    She trailed off, and the Cornerstone went so quiet the only sounds I could hear were the narrator talking about the game on the TV and the sirens outside. They were starting to peter out, wailing into the mid-evening air until their batteries died or the patrol cars carrying them moved slowly through the clogged streets.


    I checked my watch. Thirty minutes. Maybe a little less.


    ¡°Negroni or martini?¡± I asked Anette. She looked pale, but she held up two fingers.


    ¡°The second one. And thank you for making me do that. It¡¯s more of a relief than I expected.¡±


    The quiet hung in the air. I didn¡¯t know how to respond to that, and after a moment, I focused on making the drink exactly the same way I had the first time.


    ¡°Barry? You change your mind?¡± I asked.


    But the balding man had me on ignore. His eyes were glued to the tube. The Giants were winning, but I didn¡¯t have time to see who they were up against.


    ¡°I¡¯ll talk,¡± Randal said.


    Randal didn¡¯t ever say more than he had to. The big, blonde dude could have had serious golden retriever energy, but instead, he always sat quietly at the bar in a T-shirt that looked three sizes too small for him and stared at the bottles. I nodded and got to work: orange juice, schnaps, and vodka. Plenty of vodka; I wanted Randal talking, if only to fill the silence. Besides, after he spoke, it¡¯d just be Barry and me. As curious as I was to listen to the barflies¡¯ stories¡ªespecially Barry¡¯s¡ªI wasn¡¯t sure about sharing my own.


    The candied cherry plopped down into the center of the drink, and I slid the glass into Randal¡¯s outstretched hand. He closed it, brushing my finger just a little, and took a long drink. ¡°I¡¯ll need a second. It¡¯s a long story. It started in middle school.¡±


    <hr>


    -Randal-


    The East Side 113 Lions were New York City¡¯s reigning middle school football champions for the third¡ªand final¡ªyear, and Randal Davids knew it before the game even started. He was bigger than anyone on the other team. Stronger than them, too. And, most importantly, he was faster. No two kids could tackle him, and none of them could catch him in an open field.


    ¡°Put the pedal to the metal!¡± his dad screamed from the sidelines.


    Randal did. He tore down the field, feet pounding the astroturf to death. The clock had zeroed out, and it was score or lose. And Randal was many things. The answer to some high school coach¡¯s prayers next year? Absolutely. The most popular, most well-liked boy at 113? Yes. The boyfriend of a cheerleader, just like it should be? Uh-huh.


    ¡°Yes, Barry, I was a middle-school football champ. Homecoming king in high school, too. Twice.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t ask.¡±


    ¡°But you were thinking it.¡±


    More than any of those things, though, Randal was a competitor. He was a winner.


    Randal crossed the line, spiked the ball, and listened as half the crowd went wild. The Giants and Jets had each painted one end zone of Metlife Stadium¡¯s field, and Randal was one of four boys who¡¯d carried the ball into one of the two. He¡¯d made it three times. Eighteen points¡ªplus two from the kicker. And now, they were city champions.


    He was on top of the world. This was his life''s crowning, most important achievement¡ªat least for now. Sammi charged him in front of the swarm of parents and fans, her pom-poms shaking wildly, and launched herself at him like a meteor. He took the hit; he¡¯d been breaking tackles the whole day and didn¡¯t have the energy to dodge even if it had been a linebacker instead of 113¡¯s cutest cheerleader.


    He¡¯d won the game.


    He was the champion.


    Everything was coming up roses, as the expression his grandma sometimes used went.


    So why did everything feel like it was about to fall apart?


    <hr>


    For once, Barry wasn¡¯t focused on the game. I paused as the Giants started losing to the Falcons, and the old bastard didn¡¯t even blink.


    Randal didn¡¯t blink either as he sucked down the Sex on the Beach in one long, endless pull. The fruity drink smelled too strong for me¡ªI¡¯d made it double the strength the boss wanted me to, and with the good stuff, just like Anette¡¯s martini. I didn¡¯t want to think about what it was doing to Randal. Then again, he looked like he needed the drink¡ªand he was so big he could take a couple before he felt it.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    ¡°Let me guess? Things didn¡¯t go great for you either, huh?¡± Anette asked.


    ¡°Actually, they did. The Musketeers from East Side High 36 took fourth my freshman year. Twelve and three record, lost in the semi-finals, then lost again in the third-place game,¡± Randal said. He looked sick. ¡°Best performance for the Musketeers in half a decade. I kept my grades going, and Sammi and I stayed together. That was wild. None of my friends or teammates stuck together with their girls for more than a couple of months after the middle school season.¡±


    ¡°So why are you here?¡± Barry interrupted.


    Randal turned toward Barry, face shifting from a mask of nerves to disgust and anger. He only said three words to the old guy, and I agreed with every one of them. ¡°Let me talk.¡±


    <hr>


    -Randal-


    Randal sat in the waiting room at Memorial Sloan Cancer Center.


    He should have been on the field. East Side 36 was up against the defending champs way out in Buffalo for the quarterfinals, and he should have been there. His teammates kept texting him, and the news from the game wasn¡¯t good.


    But Randal was leaving them on ¡®read,¡¯ and he couldn¡¯t care less about the game. His whole focus was on a white double door on the far side of the waiting room, and the long hallway behind it. Every ounce of his focus was on the lead-shielded procedural room at the far side that he wasn¡¯t allowed anywhere near, where his dad lay on a bed as the doctors did something Randal didn¡¯t understand to him.


    Almost every ounce of his focus.


    A tiny part of the sophomore¡¯s mind was glued to the phone. To the text message that hadn¡¯t come in yet. Sammi should have sent something by now, even a message asking how he was. Randal tried to push that thought out of his head. She was busy cheering the Musketeers on. That was all it was; her phone was probably in her backpack on the bus. Where could she put it in that outfit, anyway? Cheerleader miniskirts and tops didn¡¯t come with pockets.


    A nurse pushed through the door as the next text came in. East Side 36 had been forced to kick a field goal. Again. They needed their star running back.


    But Randal couldn¡¯t be there. He had to be here, at the cancer center, waiting to make sure Dad could come home, and if his teammates didn¡¯t understand, then at that moment, he didn¡¯t want to be part of the team.


    They needed him, but so did his dad. And more importantly, he needed his dad. So he sat and waited, and he stared at the white double doors.


    <hr>


    ¡°We lost.¡±


    The words hung in the air. I could almost have cut the tension with a knife, but the Cornerstone didn¡¯t serve food, so I only had a mixing spoon. I finished stirring a third Sex on the Beach and handed it to Randal. The kid¡ªhe couldn¡¯t have been more than a year or two younger than me, but right now, he was a hurting kid¡ªlooked at me gratefully and drained the whole thing.


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°No problem,¡± I said. It really wasn¡¯t. I knew what was coming. ¡°Do you want another?¡±


    ¡°Maybe later.¡± Randal burped. Then he kept going before Anette or Barry could say anything.


    ¡°Dad died early my junior year. I took the year off from football. My coaches were ready to kill me. So were my teammates. I had to break a few noses to get them to lay off me, and got suspended for fighting twice. Sammi decided the quarterback had better prospects, and I let her go. She was cute, but something felt wrong about that relationship. Looking back on it, it always had. Besides, I needed to focus on myself, Dad¡¯s funeral, and helping Mom through it.


    ¡°Then my senior year rolled around, and I embarked on my revenge tour.¡±


    <hr>


    -Randal-


    East Side 24 was fifteen and zero. A perfect season. Number one in the seeding for the high school championships. A juggernaut no one wanted to play, with no real weaknesses. And they were six minutes from their sixteenth¡ªand final¡ªwin.


    Randal stood at the fifty-yard line. The rest of the Musketeers kneeled around him. Metlife Stadium was almost half-full¡ªa massive turn-out for a high school game, even a state championship. There were scouts¡¯ eyes on him. He knew it. He was the big draw here, not the two quarterbacks or any of the receivers. They were good, but they weren¡¯t Randal good. The other team¡¯s safety was, though. That guy was faster than Randal. And once he got his hands on a receiver, the receiver was as good as stopped. He hadn¡¯t missed a tackle the whole game.


    He¡¯d been single-handedly ruining the Musketeers¡¯ passing game for three and a half quarters. And now, it came down to the run.


    Fortunately for the Musketeers, Randal was unstoppable.


    He had three touchdowns already, and the game was theirs if they could score once more in the next six minutes. All he had to do was break through and beat that one safety¡¯s tackle, and no one else would be able to stop him. They hadn¡¯t all night, and they couldn¡¯t now.


    The quarterback took the snap and pitched it to Randal. He took off.


    The field flew by, and Randal could almost hear his dad screaming at him to put the pedal to the metal. He did. Every ounce of strength he had left went into his legs, powering him through a linebacker and down the field. He didn¡¯t bother dodging, didn¡¯t bother trying to break tackles. He just ran over the defenders, like he¡¯d been doing all game. He was bigger. Stronger. Faster.


    And he wanted it more.


    Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten.


    Arms wrapped around his legs. He started falling, tried to prop himself up, and his body twisted. His hand slipped. A weight landed on his leg and drove the side of his knee into something hard and unyielding under it.


    Something tore. No. Something shattered.


    The ball came loose, and Randal screamed.


    <hr>


    ¡°And that was that,¡± Randal said. ¡°Rochester scooped up the fumble, and five minutes of game time later, they managed to get a field goal. I was in the stadium¡¯s medical room getting looked at, then being loaded into an ambulance, so I didn¡¯t see the last drive, but I found out after the fact. We didn¡¯t score. East Side 24 lost twenty-eight to thirty. And that was the end of my high school career.¡±


    ¡°But not the end of your career, overall?¡± Barry asked. ¡°You played for someone in college, right?¡±


    I tried¡ªand failed¡ªto avoid rolling my eyes. ¡°That¡¯s what you¡¯re focusing on? The game?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Randal interrupted, ¡°that¡¯s fair. The game was what mattered to me. That game was what mattered to me. I needed to win it for Dad. Instead, I spent a year recovering in a brace. And I learned a lot about myself in that year of recovery and reconditioning. Enough that even though I enrolled at Ohio State and worked my ass off my freshman year, I didn¡¯t bother even trying out for the football team my second year. My heart wasn¡¯t in it, and I wasn¡¯t as fast as I used to be.¡±


    ¡°So what¡¯d you do?¡± Anette asked. She looked thirsty, so I got to work on another martini.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have another, too,¡± Randal said. I nodded, and he kept pushing forward. ¡°I moved back here. It wasn¡¯t home, but it was close enough. I¡¯m a personal trainer. It¡¯s casual enough that I can keep in shape without aggravating the knee. But football¡¯s not happening. And I¡¯m okay with that. But¡­¡±


    ¡°But you still come here every afternoon,¡± I finished. ¡°You still drink like a fish. And you still put up with me IDing you every time. Why?¡±

 Chapter Four: Straight Chlorine

    ¡°It¡¯s funny,¡± Randal said. Anette laughed, and he continued. ¡°You know me, but you¡¯re such a rule-follower.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t always. Barry, you¡¯re out of time.¡± I pressed pause on the remote mid-kickoff¡ªhe¡¯d turned the game back on¡ªand the deep, soothing narrator¡¯s voice cut off.


    The man¡¯s eyes narrowed under his baseball cap. ¡°We¡¯re all out of time. Turn it back on.¡±


    I didn¡¯t. And I didn¡¯t make another drink for either Anette or Randal. Neither of them asked for one, either. Their eyes were on Barry, not me, not even as I pulled the most expensive bottle of whiskey off the shelf and held it in his direction. ¡°Come on. Tell us your story. It¡¯ll be easy and quick, and it won¡¯t matter in twenty minutes.¡±


    ¡°Death washes away all sins,¡± Anette said knowingly.


    He wavered. I saw it.


    The baseball cap came off, and Barry scratched his thin hair as he tried not to look at the bottle. Then he nodded. ¡°Fine. But I¡¯ll make it quick. You don¡¯t need to know everything.¡±


    ¡°Just the most important thing,¡± I said. ¡°I want to know why you¡¯re here, right now.¡±


    <hr>


    -Barry-


    Barry was just a kid when he figured it all out.


    He couldn¡¯t explain it, and when he tried, his parents told him to keep it to himself. That it¡¯d just get him in trouble. That people killed people over stuff like that.


    But it was simple. The better baseball team won, and he knew which team was better. He could figure it out from baseball cards. The answers were all printed there. He could practically play the game before it ever happened.


    It wasn¡¯t perfect. There were always rookies and injuries, and players changed from year to year, but he figured he was right in his predictions more often than the guys on TV. And when he was wrong, there was always a reason. If a team pulled a pitcher early, or a sprained ankle took a player off the field mid-base run, that wasn¡¯t Barry¡¯s fault. That was a flaw in the game, not in his ability to understand it.


    The gambling didn¡¯t start until later.


    And it didn¡¯t take long for Barry to win millions.


    ¡°Barry, this is bullshit!¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Barry, this is bullshit!¡±


    I¡¯d been thinking it. Something about Barry¡¯s story felt unlikely. But I hadn¡¯t wanted to say anything. Just getting him to talk about anything that wasn¡¯t football was a massive victory.


    Anette, apparently, had no such worries. Either that or she¡¯d had enough to drink that she didn¡¯t care. ¡°I¡¯ve seen this movie. The math whiz starts robbing casinos blind by counting cards, and then everything goes wrong. The kid gets caught, the casinos try to break his legs, the end. Your story¡¯s possible, but I¡¯m calling bullshit.¡±


    ¡°How do you figure?¡± Barry asked, glaring. ¡°This is my story, not yours.¡±


    ¡°Because I dated a statistician for the Mets after I got out of jail. He told me how many stats he¡¯s responsible for analyzing before every match-up, and the teams¡¯ managers already know exactly how to pitch each player¡¯s every at-bat, where to put outfielders to catch every ball, and which pitches are coming at every pitch count for every player. The game¡¯s solved, but you¡¯d need more than baseball cards to do it¡ªa lot more.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m not buying this,¡± Randal interrupted. ¡°I¡¯m not anywhere near drunk enough to buy this. If you won millions legally, you wouldn¡¯t be here.¡±


    Anette bristled. ¡°Is that supposed to be¡ª¡°


    Barry cut her off. ¡°I¡¯m not a liar. And I¡¯m not going to sit here and be called one. Turn the game back on.¡±


    I breathed in. Then I let it out slowly and pulled out the remote.


    Anette held up a hand. ¡°Wait. This is bullshit, too. Randal and I bare our souls, but Barry gets to lie and throw a temper tantrum? I don¡¯t have to put up with this crap. I¡¯m out.¡±


    She stood up, and my mind raced as I watched her head for the door to the Cornerstone. She passed the Pabst Blue Ribbon sign, then stepped out into the hall. And before I knew it, the door was opening.


    ¡°Wait.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t explain why I said it. I definitely didn¡¯t expect it to work, and I didn¡¯t have a follow-up plan for when Anette stopped and turned, eyes blazing and wet at the same time. She was hurting, and I felt for her, but I needed her here.


    I had a sudden, stupid idea.


    ¡°Do you want to hear my story, Anette? It¡¯s not a good one, and there¡¯s not much drama, but I can tell you exactly why I¡¯m here.¡±


    She stood there, halfway out the door, purse hanging from her shoulder. Without the game, the silence was deafening. There wasn¡¯t a single siren outside, and the cars had either stopped, been abandoned, or moved on. I couldn¡¯t tell which. It didn¡¯t matter.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    We balanced on a knife¡¯s edge for a few seconds, and I pulled a fresh glass out and filled it with the cheap light beer I¡¯d been nursing. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you. Just sit down.¡±


    The door shut, jingling the bells on its handle as it did, and she walked back. She didn¡¯t sit down, though. She leaned against the jukebox¡ªwhich, thankfully, didn¡¯t start blasting ¡®Closing Time¡¯ across the Cornerstone. ¡°Alright, shoot.¡±


    <hr>


    -Me-


    I was fourteen, and I sat in the back of a cop car, wearing cuffs.


    ¡°You said there wasn¡¯t going to be much drama.¡±


    ¡°I lied.¡±


    The police sirens and fire trucks were almost deafening, and I needed to wipe smoke out of my eyes but couldn¡¯t reach them. They hadn¡¯t put the cuffs on too tightly¡ªI hadn¡¯t exactly resisted arrest¡ªbut police cuffs weren¡¯t designed to give much flexibility, and I was definitely guilty. Not of what they thought, but definitely, one hundred percent guilty. They¡¯d caught me red-handed and coughing smoke.


    The shed was burned down. Gone. Kaput. And I¡¯d started the fire. Not on purpose, though, and not for the reasons cops usually think when a shed in the middle of nowhere burns down and they can smell chemicals in the air. I hadn¡¯t been cooking drugs or anything.


    Jesus Christ, Barry. I was fourteen. How many fourteen-year-old drug kingpins do you know?


    I¡¯d been doing chemistry. Not the math-heavy chemistry Mr. Sakton kept trying to teach us at school, but real chemistry. Mixing two things together to see what¡¯d happen. I did it in the shed because Dad didn¡¯t care what I did out there as long as I wore the army surplus gas mask and some rubber kitchen gloves. He¡¯d even helped me clear it out so I had some workspace since he didn¡¯t want the bathroom tub getting all stained and disgusting. He¡¯d been so supportive of me the whole time. And I¡¯d burned his shed down in thanks.


    Aluminum and chlorine didn¡¯t mix well.


    The firefighters were all wearing full suits and masks, and I couldn¡¯t help but cough in the back of the car, but they¡¯d checked me over before they¡¯d cuffed me. According to them, I¡¯d be fine. I wasn¡¯t so sure. Dad didn¡¯t care what I did out there, but I¡¯d promised Mom I¡¯d keep things safe, and that had clearly been a lie.


    Worse, Mr. Sakton was going to kill me. ¡°What did I tell you? Always understand the math before you play with chemicals,¡± he¡¯d say. He¡¯d drag me in front of the class and give a lecture as if it was my fault.


    I mean, it was, but that wasn¡¯t the point.


    One of the cops kept talking to my mom and dad. I couldn¡¯t hear them since the door was shut and I couldn¡¯t roll down the window, but everyone looked pretty pissed¡ªMom especially. She kept pointing at the car and yelling¡ªher face looked like a tomato. The cop would listen, write on a notepad, and then look back at me. That happened three or four times while firefighters ran past with hoses and axes. The third time, I couldn¡¯t help but flinch.


    I spent almost an hour in the back of the cop car before Dad and the cop came over. The door opened, and Dad cleared his throat. ¡°Good news, Morgan. They didn¡¯t find any signs of drugs, and I convinced them that you¡¯re not cooking meth or anything. You¡¯re just a dumbass kid with a college-level chemical set.¡±


    ¡°So, can I go?¡±


    Something flashed across Dad¡¯s face. Worry. That wasn¡¯t a good sign; Dad was never worried. ¡°That¡¯s the bad news. They still want to talk to you at the station. I¡¯ve got your uncle on the way, and he¡¯ll act as a lawyer for you, but don¡¯t say anything until he gets there. They¡¯re not arresting you¡ª¡°


    ¡°I¡¯ve got cuffs on, Dad!¡±


    ¡°¡ªbut they need to take this seriously since that fire could easily have spread out of our yard.¡± Dad smiled sadly. ¡°Sorry, kid. You messed up on this one, and you¡¯re past the age where there are consequences.¡±


    He waved, and I couldn¡¯t wave back as the cop shut the door and climbed into the driver¡¯s seat. I was fourteen years old.


    <hr>


    ¡°That was¡­that was draining,¡± I said.


    The rest of the Cornerstone felt way too empty. It was usually half-full; the boss always said half-full was the right amount of activity. Too much more, and it¡¯d feel crowded. Too much less, and customers wouldn¡¯t want to come in. Half-full was the right amount for me.


    Anette had abandoned the jukebox and rejoined us at the bar. I started working on a negroni, another Sex on the Beach, and a whiskey on the rocks. For me, not for Barry. Screw Barry. He didn¡¯t deserve a drink if he couldn¡¯t tell a simple little story about himself without making some shit up.


    Besides, I needed it to chase the cheap light beer.


    ¡°So, did you go to jail?¡± Barry asked. ¡°You definitely went to jail.¡±


    ¡°No. I told you earlier that I''d never been jailed. I was telling the truth. Dad was the property owner, and he and Mom didn¡¯t want to press charges. I spent a couple of hours sweating at the police station until my uncle picked me up. They did make me pay for the shed, though. I had to get a summer job mowing lawns and all that stuff. And I couldn¡¯t do home chemistry anymore.¡±


    ¡°Good for you. Trust me, ¡®Martha-Steward-ass prison¡¯ or not, jail sucks.¡± Anette grabbed her drink, and I picked up the whiskey. Before Barry could say anything, I turned the glass back and downed it in one long, burning gulp. It hurt, and my eyes watered. I wasn¡¯t much for hard liquor, but sometimes, it was the only remedy.


    Then I talked over Barry as he sputtered. ¡°I¡¯d been a chemistry lover since I was a kid. High school chemistry was too mathy, but I had high hopes that Mr. Sakton was lying when he said college chem was more of the same. I had to know all the formulas at some point, right?¡±


    Randal slurped on his Sex on the Beach¡¯s straw.


    I closed my eyes.


    ¡°Wrong.¡±


    <hr>


    -Me-


    General education classes all sucked, college was expensive, and looking at the three ¡®Cs¡¯ and a ¡®D¡¯ on my transcript, I couldn¡¯t help but think about all the money I¡¯d tossed away. Worse, the ¡®D¡¯ was in Basic Chem. There was no way they¡¯d let me keep my scholarships, and Mom and Dad didn¡¯t have the savings to pay for school. If I wanted access to the labs so I could do real chemistry, I needed a job.


    But I had school every day, and I couldn¡¯t see myself working the graveyard at a hotel. That worked for my roommates, but they were both the kinds of people who enjoyed silence and being alone. I needed a little more than that, and I knew it. So, after some thought, I got together a list of my needs.


    First, the afternoon to evening shift. Ideally, I¡¯d be done by midnight and wouldn¡¯t have to start until after four. That¡¯d give me time for homework and sleep without messing with my class schedule too much.


    Second, it had to be close to the apartment. I could take the bus to college, but I couldn¡¯t get home at midnight. They stopped running before then, and I didn¡¯t want to walk in the dark¡ªespecially not during a Jersey winter.


    And third, if I could swing it, I wanted something that involved chemistry. Or at least, something like it. If I could actually mix the chemicals, that¡¯d be ideal. If not, I¡¯d settle for something similar.


    The bar downstairs wasn¡¯t exactly my first pick. But the ¡®Help Wanted¡¯ sign caught my eye, and I grabbed an application on the way by.

 Chapter Five: In the End

    -Me-


    It only took a semester to officially drop out.


    By then, I was making better money as a bartender here at the Cornerstone than I expected to make right out of college, at least without a master¡¯s degree or doctorate. And as much as I¡¯d enjoyed my first chemistry set in the bathtub or the shed lab before I¡¯d burned it down, I found it harder and harder to go back to the university lab and the formulas every day.


    This shitty bar wasn¡¯t a science lab. The drinks I made weren¡¯t anything new¡ªeven if I added a new ingredient sometimes, it wasn¡¯t chemistry. But serving drinks felt a lot more real than the lab, and I could get most of my chemistry fix from watching videos. When I couldn¡¯t, that was okay; the boss was always willing to see a new drink mix, even if he never put it on the menu.


    Besides, I liked it here.


    <hr>


    ¡°So you¡¯re here because you fell into it?¡± Barry asked. ¡°You¡¯re right. That wasn¡¯t dramatic at all.¡±


    The TV still wasn¡¯t running. I hadn¡¯t pressed play, and I didn¡¯t intend to. Not until Barry gave me what I wanted. The remote sat above the taps, in easy reach for both him and Randal, but neither of them had moved a muscle.


    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m comfortable here, and I don¡¯t want to travel halfway across the country again to get home.¡± I snorted, not because it was funny, but because with the missiles coming in, it all felt like it didn¡¯t matter. Who cared if I didn¡¯t want to get on a plane, or drive for a few days? ¡°It¡¯s always felt too far away.¡±


    The Cornerstone went quiet. A dog barked outside, but whether it was a block away or halfway across town. I couldn¡¯t tell which. There wasn¡¯t a single engine running, or anyone shouting. Somehow, in the forty minutes we¡¯d sat, talked, and drank, the world had gone silent¡ªlike it was holding its breath and waiting.


    The bar was. And after a minute, Randal coughed into his empty drink. ¡°Well, I¡¯m heading out. I¡¯m going to watch the missiles come in. It¡¯s been an honor to be at the last call at the Cornerstone.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going, too,¡± Anette said. She raised her glass at me, and I topped it off. The Cornerstone¡¯s policy was that no one drank outside, and no one left with the bar¡¯s glasses. But screw the boss; it wasn¡¯t like he was here to stop her from having one more drink. She nodded appreciatively and headed for the door; it closed with a jingle.


    I started picking up the vodka and the gin, and the beer glasses I¡¯d filled with cheap light beer. I did it out of habit¡ªand because the Cornerstone deserved one last clean-up after last call.


    The cups went through the auto washer, and I returned the bottles to the shelf where they belonged. I started toweling the counter dry with a rag, wiping the spilled liquor away. I always did this after everyone left; it was my favorite ritual during closing time. Sometimes, I¡¯d plug in the perpetually stuck jukebox and let it play until I locked up for the night.


    But tonight was different.


    There was still a pair of elbows on the counter.


    Barry hadn¡¯t left, and the old jackass looked nervous. He wasn¡¯t staring at the TV, and though his eyes flicked to the bottle of Jack Daniels I¡¯d poured from for myself, he didn¡¯t ask for a drink. Instead, he cleared his throat. ¡°I was a paratrooper.¡±


    <hr>


    -Barry-


    Barry wasn¡¯t a math genius, and he didn¡¯t have a gift for words. He wasn¡¯t an athlete, either. He graduated, but only just.


    The army got him when he was eighteen. Fresh out of high school, he didn¡¯t have a ¡®next thing.¡¯ There were lots of guys like him¡ªyoung, no plan, no future staked out for ¡®em. Mom and Dad couldn¡¯t afford to have him stick around, his grades wouldn¡¯t cut it for college, and he didn¡¯t see himself building houses for forty years.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Still wearing his robes and mortarboard, he walked his ass right over to the recruiter and told them he wanted to be an Army Ranger.


    They laughed themselves stupid. Told him to go infantry. They always needed more infantry, and he could get into the Rangers from there if he worked hard enough. So, being eighteen, unemployed, and dumb, he said sure.


    I poured the whiskey; so far, I doubted he¡¯d lied at all, but it was hard to see the man at the end of the bar just going for it.


    Barry went for it. That was in 1980. Boot wasn¡¯t memorable. Work your ass off, follow directions, try to learn, try not to be the best, and try like hell not to be the worst. He only made one choice the whole time: signing up for paratrooper school. The 82nd Airborne was looking for people crazy enough to jump out of a perfectly good airplane, and one look at Ranger school convinced him he¡¯d never make it¡ªthat he wouldn¡¯t even make it in. Those guys were all insane¡ªand in insanely good shape. He couldn¡¯t compete.


    But to eighteen-year-old Barry, being a paratrooper was pretty damn close and a hell of a lot less work.


    Fast forward a couple of years, and he was jumping out of a perfectly good airplane, alright¡ªout of a C-47 a few hundred yards over an airstrip on an island called Grenada.


    ¡°Grenada?¡±


    Yep. Grenada.


    The world¡¯s eyes were on the Commies, but there were all sorts of little wars no one talked about. Grenada was one of them. Barry and his squad jumped, hit the ground, and mopped up the ¡®resistance.¡¯ Not that there was much; the locals weren¡¯t ready for the kind of firepower coming their way. The Rangers were hitting the beaches, the 82nd was falling out of the sky, and about a thousand Caribbean countries all piled in. It was a real hush-hush operation back in the States. Barry never figured out exactly what the operation was all about, but it was over in less than a week, and his ass was back on a plane heading home.


    <hr>


    I¡¯d served Barry whiskey every day, and I¡¯d never heard so much as a single part of his story. There was still so much I didn¡¯t know about it¡ªabout who he¡¯d been before Grenada, or what he¡¯d done after.


    Then again, it wasn¡¯t like Anette or Randal had shared everything about themselves, either. There hadn¡¯t been time¡ªthere never would be time¡ªto learn everything about the Cornerstone regulars, and I hadn¡¯t shared everything about my own life, either. Just the most important moments¡ªthe moments that I thought would tell my friends who I was.


    The bottle of Jack Daniels came down, and a pair of ice cubes clattered into one glass, then another. I poured both drinks, handed one to Barry, and nodded. ¡°Thanks for telling me.¡±


    ¡°It was the worst place I¡¯d ever been.¡± Barry reached for the glass, then hesitated. I smiled, and he picked it up. ¡°The locals never had a chance against US Rangers and paratroopers. We wiped them off the map. And I never did figure out why we went there, other than to fight Communism. The usual reason, back then. It¡¯s ass-backward that after all that, it¡¯s weapons built when I was a grunt that¡¯ll end up killing us all.¡±


    ¡°The missiles?¡± I asked. My drink burned, but I didn¡¯t drain it all in one pull this time. This time, I sipped.


    And so did Barry.


    Barry was a regular. He was in six days a week, and I¡¯d never seen him sip his drink. He stood up. ¡°I¡¯m going to watch, too. You coming with?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, just a minute.¡± I set my whiskey aside but didn¡¯t drain it or dump it. Then I finished cleaning up. As I worked, the seconds ticked by.


    My friends, the Cornerstone regulars, hadn¡¯t needed to share their whole lives. The stories they¡¯d chosen to share at the end of the world were their most personal memories¡ªmemories of their worst failures, their biggest triumphs, and the things they wished they could forget. And they¡¯d chosen them because, in their last moments, they¡¯d wanted to be understood by someone. To be known.


    I flipped the switch on the ¡®Open¡¯ sign, and it buzzed as it died. The Cornerstone sat empty, chairs stacked and floor clean, waiting for tomorrow¡¯s patrons who¡¯d never come.


    The door jingled for the last time as I stepped out onto the sidewalk. My glass stayed inside, on the bar, next to Barry¡¯s unfinished whiskey.


    <hr>


    The four of us weren¡¯t the only people outside in the dark.


    Our little corner of New Jersey was quiet, but the streets weren¡¯t empty. All around, people stood, staring at the dusk-filled sky. At the stars and the half-full moon. Waiting for the end. I could feel the hopelessness in some of them. The fear.


    The loneliness.


    I joined Barry, Anette, and Randal outside. But I didn¡¯t stare up at the sky, and neither did they. I looked at them: the old, grumpy bastard, the woman who¡¯d had it all, and the kid whose life had barely even started before heartbreak hit him again and again. And they looked back.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad I got to say that,¡± Anette said, ¡°even if it wasn¡¯t to my kids.¡±


    Barry nodded, but none of us said anything. There wasn¡¯t anything to say. I think we all felt the same way.


    A shiver ran up my spine. It hadn¡¯t been easy for any of us. And in a minute¡ªmaybe less¡ªthe last forty-five minutes wouldn¡¯t matter. A glow lit up the horizon far to the east, over the Atlantic; the missiles were almost here. Every person in town was waiting for them, and not everyone had someone to tell their story to. But the four of us were the lucky ones. Our stories had been heard, and for a few minutes, we were known.


    I stood shoulder to shoulder with my three newest and closest friends outside the only place that felt like home, and waited.