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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “In Plain View” Down in the Dirt, v195 (the 5/22 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Final Frontier the Down in the Dirt May-August 2022 issues collection book		get the 420 page May-August 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Last Call

Scott Cravens

    He pulled his pickup into the vacant lot of the roadhouse with fifteen minutes till close. The heavy, steel door of his Ford rebounded as he swung his feet down to the asphalt, and it throttled him back a bit into the driver’s seat. He locked the truck and adjusted his belt around the waistband of his Wranglers. His gut protruded over the brass buckle, obscuring it from view. Weakly, he walked up and through the double-doors of the roadhouse. The establishment was nearly vacant, aside from the woman behind the bar and a few busboys cleaning up. He walked forward toward the bar, peanut shells crunching under boot heel with each step. He clambered up on the barstool with an effort and laid his yellow palms flat on the countertop before the bartender.
    He was not an unusual sight in that place of business. A man, mid-sixties, with a rattan cattlemen on his head and a Carhartt jacket covered in the dust from the south Texas backcountry. She stared at the paper texture of the man’s face. The veins of his hands were spidery and numerous. At the cuff of his coat was a hospital band that hung loosely about his frail wrist.
    “What are you having, hun?”
    “Garrison, neat.”
    She pulled the bottle of bourbon from behind her on the mantel and grabbed a recently cleaned tumbler. She delicately poured the whiskey into the glass before him. His eyes bulged as she dispensed the liquid into the glass. He licked his dry, cracked lips with thirst. When she finished pouring, he took the glass and downed it with a single swallow.
    “Thank you, ma’am. Gimme another if you don’t mind.”
    “Sure thing, hun. You opening a tab?”
    Her jaw was going to town at a piece of Juicy-Fruit between each syllable.
    “Might as well.”
    He sat there downing another, unphased. In silence he stared at the loose band around his wrist. She too was staring at the bracelet.
    “Were you in an accident?”
    “If by accident, you mean fifty years of intentional self-destruction, then yeah.”
    She was confused by the riddle.
    “Go ahead and pour me another, sugar.”
    She tipped the brown liquor into the glass on the counter, glaring at the jaundiced discoloration around the pupils of the patron.
    “So, you were or weren’t in no accident?”
    “No.” he said, deeply taking a sip.
    “Well, I hope you are feeling better, whatever the heck it is. I guess they’d of not let you loose or nothing, if you weren’t feeling otherwise.”
    Entranced at the revolutions of the brown liquid in the glass that he held in his palm, he responded: “They let me out to die.”

    There was silence. The Bartender wasn’t about to broach the topic. She would entertain the conversation if prompted further, but she would not dare initiate the next line of dialogue.
    Finally, without looking up, the man said, “Advanced cirrhosis of the liver. Doc says I aint gonna live longer than a month. That’s if I quit drinking, of course.” He took another swig.
    The Bartender felt an overwhelming feeling of pity. She hadn’t been unaccustomed to men coming to her day after day to slowly drink their lives away. But how does one console a man who is staring death down in a glass she herself poured? She didn’t say nothing. Slowly she placed her warm, pink palm over his papery dead hand.
    She did not remove her hand from his and turned to face the clock above her. Ten minutes past close. She didn’t have the heart to kick a dead man to the curb. The busboys were heading home for the night. The manager, hitting the main lights on his way out, without even looking up said, “Meredith, make sure and lock up when you leave.” The two of them sat in the dim light of the bar lamps, alone and silent. She poured him another finger.
    He slowly adjusted the brim of his hat and glanced up at her. He was probably twenty years her senior. She was heavily made-up, her sockets warped with hastily painted eye shadow, lips glossed with something purple and glittery. Her caked mouth parted, showing yellowed teeth with gums receded by many years of tobacco smoke.
    “Meredith. Um. That sure is a pretty name, darlin’.” Like a true gentleman, he tipped the brim of his hat to signal the end of the compliment.
    “Oh my. Well, thank you, hun.” She turned her face from his. He could see her all reddened with flirtatious embarrassment. Cheeks flushed with that rosy hue. A possible indicator of romantic prospect. The telltale sign that the mate-seeking ritual is hitting its mark. Or, at the very least, a sign of the living.
    He felt a warm buzz emanating within him. The man took his hand away, and leaned forward with an effort, as he pulled a can of Copenhagen long-cut from his back pocket. He rapped the can of snuff with his forefinger three or four times, and after it was packed sufficiently, he took a pinch to his jaw. Leaning forward, he grabbed her hand again, tighter than before. The social lubricant of bourbon gave him a confidence that was amplified by his mortality. He had nothing to lose. He knew that if a man was confident, he kindly had good luck at getting laid. But being confident and funny, that’ll get a woman in the sack anytime.
    She was still, staring to see what could possibly come from the man’s mouth. He swallowed his spit and asked, “What’s the difference between Jesus Christ and an alcoholic?”
    “I don’t rightly know. Being God’s son I’d say?”
    “Well, Jesus asks for this cup to pass from him,” he was holding his glass up to her for effect, “and the alcoholic says, ‘Shit. Send her down this a way. Aint no need to be wastin’ a good drink!’” He fell apart at his own joke.
    The morbidity of the jest struck her with a false smile. A sense of pity rather than enjoined lightheartedness. He took it as another scored point.
    “Listen. I was, uh. I was wondering, if maybe you wasn’t married or nothing—,” his words trailed off into the air with menacing innuendo.
    She flashed a ring-less left hand up for him to observe. “Honey, after two divorces, I sure as heck aint married to nobody.”
    The man slowly scooted his stool out from beneath him and stood before her. He pulled her down forcibly closer to him from across the counter and whispered into her ear with violent gentleness, “Another.” His warm, thick breath made the hairs on her forearm stand.
    “You’ve had enough, sir,” said the Bartender.
    She had just then recognized what he was doing. The Bartender wanted to act as a therapist to the dying man. The dying man just wanted to fuck.
    The man’s pupils bounced back and forth in a frenzy as he stared at her. There was an anger in them.
    “Aint no whore gonna tell me when I’ve had enough.”
    “I think it’s time you go home, mister!”
    She jerked her hand from his hold, and slowly the Bartender backed up to wall behind her. The partition of that counter was the only thing separating them. With fury, he stumbled around the bar, arms outstretched. He reached forward to relinquish his dying lust upon the woman.
    “Back away, mister! I don’t want to hurt you!” She had pulled a half-empty bottle of vodka from the shelf and held it tightly behind her back.
    The man stopped and reared his head back, giving a hallow, roaring laugh. He looked at her and said, “Can’t hurt what’s already dead, sugar.” The man unzipped his fly and unhasped his buckle as he walked forward. Forcefully, he grabbed her by the shoulders pursing his dry lips as he tried to caress her. The Bartender screamed and kicked, trying to push him away. He held down her hand on the bar-top to ease her struggle against him. With her free hand she reared back with the bottle, and with all her might she let gravity drive it home. Glass shattered as the bottle glanced off his temple, embedding bits of glass into his yellow face.
     He tumbled backward and collapsed to the floor bleeding.
    She was shaking with the adrenaline that coursed through her veins. Slowly, she walked forward and stood over him panting. He was unconscious, a small puddle of blood forming next to his head on the dirty floor. After she saw that he was breathing, she walked over to the booth adjacent to the bar and sat down. She pulled a pack of lucky strikes from her apron pocket and lit a cigarette with a trembling hand. She began to cry.
    After about fifteen minutes, the man came to. He grimaced as he touched his head soaked with blood. She stared at him as he stood up and got his bearings. With bleary, red eyes and cheeks smeared by mascara, she collected herself and stood up from the booth. She looked him down with an air of feminine prowess; there was an intensity in her that bore a weightiness, the kind that knocks the breath out of man. She pointed toward the exit and said, “Leave.”
The man adjusted his hat, pulled up his jeans and stumbled toward the entryway. As he commenced out the double-doors of the roadhouse, he didn’t look back, nor did he say a word. The Bartender watched as the swinging doors cast his image from her sight forever.
    The Bartender went back over to the bar with a broom and swept up the bits of glass. She started wiping down the bar-top with a steamed towel, picking up the empty glasses as she moved along. When she reached the tumbler the man had been drinking from she stopped.

    There was three, hundred-dollar bills folded under his glass.

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