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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v205) (the February 2010 Issue) This is also available from our printer as a a $7.47 paperback book (5.5" x 8.5") perfect-bound w/ b&w pages

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Harry’s Bar

Mel Waldman

    Yesterday, I arrived in this nowhere desert town. I found an oasis called Harry’s Bar. I drank hard and fast and got a long-lasting buzz.
    I left, checked into a motel, slept, and woke up this morning. I made a long-distance call to my ex-girlfriend. She hung up on me. I walked around town and killed time until Harry’s Bar re-opened.
    After midnight, I was still in Harry’s Bar, slowly drinking Johnnie Walker Red and dreaming of young beautiful women in bikinis when the two young men at the other end of the bar got into an altercation and almost killed each other. I sat on my stool and watched. Then the tall muscular blond with dark blue eyes pulled out a knife on the shorter guy. Both men were probably in their mid-twenties, pumped up on testosterone and macho bullshit. And someone was gonna get hurt.
    Abruptly, I stood up and hurried toward them. “Stop!” I cried out.
    The blond man turned toward me, smiled sardonically, and brandished the shiny knife. “You want a piece of this?”

    He stabbed me three times before I lost consciousness. They say he strolled out of the bar with the other guy by his side. At the local hospital, they operated on me and saved my life. Afterwards, I stayed there three weeks.
    Now, I’m back on the streets. I’m searching for the blond guy. I’m gonna kill him.

    I travel from town to town. My wounded body is healing. But my rage is devouring me. At night, I look in the mirror and see a twisted face of hellfire. When I fall asleep, I’m back in Harry’s Bar and the fellow is sticking me with his knife. Blood is gushing from my chest. I’m dying. I wake up screaming.

    I enter Paradise, a small town about 100 miles from where I got stabbed. I’m hungry and thirsty so I look for the nearest bar/restaurant. A local guy gives me directions and I find the place easily. I park my car and saunter to the bar.
    Above the entrance is a neon sign flashing: Harry’s Bar. Am I going mad? I enter, clutching a .38.

    He’s there, in the back with his buddy. And I’m sitting on the stool in the front. He takes out a knife and my alter ego rushes toward him.
    I follow. “Stop!” I cry out.
    The bum lunges at me with his knife and cuts me. With one shot, I blow his head off. Then I black out.

    I wake up at the hospital again. (Or is it a prison?) In a few days, I get out of bed and stagger to the bathroom. I look in the mirror and shriek: “Who am I?”
    Inside the mirror, the blond guy with dark blue eyes gazes at me. He smiles wickedly.
    “I’m possessed!” I screech.

    Tomorrow, we’re gonna take the long walk down Death Row. At noon, we’re gonna sit in the Chair together and get fried. We killed the Good Samaritan.

    I wake up screaming. I’m back in Harry’s Bar, clutching a slick glittering knife. Am I dreaming? Do I wear the black shroud of guilt? Or am I a ghost of a ghost?
    In a little town called Paradise, I wander in a dark wasteland from which there is no escape.

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