Edited by kanga40
He stumbled down the walkway, mumbling to himself, slightly swaying from side to side. Although expensively dressed, the suit was wrinkled, the tie hung loosely on his neck, a day growth of facial hair apparent, hair ruffled, eyes blood shot from excessive alcohol, but he had a smile on his handsome face.
He had appeared from an alley behind “The Pub,” a local drinking hole, were he stopped once or twice a week for a drink with the locals. He was, a respected executive, in a local firm, who enjoyed the banter with the “blue collar” friends that he grew up with.
But why would he be smiling you wonder. Let me start at the beginning. My name is Joe. I’m the bartender at “The Pub,” a friendly down to earth bar, catering mostly to the local blue collar workers, the exception being John, a highly regarded professional.
John has been a regular for years, stopping by mostly on Fridays to have a few drinks. He is a rather handsome man, no wrinkles for his age, not a very tall man, maybe a few inches less than 6ft., sandy hair, with a touch of white at the temple, piercing blue eyes, neatly trimmed moustache, well groomed and dressed. John never stayed more than an hour or so, enjoying the company of his friends. When a guy was down on his luck, he would often buy a round or two, that is just the way he is. We don’t have very many ladies stop by, but there are a few, and most were attracted to him right away. He is always polite and friendly, but that’s as far as it ever went, you see, John is happily married and loves his wife. The thought of straying never entered his mind, that’s just the way he is. He took a lot of ribbing from his friends over it, but if I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times. “Boys, I got the best, why screw with the rest.”
If he had one fault, it would be his devotion to his job and company. He worked long hours at times, was gone on business trips a few times a month, but provided his family with all their needs. One day it all blew up in his face.
He had felt a little guilty of neglecting his wife, so decided to call her and tell her to get ready, he would take her out on the town for dinner, dancing, the whole works. The phone rang, but no answer. Thinking that she may have gone shopping, he didn’t give it a second thought, deciding to wait until he got home.
And that, my friend, is where it all began. As he entered the side door, from the garage, he called out to his wife, but no answer. Wonder where she is? He thought. He called again, but still no answer. He walked up to the bar, poured a small drink, raised it to his mouth and then saw the note, lay on the kitchen table. It was her handwriting.
He read the note, stunned, he fumbled to a chair, his legs giving out, tears formed in his eyes. A sob tore through his body, he felt sick to his stomach. His head was spinning with disbelief. It can’t be, he thought, Why? How? Who? Why didn’t I see it? How could I be so blind, and not see it coming?
He stumbled to the bar, grabbed the bottle of scotch, unscrewed the top, flinging it away in anger, and drank deeply from the bottle, pouring some on himself, but caring less about appearance or anything else for that matter. “Bitch, fucking bitch” his anger rose as more alcohol poured in him. “Twenty seven years down the drain, everything I worked for, means nothing, absolutely fucking nothing.” “Bitch” The pain in his gut increased, the bile rising to his throat. He felt cheated, deserted and unloved. I think every emotion known to man must have passed through his mind. But anger won out over the rest. His respect for women, all women, I think was at an all time low. He roughly wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand, and stumbled to the front door.
“Got to get out of here,” he mumbled. Fortunately, “The Pub” was only a few blocks away, and he chose to walk, rather than drive. He needed to be anywhere but here, as he stumbled to the pub, his mind racing with sad and angry thoughts.
I watched him, sitting at the bar, his lifeless eyes staring deep into the beer, twirling the glass around and around in its own condensation. Occasionally, he would look up, take a long swig and resume the staring, mumbling “bitch” now and then.
