It didn't take Tom falling of the stool for me to realize that he had more than enough to drink for the night. I known ever since he went off to talk to the cute blonde girl at the other side of the bar. Sober Tom would never have had the balls to do that. Drunk Tom, or Tommy as he liked to be called swaggered over to the girl with a half empty bottle of Shiner and what one can assumed passed for a cocky smile. That smile didn't even budge a millimeter when the girl laughed in his face and shoved him away.
That stupid smile was still there as I helped him back up to his feet. "Here's a helpful hint," I said, "wait until you're sober before trying that again."
"She was too pretty to wait for" he muttered, glancing at the stool as if trying to figure out the best approach for attempting a remount.
"I was talking about sitting" I said, taking him by the cuff of his shirt and leading him away from the bar. Nice thing about going to a bar on a Tuesday- no crowd to try to fight our way through.
I remember a time when it felt strange to be taking care of Tom this way. He was at least twenty years older than me and was always careful to exude an image of self control at work that had served him well. Work wise, Tom was a machine, racking up twice as many numbers as the next best guy. Which would be me. Funny though, I never begrudged him for being better than me, maybe because I saw what such determination did to him.
"Hey Jimmy?"
"Yeah Tom?"
"Tommy, man, Tommy" He leaned dangerously to the left, almost bumping into a couple who were severely overdressed for the type of night and place this was.
Pulling him to the right I offered an apologetic smile to the couple. "What's up Tommy?"
"I want to quit."
No need to ask what he wanted to quit, this wasn't Tom and I's first Tuesday out. "No you don't." My answer wasn't always the same. Sometimes I encouraged him to quit, sometimes I would argue for him not to. Okay, so 'argue' was to strong of a word to use for what I did..I would just tell him not to. See, I long ago discovered that whatever I said wasn't really important. Tom wanted to just be heard, not have an actual discussion about it.
"I do! I'm sick of the workload and the hours. Look at me Jimbo, I'm not a young man anymore."
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. The man I that leaned on me as we walked looked very little like the one I met all those years ago. At that point he'd had hair and good eyesight. He still had those things, but it was all fake. Expensive toupees and top of the line contacts. All in an attempt to keep pace with the younger and younger men and women getting into the business. What he couldn't fake was what the job had done to his body. I helped him walk not only because he was drunk and liable to tip over, but because I knew of the joint pains he tried to hide. For the briefest of instants I was disgusted with him, disgusted with what he let himself become. That disgust quickly went away, replaced with guilt, and..fear. Guilt that I had felt the way I had, and fear that well, that I was looking at my future.
The cold air as we stepped outside of the bar seemed to snap Tom back into the land of sobriety. For my part I wished I worn a coat. We heard police sirens wail away out in the distance, and I could feel both us become tense. Neither of us said a word until the sirens faded. Sticking my hands into my pockets I paced back and forth on the sidewalk for warmth. Wished I had a cigarette too.
"Everything changes James, everything," Tom whispered, extending an open pack of cigarettes. I took one and left the remaining one for him. "Back when I started out, the whole job was new and exciting. Heh, same could be same for the city." Lighting the cig, he brought it to his lips and took a deep puff before beginning to cough. "Damn, don't know why I smoke this things."
Probably same reason he drank and chased girls half his age. Same reason he'd been in the this profession for so long. Looking down to the cigarette I held, I suddenly no longer wanted a smoke.
"The city, God I loved it back, then," he continued, looking around the block. "There were more brownstones you know. And alleys for crooks to dart in and out off."
I glanced around the neighborhood, trying to imagine what he was seeing and failing. To me the City would always be this neon bright thing. Type of place where you could feel totally crowded and alone at the same time. And crooks didn't have to dart in and out of nowhere this days, no, nowadays they just strolled casually on the sidewalk and did their thing.
We heard the sirens again, angry wails that pushed through the street and cared not for who they stirred.
"I should go," Tom said, undoing the first button of his shirt.
I could have told him that I could handle it. That he already put in almost ten hours. But I didn't. Because he wouldn't listen. And because he needed this. So I just nodded and wished him luck.
He was still fast. Not faster than a speeding..well, you know the phrase, but still fast. I watched him rise to the sky and head towards the sirens until he became a speck in the clouds. Then I went back inside the bar. My own shift would start soon.
This is an experiment. I'm hoping that every day I can come in and write something. Somedays, like today I'll take inspiration from a book I have, The Writer's Book of Matches, which is a book of prompts. For the most part I'll probably use prompts, but there might be times when I'm actually inspired and go without them, we'll see on that.
As for this particular work, I started off knowing I wanted to keep it to one thousand words or less. I'm starting a creative writing class, and our first work that is due is a piece of flash fiction that is 1k or less. I'm hoping that the story makes sense, but I have a feeling I rushed through it. I really didn't want to use the "faster than a speeding.." line, nor have Tom fly away, as it brings up the image of Supes, but I couldn't figure out how to end the story in a strong enough image that tells the reader what is going on with the limited amount of space I had left.
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