Last Call by T. Chiu-Chu

Jim kept his head down, kept walking. Ignored the familiar shadowed entrance of the bar. He didn’t need it. He didn’t.

A block later, it was there at the periphery of his vision again. The bar only appeared to those who craved what it served. And tonight, the air was freezing, his exposed nose and cheeks numb. He had to step carefully on the icy sidewalks. He thought sometimes that maybe he shouldn’t be so careful. Would it be so bad if he slipped. If he fell and— It was nights like this that the bar appeared.

Fine then. One glass, just enough to take the edge off.

Jim ducked through the doorway. Long dim bar, patrons sitting alone. Music turned so low he couldn’t make out what was playing, only felt it barely scratching at his awareness.

He slid into a stool. The warmth of the place thawed him slowly. The bartender nodded at him and slid over a mug without comment. The bar only served one thing.

The drink that nested in his hand was only a substitute: temporary clemency, a deferment of judgement. It wasn’t true forgiveness, but it was the closest any of them could get without asking for absolution from the source. And all these cowards down the length of the bar, they came here to drown their self-loathing in steaming mugs instead of going home to those who might welcome them back in from the cold—because they wouldn’t ask.

The guy next to Jim eyed him curiously. “So why are you here?”

Must be a newcomer. Could he not sense how much Jim didn’t want to talk.

“Me, it’s my sister,” the guy continued. “I hit her dog backing out of her driveway. Damned thing was always getting in the way. She hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“I’m just here for this,” said Jim, taking another sip of his drink, which was just starting to take the icy sting out of his gut. Take the hint. Please leave him to wallow alone.

He’d been drinking that night, was the thing. Emily wouldn’t have left so late otherwise. She’d planned to stay the night. Had brought a bag even. But he couldn’t get out of his head. One word responses. Grunts. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been upset about now—something stupid, inconsequential. And finally she’d had enough. I’ll give you some space then, she’d said and he’d—god, he hadn’t even looked up. Had just sat in that armchair, too self-absorbed to think about her driving home in the dark alone. No lights, rain pounding, roads icy.

“Hey, you okay man?”

Jim grunted. So the guy wasn’t going to take the hint. Plan B, deflect. “What’s your sister like then?”

“Oh man,” said the guy. “So mean. Always has to be in charge, but she—she takes good care of me, you know? After Mom left, after Dad passed. It was us and—that damned dog. Swear she loved that dog more than she loved me. But it was the fluffiest thing you ever met, always there to jump on you, never let you alone and–” The guy stopped. “And I ran it over. She loved that dog so damned much. I swear I didn’t mean to. I swear it and I’m so sorry.”

Jim watched him. “I’m betting your sister knows. But you should tell her anyway.”

“I know that. I know, but –after all this time?”

“Just ask,” Jim said. “Just say the words.” He nodded at the sign behind the bar. Forgive me.

The guy pushed away his drink. “Fine,” he said. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks man. See you next time.”

“Probably not,” said Jim. The guy would never find this bar again if all went right with his apology.

“Hopefully not,” the guy acknowledged, and then he left and the seat beside Jim was blessedly empty.

Jim took another sip of the warmth, savoring the temporary respite.

“And you,” said the bartender. “No one to beg forgiveness from?”

“No,” said Jim. He hadn’t called til the next morning, and Emily didn’t pick up. Didn’t pick up, didn’t pick up, rang through the whole day. He’d figured she was still mad. Had thought he’d give her time. His apology would wait, her forgiveness would be waiting. That’s what he told himself, but when the call did come. From her mom, sobbing. He knew. He’d already known.

And so. Emily would never be able to forgive him.

But that wasn’t why the bar would keep appearing for him, for the rest of his life. The truth was this. He would never forgive himself.