Feelin’ Like Hell
Nils Gilbertson
You’d think running a dive bar in a college town would be a pain in the ass, but the truth is it wasn’t so bad. Normally I’d cut through campus on the way to work. It was an extra ten minutes, but I almost felt at home there—not the only one hungover as hell. I worked at Frank’s Bar & Grill. It rebelled against the appetites of the times. Dreary enough to say we don’t serve cosmos or vegan shit, but not to the point you’d expect to find someone fine-tuning their suicide note every time you walk in. The bar straddled the back left corner of the large, rectangular room, while booths hugged the adjacent wall and tables scattered across the rest of the floor. The walls were tattered, with unrecognizable—to at least the last couple generations—sports memorabilia and road signs that looked like they were from before roads existed.
I usually worked behind the bar on Fridays. The college kids always came to the joint for cheap drinks before going out to the flashier spots, the ones with seizure-inducing neon lights and music that sounds like you’re putting sheet metal through an industrial paper shredder. Then, when they cleared out—excited to poison their still-developing minds and wake up in foreign beds, heads pulsating—I became my own bartender. I turned off whatever dreck was playing and put on some Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Kris Kristofferson, and the likes. By nine the kids were out of there, and so was Frank, leaving a few of the regular drunks and me.
One guy came in damn near every night. A large man, he’d lumber in, always sporting loose-fitting jeans and a plaid work shirt that clung to his sturdy shoulders. Never uttering a word beyond his regular order, he’d start with a couple of Evan Williams on the rocks. About an hour in he’d move on to draft Budweiser, putting them back until he left at 11:00. Not around 11:00, at 11:00. I don’t know how he did it; the guy didn’t even look at the damn clock. He never sat at the bar, always a booth. But, without an extraneous syllable, he’d reject my offers to bring his drinks over. Instead, he made his five or six pilgrimages to the bar and back throughout the night. In the time he spent in his booth, he never chatted with anyone or glanced at the TV. Rather, he sat there for a couple of hours, only moving to wet his lips before delivering his glass to them.
The man fascinated me. He was content. I couldn’t determine whether he was deep in thought, or so removed from the realm of thought that he couldn’t be anything but content. Either way, he always remained tranquil. He was at peace—not trying to grab a hold of the world and situate it to his liking. Rather, he let it pass by, merely experiencing it and basking in its apathy.
The last of the barflies paid their tabs and staggered out near closing time, and I put the joint to sleep. I poured myself one last splash of whiskey and headed home. On the walk back I thought about the man in the bar. I decided he must be detached from thought, rather than immersed in it. He was too peaceful. There was nothing peaceful about thinking. Peaceful meant free from conflict, and all my thoughts were quite conflictive. They were inside me arguing with each other. I was nothing more than their surrogate. Hell, it felt selfish to even claim ownership. I realized them, I comprehended them, yet I didn’t consent to them, nor did I choose to think them, so how were they my thoughts? Where did they come from? They pinballed around up there with no restraint, culminating in no movement, no progress at all. The man in the booth—if he was thinking—thought in a synchronized fashion, his ideas, judgments, and aspirations harmoniously flowing in a single direction.
***
I watched the man for weeks. Despite my opportunities, I couldn’t muster the nerve to take the seat across from him. I wasn’t concerned with invading his privacy; I chatted up the old drunks all the time. Rather, I hesitated to combine our worlds. I couldn’t bring myself to contaminate his universe of calm with mine of turbulence. So for several weeks, I watched him. I watched in anticipation of him doing something, anything. He must at least check his watch, or scratch his nose, or show some subtle indication that he existed in the same world as me. But it wouldn’t come. Only the slow, rhythmic delivery of his glass to his lips, and back down to the table. Sometimes I found myself shaking my head in frustration and retreating to Frank’s office. I wasn’t like him. I hated him and admired him and envied him. His repose mocked me.
A month later I made up my mind. That week I eyed the man like he’d evaporate if I averted my gaze. My legs wobbled and my stomach tightened as I poured his drinks and watched him walk back to his booth. It was invigorating to see him move beyond delivering the glass to his mouth. I squandered half a shipment of cocktail napkins scribbling potential lines for when I talked to him, but ultimately decided to wing it. On a Friday, once everyone else had cleared out except a couple of regulars, I decided such a night was as good as any.
I walked by a few times, losing my nerve and wiping down already clean tables nearby instead. On the fourth try, a few drinks between, I approached him.
“Sorry to bother you sir, but mind if I ask you a question?”
He looked up, still calm, and without a trace of surprise said, “Well it’s your bar isn’t it? I figure you can ask whatever you want.”
“Thanks, I won’t take too much of your time.” I joined him in the booth. I’d taken a drink with me for some reason, I guess to appear social. “I notice you’re in here a lot, and I’m glad you are. I don’t run the place, I’m kind of Frank’s number two guy, but he’s older and kind of an asshole so—never mind. Anyway, this might seem like a strange question,” I said, as if prefacing it as such would somehow make it less strange. “But you always seem so calm and collected. And you’re the only customer who sits there, and…” I didn’t know whether to go any further. He sensed this and almost smiled.
“And what, you’re worried about me? You sound like my ex-wife.”
“No, not worried. You’re the only person I’ve ever seen that understands his surroundings, on a large scale, like a human existence scale. Everyone else blocks it all out, and I do it too, but you don’t do that.”
What a hell of a thing to say to a stranger. Yet, for the first time, the rhythmic delivery of his glass to his lips ceased. He placed his beer on the table and raised an eyebrow. It was silent for a moment.
“I don’t know what to tell you, except that I work construction eight hours a day, and I come here to relax. I like what you and Frank do with the place, not all flashy, music is about as good as it gets these days, sometimes you even put on some older stuff, which I assume is Frank’s doing. No one bothers me. Except you watchin’ me I guess. I’m sorry if that’s disappointing to hear, but it’s about all I got for you.”
“But what do you think about? I mean, are you thinking? You don’t watch TV much or anything.”
“Nothin’ too exciting, my family, my job. I don’t think much about what I’m thinkin’ ’bout. It’s a relief after a hard day’s work.”
He noticed again that I expected something more from his answer. Hell, I had no idea what I wanted from the guy. He didn’t owe me a damn thing, much less an explanation. Yet my frustration still grew, I ached for something, anything to justify how much I’d thought about him.
I sighed. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, I know this is a bit unorthodox. But hey, I’m glad you like how we keep it simple here, it’s the only reason I can stand it. And for taking away some of your relaxation time, tonight’s drinks are on the house.” I got up
“I appreciate that and don’t think twice about it. Good talkin’ to you.”
“Oh, one more thing,” I said. “The old stuff you were talking about, the Cash and Kristofferson and Haggard, I put that on.”
The man grinned with surprise and approval. “Good for you son, I’m glad to know some younger people still appreciate quality music.”
“What do you like about it?” I asked, in one last, desperate attempt to get something out of him.
“I don't know,” he replied. “It’s what I’ve listened to all my life. It’s relatable. How ’bout you?”
I paused for a moment before answering. “They’re all about feeling like hell. And I can tell by their voices they do. It’s human, I guess.”
He grinned. “Guess there’s something to be said for feelin’ like hell.” I smiled and nodded and thanked him again for his time
***
The following week, the man stopped coming in. A week after that, I opened the bar to find a briefcase with fifty grand inside, and a note that said, “Here’s to feelin’ like hell.
Panic won out at first. I figured the money was dirty and someone would come after it. But soon another thought crept in, countering that the man could be some real estate big shot who liked to keep a low profile. Maybe our conversation moved him, and this was the only way a guy like him knew how to show it. And even if the cash was dirty and someone came looking for it, they sure wouldn’t be happy if I handed it over to the cops, or gave it to charity, or tossed it in a lake somewhere. The safest thing was to hold onto it for a while. Then, when enough time had passed, I could start to invest it back into the bar. After all, Frank was getting up there and always going on about how I better take care of the place after he croaked
I didn’t touch the money for a month. I kept it in a safe in the back. Frank had access, but he hadn’t poked around back there since he still had a head of hair. I didn’t tell him a word. I didn’t want to involve him. In case things went bad, I wanted it to be on me.
No matter how reasonable I thought my plan was, the anxiety the money caused festered. Greedy voices argued that the money was a gift; it was rightfully mine and I had no good reason keeping me from depositing it in my bank account. Lord knows I needed it. Anxious voices pleaded that I take it to the police, or at least raise the issue with Frank. These dreadful what if propagators ensured that every morning I woke up, forehead damp, half-expecting a couple of gangsters perched on bar stools when I arrived at work—like that one Hemingway story with all the dialogue. During my shifts, I caught myself glancing over at the office intermittently, as if the bundle of bills was a hostage formulating a plan to escape the musty confines of the timeworn safe. It seeped into my subconscious. Each night I had a dream of the money being stolen or lost, or shadowy figures chasing after me for it. It corroded my insides like an ulcer. But I knew that no matter what I did with it, it would eat at me the same.
When Frank got sick and the bar hit a rough patch, material necessity outweighed my inner turmoil. I started putting chunks of cash into the business. It was entrepreneurial, I told myself. It was to help out an old man, a friend who didn’t have much time left. Spending it made me feel better for a while, like I was hacking off bits of a tumor. I redid the floors and put in a decent sound system. Before I knew it the cash was half gone.
***
A few months after I received the money I opened the bar one day to find a man waiting for me inside. Blue slacks and a checkered dress shirt hung awkwardly from his wiry frame and his hairline was running away from his forehead. He sat at the same booth the man in the plaid work shirt used to frequent.
“Kyle Quincy?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“Uh-huh.” My head throbbed and I went to the bar to crack a beer. “You want anything?”
He smiled and shook his head. “I’m Lou Pullman. Do you know why I’m here?”
“Health inspector?” I said as I took the seat across from him. He was a bit of a letdown. My thoughts—the paranoid ones—had promised a burly gangster with tattoos and scars, and before me was a well-dressed, forgettable middle-aged man. Yet, he carried with him the demeanor of a man who treated the world and everyone in it as his plaything. His ordinariness accentuated his sinister mien.
He chuckled as if he understood my disappointment. Then he pulled out a picture of the man in the plaid work shirt and placed it before me. “This is Marty Frederick, a former colleague of mine. I run a commercial construction business in town, and I regret to say Marty wasn’t exactly honest in his dealings.”
“That’s a real shame,” I said, taking a slurp of beer.
“Look,” he said, leaning his arms on the table. “I’m not going to ask you any questions, because I already know exactly what happened. I know Marty loved this place, I know he got spooked after he stole from me, and I know he left it all here. It took some doing to figure this all out, but I assure you, Marty paid for it.”
“I’m sorr—” I started, but he cut me off with a slight raise of his hand. Then, he put another picture in front of me. It was the man, less intact than before. His face was mangled and hard to look at but I knew it was him.
“Now,” said Lou, “this is the part where you say you didn’t steal anything from me, and that you played no role in it, and that you’re nothing more than the unlucky beneficiary. I understand that. I can be reasonable about that. Do I seem like a reasonable guy to you?”
After a moment I realized the question wasn’t rhetorical, and answered, “Sure, I guess.”
He smiled. He wore the ordinary creases on his face like a mask.
“A reasonable guy realizes that you don’t deserve the punishment Marty received. That said, the money’s mine and I expect it back, so here’s what we’re going to do. First, you’ll hand over whatever you have left right now. Then, you’ll get the rest back to me within a month, plus, let’s say fifty percent interest on top.”
I scoffed. “You know the kind of margins we run here? I couldn’t pay you in that timeframe even if I started robbing passed out drunks. I’ll give you your money back and pay back what I spent when I can, but that’s all I can offer.”
The man raised an eyebrow at me like he wasn’t accustomed to hearing a counteroffer. He pulled some memos out of his workbag and glanced over them. “The owner, Frank McElroy, isn’t doing so well. Looks like you’re the heir to this place. How about this, if you can’t make the payments, we agree that when you get ownership you sign it over to us.”
“Like hell I will. How about I call the cops and tell them you broke into my bar?”
“Sure, and I’ll tell them about the fifty grand of stolen cash that you’ve been spending. I’ll tell them about how you and the man who stole it have been seen chatting in here—plotting, if you will.”
I didn’t know what to say. He had me there. I was smart enough to realize this guy was ready and willing to pin the whole thing on me if he needed to.
“I’m not a monster,” he continued. “I wouldn’t pry the property from a man’s cold dying hands. We can talk it over once Frank is no longer with us. In the meantime, I’ll take back what you have now.”
Thoughts crept in, spanning from give him whatever he wants, to put the bottle in your hand through his skull. The moment compelled me to face the split down the middle of me, separating the impotent victim from the barbarous killer. My right hand quivered as it gripped the bottle, the limb begging the motor cortex to send the signal. It didn’t come. Instead, a couple of large—but still ordinary—guys came in and Lou gave them a nod and they walked out with the remaining cash five minutes later.
After I recovered via a few bourbons I did some research on Pullman. He’d made a habit of beating raps with no apparent effect on his net worth. He was mostly accused of money stuff, embezzlement and the likes. I guess that’s what good lawyers will get you. I figured Marty was at the bottom of a large body of water somewhere. I tried to pay the interest that next month, even dipping into my shallow savings. It wasn’t enough. I met with Pullman one more time and agreed that when Frank died and the bar was mine, I’d pass it on for a meager price. Frank lasted about four months. By the end, with the specter of Pullman looming, I was relieved to get the news.
***
After I signed the place over, I moved back in with my mom a few towns away. It was tough going for a while. I spent about six months in her basement drinking and dwelling on the whole thing, attempting to pinpoint the moment it all went wrong—the moment I could have done something different that would’ve changed the course of it all for the better. I couldn’t do it, which made things worse. My existence was one of those choose your own adventure books where all the timelines converge into a single heap of shit.
Eventually, a buddy pulled me in on a restaurant venture of his. I guess he thought I had experience. Or he felt bad for me. It did better than I expected, and a year later I had some money of my own again, money that didn’t make me look over my shoulder. I got a place, started making my bed in the morning, and, to everyone’s surprise, even met a girl.
I went back to Frank’s a couple of years later. I was visiting some old friends, but I made a point to stop by and see what Pullman had turned it into. Standing in its place was a chic farm to table restaurant. It was called The Social, or Social Club, or something forgettable like that. It had young professionals in collars and khakis spilling out of it.
Sunday afternoon before I left, hungover, sitting on a bench at the train station, zoning out and listening to music, I saw him. It was Lou Pullman on the platform opposite mine. His thinning brown hair concealed his scalp a little less but besides that, he was the same. My gaze soon shifted to the man beside him. Next to Pullman, wearing a baseball cap and sporting a beard, was the man, still in his loose-fitting jeans and plaid work shirt.
My mind turned from its usual disjointed panoply of voices into a singular, brutish rage—a rage modern man has learned to subdue, yet which, when released, controls the body like strings do a marionette.
The two men shook hands and went in different directions. I made my way across the tracks to the opposite platform. I felt my primitive instincts wake from a long slumber and boil the blood in my veins. Our conversation in the bar from years earlier resurfaced in my mind, igniting my fury. He walked through the small downtown and I stayed about half a block back, stewing, contemplating the most harmful object I had on my person. I had nothing, but I continued to stalk him. A few blocks later he turned into a residential neighborhood, kids tossing each other pop flies in the street. He walked up the driveway of a light gray, two-story Craftsman with a manicured lawn and cozy porch surrounded by a white railing. He went inside. I stopped and took a breath before charging the front door.
I banged on it knuckles first, causing a satisfying sting that reverberated down my forearm. A woman of about forty with dyed blonde hair opened the door. A young, wide-eyed boy clung to her pant leg. With a smile, she said, “Hello, can I help you?”
“I—I,” I stammered. I must’ve been a mess because her face transformed into a concerned, maternal gaze.
“Are you okay? Here, let me give you a hand…”
I lurched backward and stumbled onto the porch, breathing heavy. I heard footsteps behind her.
“Is everything all r—” and there he was. He stared down at me, as his sturdy frame filled the doorway. I thought his eyes would say something. Sorry, maybe. Or, please don’t say anything to my family. But there was nothing. He was the same—calm and clarity coursing through him. Not a scintilla of remorse flickered in his empty, hazel eyes.
As all three of them stared at me, I cleared my throat and managed to gasp, “I’m sorry, I have the wrong house.” Then I left and staggered back to the train station. The adrenaline binge that had enveloped me waning, my physical hangover warped into a hangover of the soul. As my being ached, I thought longingly of my previously throbbing head and curdling stomach. By the time I returned to the bench I’d occupied earlier I was hollow—depleted of my essence. Thoughts reentered my mind. Some disapproved of the blind rage that overtook me when I saw the man, alive and well, with Lou Pullman; others taunted me for leaving his home without blood on my hands. I took the next train out of town. As Kristofferson’s deep, heavy voice seeped through my headphones, I felt a feeling I hadn’t felt in a while.
Nils Gilbertson is a crime and mystery fiction writer and practicing attorney. A San Francisco Bay Area native, Nils currently resides in our nation’s capital, where he spends his time avoiding politicians. His short stories have appeared in Mystery Weekly, Pulp Modern: Tech Noir, Close to the Bone, and others. He is currently working on a novel. You can reach him at nilspgilbertson@gmail.com and find him on Twitter @NilsGilbertson.