Last Orders — a short story for English reading and listening

Rich rang the bell with a sharp tug.

“That’ll be it, gentlemen,” he called out to the last stragglers in the bar. “Last orders.”

It was coming up to midnight. The state law allowed patrons to drink until twelve, but there was always some leeway.

As long as the rules weren’t abused in any way, no cops would close a bar down just because a couple of guys were shooting the breeze and finishing their beers.

One guy in a dishevelled suit nodded to Rich, took one final gulp of his beer, stood, and left.

Some customers didn’t need to be told twice. Most just needed to be told to go home.

Talk to your wife for a change. Come back tomorrow, nothing ever changes in this place.

But then there was the guy two stools down.

He came in four, five nights a week, never spoke to anyone. His face told the world what he was.

A drunk.

On the rare nights he didn’t come to the bar, he was probably somewhere else, or at home, but still drinking. Burst blood vessels coursed through little avenues from his big bulbous nose and across his cheeks.

His eyelids sat like two heavy bags beneath his eyes. Eyes that were permanently bloodshot and could barely focus on the world.

In front of him, a warm glass of beer that he clutched between his hands as if praying to it. Beside that, the empty shot glass that he really drank from.

The cheapest house whisky.

“Ready, Jakey?”

The man raised his head, seeing Rich as if for the first time.

“I just —” he said. “Just, y’know —”

Rich eased the glass from his soft grip.

“First one’s on me tomorrow night, Jake,” he said.

The man’s eyes followed the glass as it left his hands and went to the sink.

He nodded, slowly got to his feet, rubbed the top of his head and staggered to the door. He disappeared into the night.

“He looks a bit worse for wear.”

Rich turned to the voice and saw a man sitting at the far end of the bar.

When had he come in?

He must have missed him before. Not even a busy night, but they all tend to blur into each other.

“Yeah, I kind of feel sorry for him,” said Rich. “But I can’t let them think they can stay here all night.”

The man smiled. A sympathetic smile.

He raised his own glass. It had a slice of lemon in it and the remnants of some ice.

“May I?” he said.

Rich took the man in. His appearance was clean. He looked respectable.

Rich took the glass. “Sure, what was it?”

“Gin and tonic. Easy on the tonic. No need to drown it.”

Rich poured the drink.

As he did, he scouted the rest of the room with his eyes. Everyone gone.

Just this one guy.

He had never seen him before.

And the accent. British? Or maybe some high-class European accent?

“You in for business?” said Rich. There was a large conference hall in the centre of town. Every couple of months, there would be a huge get-together for some industry or another.

One time there had been a big event for computer games. The whole town was taken over by computer geeks and weird kids dressed up as heroes or villains.

Like the circus had come to town for a week.

“Me? No.” The man shook his head. “Just visiting an old friend.”

Rich put the drink in front of him.

“Well, enjoy your time here,” he said. “Nothing goes on much around here.”

The man smiled, lifted his glass and drank. Rich watched as the man tilted the glass all the way back, drinking the gin down in one smooth flow.

He pulled the glass down and smiled back at Rich.

“How about another?”

Rich let out a small laugh and shook his head.

“Sorry, man. I can’t do that.”

The quiet filled the bar and Rich, his barman’s sense kicking in, felt a shift in the atmosphere. A small tension rising in the smoke-filled room.

He slowly turned back to face the man.

“Another,” he said. No smile this time.

Rich had seen people like this before. Tough guy wannabes. But you humour them once, and they are on their way.

“One more, buddy. Then you have to go.”

He poured the drink and placed it in front of the man.

The man’s eyes had a strange light in them. Like a blueish tint. Like a small fire in them.

He lifted the glass and drained it.

“Another.” He held the glass out.

Rich stared back at him. “No. That’s it. You gotta go.”

Rich held his ground. He was younger than this dude. And maybe stronger.

The man kept his hand out with the glass in it.

“I said: another.”

Rich shook his head.

“No.”

The man clenched his grip on the glass and it cracked, then smashed into his closed fist. He squeezed hard on the chunks of broken glass and blood poured from his hand to the bar top.

“Get me another, Richard,” the man said.

Rich took a step back. He hadn’t seen anything like this before. And the man used his name? Had he told him?

“I think you better go,” said Rich. “Before I call the cops.”

“You’re not going to call anybody,” said the man. “And you are going to pour me another drink. While you’re at it, pour yourself one too. We have a long trip ahead of us.”

Rich didn’t like this one bit.

He reached for the phone and put the receiver near his ear. No tone. He tapped at the phone, but it was dead.

“Leave. Now.”

The man closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Get me a drink, Richard. Get yourself one. Then we have to go.”

“Go where? What are you talking about?”

A small flash of fire in the man’s eyes.

“We are going to hell,” said the man. “It’s time.”