Ending #1

In which we find the first installment of an ending for something that has not been written.


I sat alone and watched the band end its night on stage. The bar itself was nearly empty now, the smart drinkers and the dedicated hook-up artists long since gone. I'd stopped in tonight with the intent of having a drink for each song the band played, but I'd lost my momentum before early, and then the songs got longer and I stopped caring as much or counting at all. My left ear, the one that had been turned toward the stage, was nearly deaf. In my other ear were sounds of the waitresses cleaning up and the bartenders restocking the glasses and bottles.

The walk home was going to be long and cold, neither of which bothered me. I persuaded the waitress who'd been helping me all night to bring me another Scotch, and I gave her my last five dollars on top of whatever the drink cost. She seemed grateful, but her eyes were tired and I knew she, too, just wanted to go home. I considered asking her to walk with me, but I sober enough to see that she was too blonde and too young--and probably too smart--to give me the time of day.

I watched the band tear down the equipment and pack things away. The bartender flashed the lights to let everyone know he was shutting things down, so I finished the Scotch and struggled to get my arms into the sleeves of my heavy Carhartt jacket. I was a bit off-balance when I stood. Outside, the heavy touch of cold December made my eyes water. A Buick Skylark was stuck in a snowdrift near the road, and a group of people giggled and laughed as they tried to get it free. I was happy that they saw no misery in the inconvenience.

Walking the path that ran along the river between the bar and my mobile home, I wondered what Becky was doing right then. The last time we'd talked she'd said something about Ensenada, that it might be a good, safe place to ride out the next few months. She was probably right about that. Or, at least she was right about finding a place to ride things out until the dust settled. If she were still around I'd quibble with her thought that Ensenada was "safe," however. I'm not sure that anyplace is safe after what had happened between us.

But I wanted to think that Becky was okay no matter where she was. "I'd like to be able to tell people this story someday," she'd said. "My kids, maybe. If I have kids, I'd like them to hear the story." I'd told her that would be nice, but as I walked along that river and listened to the ice crackle,  I thought that maybe some stories shouldn't be told.