Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 38

Work was slow, as it always was on Christmas Eve. But Richie was drunk, which was good. He liked being drunk. I have control over it, he told himself, conveniently forgetting about all the years he hadn't.

In the back office of his bar, Richie was alone, contemplating. It was a confining room, small like a walk-in closet. There were no windows and the desk he sat at ran the length of the wall. A small, oscillating fan blew hot air across the room in waves. In front of him was the paperwork of a business owner, most of which consisted of unpaid bills. The fan blew loose sheets of paper on the floor, where he'd let them stay. In his hand was a Christmas coffee mug. Large green and red lettering read BAH HUM MUG. He brought it to his lips and inhaled the aroma of scotch, then warmed his gut with a splash of it.

He felt cowardly. It's what drove him to drink. What kind of protector was he?

The kind that stays alive.

Emptying the mug down his throat, he got up from the desk and walked out of his office and into the bar to get a refill. Decorations hung in his way like dangling webs. He drunkenly swatted down the lettering of Feliz Navidad as it grazed his scalp.

"Take it easy, Scrooge," Lizzy, the bartender, said. She was wearing a Santa hat. She was the one who'd decorated the bar, climbing ladders and hanging cliché gimmicks up with corny Christmas sayings. She'd even worn elf shoes that came to an upward point and bells on the tips that jingled every time she moved. The merry sound of it drove Richie nuts. He grunted as he walked past her behind the bar and went for the bottle of scotch. Lizzy shrugged.

The bar itself was empty, besides for a few stragglers of the lonesome kind. A fat Mexican man sat at the far end, drinking Jack Daniels straight.

Richie told Lucy it would be a busy night and the place would need him. It was a craven act and he felt like the gutless wonder he was. Drinking helped to bury it.

Lizzy had a pack of Camels by the register. Richie picked it up and pulled one out. He'd never smoked before, but the habit felt perfectly fitting for the moment. Lucy always smoked when she was nervous and swore it helped.

"Going out back for a smoke," he declared to Lizzy.

"Since when do you smoke? And sure you can have one," she sardonically said.

"It's my New Year's resolution to try new things." His smile evaporated once he turned around.

Outside it was snowing at a steady pace. The weather was supposed to turn for the worse. Richie wasn't looking forward to the rain, but the snow he loved to watch. It reminded him of being a child and imagining what it would be like inside of a snow globe. He stayed underneath the canopy, sipping out of his mug and admiring the snow. Above him was the sign to the bar, The Eastside.

The parking lot ahead of him was empty. Snow covered the black concrete. The Camel was in his lips. He liked the taste of it. The lighter sparked a flame. Richie inhaled. His lungs caught fire; his hands went to his knees as he bent over and coughed them out—his BAH HUM MUG cup tipped, almost spilling out his precious scotch.

To the left and behind him, the alley stood, between his bar and the dollar store next to it. While Richie was hunched over, he noticed there were footprints in the snow, leading from the parking lot straight into the alley.

He straightened himself. The cold seemed to hit him all at once. But it wasn't just the weather, it was from the eerie sense of being watched. He sipped his scotch to warm himself and fuel his courage, what little he had left. The footprints were large, seemingly belonging to a clown. He followed them as he took another sip, then followed that with another drag from the cigarette. This time he didn't cough. Slowly, he moved, creeping to the end of the building, around the corner to the alley, to where the footprints traveled. The cigarette stayed in his mouth and the smoke rose from the cherry into his eyes, stinging them and causing him to squint. The wind blew, howling in his ears. He rounded the corner, holding his mug up as a weapon.

A black cat hissed. It jumped from the ground, up on a box, then onto the dumpster. Richie couldn't help but laugh. He took another long drag from the cigarette and flicked the butt of it at the cat, who merely hissed again, dodged it, and limberly scurried down the alley in flash.

Richie missed the remaining footprints, which led all the way down the alley, around the building, and back to the front.

As he laughed, snow crunched behind him. By the time he registered the crunch as boots, it was too late. The BAH HUM MUG fell from his hand to the snow. It rolled under the dumpster. It would stay there until after the holidays, when the garbage man came and rolled the dumpster out. He'd wipe the mug clean from the mounting grime and claim it as his own.