The Haunted and other short stories

A Man of Business

It is late on a false Saturday which the time is found uncontrollably off. The bar grows increasingly fuller. A rumble goes through the crowd as the reff's call is unfavorable. Liquid lighting burns down a man's throat. He sites in a corner facing an empty wall. His knuckles are dirty and bruised. His aftershave pungent despite the overgrown state of his whiskers. One hand strokes the cold glass as the other clenches repeatedly. His tie is the only item in disarray. As the moments pass by he leans futher over. This slouch unseen in such a man. Despite the initial sip, his beverage remains a constant height. False pretenses have long unravelled.

The bar thins. As they leave the patrons unconsciously give the man a wide berth. His shoes begin the pinch. He removes them with haste, and sets them perfectly aligned besides his chair. He hates himself for it. He takes another drink. This time it burns a bit less. His eyes start to water. He assumes it is from the drink. Before the fire resides he shoot down the rest of the liquid. He regrets the loss. Running both hands through his hair he stares down at the table. Scratches and marks tell its ancient history. It fits. The tables thick but worn appearance matches the masculine warmth of the place. It was a type of place he avoided after his college years.

A foreign pregame started on the television. Familiar gibberish from its supporters flitted bouncing off the walls. He signalled the bartender for another drink. It hardly mattered what. He had no plan to become wasted this night nor did he have a plan not to. His hands had stopped fidgeting and instead laid flat before him. He reflected on the polished manicured look of his appendages. He couldn't remember when he first began thinking about such petty things. This drink tasted stronger. The bartender gave him a sympathetic wink. He probably thought the man had an issue with his girl. The man smirked at the absurdityty. He had a girl in his bed everyday of the week if it pleased him to. No, pretty women were not his issue. He did not have issues. He didn't make mistakes. He worked his entire life not to. How could he miss project the calculations. Years of his time was now worthless. He took a longer swig of his drink. How could he have been passed over? He shook his head. He could have any job he wanted. He'd show them.

He took another drink finishing the glass. The bartender hesitates before pouring him another. The man gave him a look that had faltered industry leaders. He a submissive smile filling him up then scurries away towards his other customers. Served him right the man thought. He has no idea how much I am capable of. The man downs his drink and closes his tab. The game has started and the bar begins to get rowdy again. The man grabs his shoes before he forgets. Leaving the bar he dismisses the idea of getting a cab. The cool air feels pleasant. His mood has improved. The car and store front lights flit past without notice. The man's eyes are scrunched. His focus on his feet in front of him. He must by closer to his building by now. His eyes feel heavy. He sits down by a homeless man. The homeless man helps him down cushioning the man's head with his own coat. He mumbles a casual remark. The man thinks to himself how the homeless man and him are much of the same, passed over upon in the hard concrete jungle.