"Deacon Ash"

Chapter 4: The Caretaker

In less than ten minutes, I had stepped through the town bar's main entrance. There had never been a fancy name, no moniker of any sort assigned to the place. Although the town itself in general had become desolate, I was still surprised at the fact that the bar was the only establishment open for business. With the exception of the bar having stayed open well past midnight years ago, I had remembered all the other businesses keeping their doors open up until at least ten pm, eleven pm if business was flourishing. I had come to the conclusion that the town was beyond dying. It was buried six feet under and I was following suit without even knowing it.

I walked through the heavy haze of cigarette smoke, taking in the sights as I meandered over to the bar to order a drink. There were at least twenty people in the place, a far cry from the crowds I had grown accustomed to seeing the hangouts back in Shreveport. All the patrons were elderly men and women in old jeans, baseball caps, and plaid shirts conversing amongst one another. The women watched the news or sports on the few available televisions, puffing on cancer sticks, further saturating the oxygen. A few old men played billiards on worn down pool tables with exceedingly warped cues and others tried their hand at darts, none of them faring so well at either past time.

"Bartender," I called out.

The server came around from the end of the bar, dressed far differently from everyone else. His ensemble was that of a loose gray shirt covered by a white apron and a scarf covering his head. Though dressed distinguishably different from all others, he did share a common quality with them; age.

"Jim Beam and coke," I ordered.

"Is that it?" the bartender asked.

"For now," I said.

The bartender winked and made my drink with precision.

"Enjoy," he said.

He had a smile on his face that made me uneasy. As I tasted my drink, his smile grew.

"How much do I owe you?" I asked him.

I had already reached for my back pocket for my wallet and he refused payment.

"No charge," he said.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"I'm sure," he said.

"Thanks," I said.

I slid my wallet back into my pocket before the generous old bartender changed his mind.

"Don't mention it," he said.

My eyes fell to his attire.

"What are you looking at?" he asked me.

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that...well...you're not dressed like them."

"Should I be?" the bartender asked.

"Uh, no," I said.

"Been a while since you been back," the bartender said.

I studied him, wondering if I had met him during my youth.

"Do I know you?" I asked.

"No," he said. "But I know you."

I racked my brain, trying to remember who he was, where I had met him.

"Seth Jennings," a man called to me.

I turned my attention from the bartender to find him. I scanned the crowd until I saw a man seated with his legs crossed at a table in a shadowy corner. It was difficult to make out anything else about him other than he was fair-skinned and dressed in dark coveralls and fair-skinned.