A Winter Sleep

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

One more drink became two, and while Rhett wiped down the bar and prepared for closing, Luther and I found our way to one of the tables. He was already drunk, though he seemed harmless enough. I didn’t want to be there, but it was warm and dry, the booze relaxing, and Barrington’s eccentricity struck me as a worthy short-term diversion. I kept one eye on the time, however, because as Rhett had warned, the storm wasn’t about to get better any time soon, and eventually I’d have to drive in this mess.

“So tell me,” Luther began, “Mr. Hooper, are—”

“Call me Ben. I’m not much for formalities either.”

He smiled warmly. “Tell me, Ben, are you far from home?”

“I am.”

“I’ve always found travelers captivating.”

“Why is that?”

Luther sipped his drink, his blue eyes watching me over the rim of the glass. “It’s likely due to the fact that I’ve done so little myself.”

“I would’ve thought just the opposite. You seem like a worldly sort.”

He blushed. “How kind, but no, I— I’ve never been far from home. The concept is wildly alluring, of course, but unfortunately reality is rather different.”

“Almost always is,” I reminded him.

His eyes sparkled, amused. “Indeed.

“In all honesty, I’m not much of a traveler either.” I sipped my drink, having finally given in and ordered a whiskey and soda on the rocks. “I’m no Vasco da Gama, just passing through, that’s all.”

Luther c****d his head, baffled. “Vasco da Gama?”

It seemed impossible for a man of his years, who carried himself in such an erudite and sophisticated manner, to not know who Vasco da Gama was, but his expression struck me as genuine. Either he was far drunker than I realized and couldn’t remember, or he truly had no idea who I was talking about. “The explorer,” I said.

“Ah, I shall have to read up on him. I love to read, and I adore film—all art, really; there’s magic in such things. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“There can be.” Puzzled, I sipped my drink and let it go.

“I suppose to a degree I live vicariously through those things,” he continued, “but I learn so much from them as well. And I love to learn, it’s an absolute obsession of mine.”

“There are worse obsessions.”

“Far worse,” he said, eyes widening playfully.

“Last call, guys,” Rhett said from behind the bar. “I’m closing in five.”

“I think that’s the third last call,” I said softly.

Luther leaned closer, resting his elbows on the table. He looked quite drunk, and I thought he was going to offer some nonsensical response to what I’d said. Instead, he asked, “So where are you headed, Ben?”

The jukebox fell silent, as if by design. The soft sounds of Rhett busily moving about behind the bar and tidying things up filled the otherwise empty void. In that strange moment, in the hush of our dimly lit world and false warmth, it felt like the three of us were impossibly far away from everyone and everything, hopelessly isolated and alone.

Outside, the snow and wind was surely building, but there were no windows here, and not even a hint of sound beyond the walls. The storm felt like a dream, a distant memory.

“Not exactly sure,” I finally answered.

Luther arched an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”

“I don’t know where I’m going. Guess I’ll figure it out once I get there.”

Darkness drifted across his face, like a cloud slowly eclipsing the moon. “My apologies,” he slurred, sitting back with a defeated sigh. “I’ve no right to pry into your personal business. Forgive me. Curiosity is one of my great weaknesses. It often gets the better of me.”

I’d told him the truth, but rather than correct him, I let it go and sipped my drink instead.

“I have a fascination with the stories people have to tell,” Luther explained, “their lives and experiences, where they’re going, where they’ve come from, and why. I’ve virtually no story of my own, so why shouldn’t I?”

His cadence and speech reminded me of a character from an old black-and-white movie, yet seemed perfectly natural coming from this odd man, effortless and in no way forced or studied.

“Everyone has a story,” I told him.

“Yes,” Luther said and smiled politely, “but not everyone has one worth telling.”

“Maybe mine falls into that category.”

“Doubtful.”

“How can you be sure?”

He had more to drink. “Let’s call it instinct.”

“Interesting,” I said. “And what, exactly, does your instinct tell you?”

His eyes narrowed, as if he were losing sight of me. “Pain …”

“Come again?”

“That’s what my instincts tell me, that you’re in pain, and a great deal of it, if I may be so blunt. I sense in you a deep sorrow, Ben. Perhaps it’s so clear to me because I feel such things quite deeply myself.” Luther finished his drink in a quick gulp, but despite his obvious drunkenness, the more he drank the less relaxed he became. “If one takes the time to look, it’s not so difficult to identify shared or similar experiences in others, to sense in them what we feel ourselves, yes?”

I finished my drink. The liquor warmed me, but I’d had enough. I needed to get outside into the cold air and sober up a bit, needed to get back behind the wheel of my car and on the road before I was too drunk and exhausted to drive.

I sat forward and my head spun. I focused on a dated poster on the far wall, a faded number with a bikini-clad woman draped across the hood of a racecar.

There seemed something unusual about it. A poster of that sort fit with the overall feel and style of the place, but there was something in the model’s eyes, a slight discomfort, perhaps. It looked like something out of the 1970s, which made it at least forty years old. If the twenty-something redhead in the bikini was still alive, she was probably a grandmother by now and a long ways off from days spent throwing herself over the hoods of automobiles. I wondered who she was, what her life had been like, and how she spent her days now. Sometimes life wasn’t short at all.

“If you’ll excuse me for just a moment,” Luther said.

His voice broke the spell. “Yeah, listen, thanks for the drinks and the conversation, but I’ve got to go.”

He stood.

“I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable with my—”

“Not at all, but it’s getting late and that storm’s likely worse than it was when I got here. He’s closing up anyway, and I need to get back on the road. It was nice meeting you, though, Luther. Get home safe.”

“I shall do my best.” He offered his hand a second time. “It’s been my pleasure. Truly, and I’m sorry to see you go so soon. Perhaps on some other night, in some other place, we might’ve been friends.”

I shook his hand. “Take care of yourself.”

“You as well, Ben. You as well.”

Luther spun on his heels and staggered his way across the bar to the restrooms. Once he’d slipped inside, Rhett approached the table.

“I know, I know,” I told him. “I’m leaving.”

“It’s cool, it’s not that,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. “Don’t mean to be a prick or nothing, but I never saw that old bastard before in my life until about a month ago. Every time he’s in here, he just sits and drinks until I shut him off, don’t say nothing to nobody. Then he leaves. Unless there’s a stranger in here, then he’s all over them like he’s been with you.”

I shrugged, waiting for the point.

“Be careful with him, is what I’m saying.” After another quick look back, Rhett leaned closer and said, “Pretty sure he’s a homo, dude. Just trying to help out, give you a heads-up. One bro to another, that’s all.”

I stood and put my jacket on. “I’m not your bro.”

He chuckled, amused and oblivious. “Didn’t mean nothing bad by it, don’t matter to me what a man does with his private life, you understand.”

“Yeah, I bet not.” I motioned to the empty glasses. “We all set here?”

“Yup. The old fruit already paid for the last round.”

“That kind of humor must kill at your Klan meetings, huh?”

Whatever mistaken sense of camaraderie Rhett had assumed we shared vanished. He squared his stance, striking a pose he apparently thought intimidating. “f**k you say to me?”

This time it was my turn to chuckle, and I did, hard and right in his face. As I suspected, he did nothing about it, simply stood there looking indignant and somehow even more ridiculous than he had before.

I walked away, out into the night and the waiting storm.