The Last Call

Oakvale, Indiana “The Oak & Ale” I brushed my finger against the rim of the coffee mug. The drop of coffee along the side is painted like watercolor across a canvas of white ceramic. I hear the sound of bells ringing as the front door to the tavern swung open. I didn’t bother to glance over my shoulder as I sat in the bay window watching the morning birds and listening as they began their hymns. We didn’t open until ten, and the clock on the wall was barely pushing for nine-thirty. Stan’s usual “Mornin’,” bellowed through the empty bar. “Good morning,” I replied. Stan achingly walked over to the neons, flipping the switches on “Yeungling,” and “Coors Light.” “Rough night last night?” I pointed towards his sore legs. “Damn Crenshaws didn’t leave until one in the mornin’ last night. I had to practically throw Billy out by his damn collar just so I could close up and go home.” he grunted back as he shuffled his way towards the office. Stan is the owner of The Oak & Ale. A small-town dive-bar that is solely dependent on the alcoholism of its patrons and townsfolk. It’s been open for over five generations of Stan’s family. I’m one of the two bartenders this place can afford to keep around. I normally say we only have one bartender, being me, considering the fact that the other bartender only works, but maybe once or twice every two weeks. So, it’s usually just me. At least, as far as the regulars are concerned. I finish my cup of coffee and place the empty mug in the sink behind the bar, grabbing my notebook before stopping at the open door to the office and kitchen. Stan is busy typing away on the computer, muttering something about inventory, and wishing everything was still “the paper way.” The office is old and a little bit musty. Wood paneling covers the walls and stacks of paper and liquor orders sit on top of boxes marked “Michelob Ultra,” and “Jameson Irish Whiskey.” Stan never was one for organizing. Organized chaos is what he liked to call it. I took a sharp right and walked up the stairs to the upstairs apartment. Stan began renting it out to me when my parents passed, considering I was freshly eighteen with no savings and no sense of what to do or where to go. His only stipulation was that I would work for him, as a bartender, until I saved up enough money to formally begin paying rent. I ended up doing this within just a few months, however, I fell in love with bartending and with my new home, so I stayed. Plus, Stan is really the only person I have nowadays and me, for him. He lives in the basement apartment, completely separate from the bar and my apartment. We really only see each other in the early early mornings, on paydays, or throughout shifts occasionally. I open the door to my apartment and am immediately taken aback by the heat. I had completely forgotten how quick a place could warm up in Indiana heat. I walked over to the windows lining the kitchen wall, swinging open each of them. The thin sheer curtains flowed through the slight breeze. I turned on the sink faucet and splashed cool water on my face. I don’t have to work today, so my plan is to venture out to the Oakvale Library to return old books and find new ones. I walked over to the small washer and dryer sitting in my kitchen. It wasn’t a huge apartment, but it was what I needed and now, what I wanted. For a studio apartment, it is a bit more spacious than something you’d find in the city. I grabbed a thin dark green shirt and a pair of jean shorts. I wrestled them on, and walked into my bathroom. The lime green and white tile shone the morning orange light everywhere. Patterns played on the bathroom vanity. I ran my brush through my light brown hair. Staring at myself in the mirror. My light green eyes catching that morning sun and illuminating like a forest’s floor. Greenery with hazel patches of branches and vines. I never found myself beautiful, but I knew my eyes were the best part of me. I finished brushing my hair and teeth, got dressed, threw my hair into a claw-clip, and left the bathroom. I grabbed my keys, notebook (I take it everywhere with me), and my wallet. After throwing on some canvas shoes, I closed my apartment door and walked back down the stairs to the bar. By now, the Oak & Vale was open. The neon sign flashing in the corner. Frank was sitting in his usual seat, right smack in the middle of the bar rail. He was an interesting character. Didn’t bother anyone as long as no one bothered him. Tipped well, and always drank light beer. Never liquor. Not since his wife died. He arrives 10 minutes before the bar opens, and leaves 10 minutes before we close. Like clockwork. There are no other patrons in the bar except for Frank. Stan is tending bar today, wiping water stains on the glassware with a rag while talking to Frank. I make sure I have everything I need, wave goodbye, and leave out the side door next to the office. The gravel of the parking lot crunches against my canvas shoes. Everything is still slightly wet from the morning dew, my Daddy’s old Ford Bronco waiting patiently for me next to the big oak tree across the lot. I inherited the old thing, as my father inherited it from his father. It struggles most days, but it gets me where I need to go and back. I swing open the driver's door and slide into the seat. Inserting the keys into the ignition, I give it a few turns until the engine stirs reluctantly, then springs to life. Pulling out of the parking lot, the gravel crunches beneath the tires. The road ahead still bears the remnants of rain, and my worn-out tires voice their complaint as I merge onto the main road. The sun, no longer tinged with orange, now glares mercilessly, casting harsh light upon the landscape. The town of Oakvale doesn’t have much, but for the people who reside here, it’s just enough. I was raised here by my parents, Mary and James. A stay-at-home Mom and a factory-worker. My childhood is filled with happy holidays, fun-filled summers, and a loving home. Until the fire. The summer after I graduated high school, I was sitting in my parents’ den at our home on Magnolia Avenue. A beautiful two-story farmhouse with a long driveway and plenty of land to go on adventures. I was watching “I Love Lucy,”lounging on a green couch that had been the setting for generations of family photos. My mother was in the kitchen and my father was outside tending to my mother’s garden. He didn’t have to work at the factory that day. He always spent his days off with my mother and anything she needed help with. If one were to define love, it’d be my parents. Every childhood memory I have of them is love. They loved each other. Soulmates. My mother hollered, “supper!” and my father came in, immediately heading to the kitchen sink to scrub his hands. I turned off “I Love Lucy,” and shuffled over to the dinner table. The aroma of baked chicken and potatoes with garlic and asparagus filled the air. My mother finished making our plates, setting them down before us. I was halfway through my plate before my father dried his hands and sat down. They spoke about the garden and how the vegetables and herbs were coming along. My father pointed out various things that could improve or benefit the garden, along with things that needed to be done (weeding, etc.). My mother looked at him, listened patiently. Infatuation all over her face. They met young, married young, and had me, young. The “honeymoon phase” never ended. Following dinner, I settled back onto the emerald couch and switched on "Psycho," the classic original film in timeless black and white—a personal favorite of mine. Even after my parents retired for the night, I continued to watch, gradually succumbing to fatigue until darkness overcame. All I remember about the next series of events is that the smell of smoke is what woke me up. Then came an intense wave of heat, overwhelming and suffocating. After that, darkness enveloped me. When consciousness returned, I found myself in a hospital bed, only to be met with the devastating news that my adoring, deeply enamored parents were dead.