Tanner Thompson
The bartender shut off the small television that hung behind the bar after the newscaster finally lost his composure. This was a peculiar night, because not a single patron complained about the conclusion of the night. For a bar that hosts only four consistent drinkers, there was usually an argument before everybody was walking out the glossy, wooden door. Instead, everyone looked down at their empty glasses with sad expressions.
“So the world is really going to end? Like that meteor is going to hit the earth?” the first patron asked with disbelief.
“That’s what the guy on the news said,” the bartender explained. “Must be true if it brought the man to tears”.
“He said it’s not going to hit for another seven days…that’s…that’s got to be enough time to do something…right?” thefirst patron asked with a voice mixed with defeat and hope. The bartender shrugged.
The other three patrons started rambling about lost loves, bucket lists, and doomsday bunkers. One drunk needs to call his ex-wife and repair their relationship, another always wanted to see Mount Rushmore.
“I got a bunker that could fit us and all the liquor in this bar if any of you are interested,” said the seediest patron. He sat three stools away from the others, no one ever knew why.
“Look, you all have seven days before the end of the world. Yet, you sit here and do nothing. All talk. I’d die of a heart attack if you all got up and actually did anything for once,” the bartender spoke abruptly.
“Ay, we only just found out about this whole world ending business. Give us a break!” the seedy patron shouted.
“If the world ending isn’t going to light a fire under your asses, nothing will. I’ll see you all in your usual places tomorrow when I open,” the bartender said harshly.
“Ay, fuck you, bud!” the seedy patron screamed, pointing his dirty finger at the bartender.
“Closing time, get out and do something with your seven days,” the bartender said unphased. He would never let a patron get to him. If they wouldn’t remember what they said the night before, why should he?
The seedy patron left in anger, punching the door with his hammer like fists before he walked out. The lovelornand wanderlustful patrons followed calmly. When the door closed, the bartender was left with the defeated patron looking at his empty glass.
“It’s time to go, sir.” the bartender said.
The patron just sat there. He looked as if he was trying to navigate his brain to come up with the right emotion. Was he sad? Scared? Angry?
“Come on, life can’t be that good if you spend every night here drinking Guinness and watching the White Sox lose,” the bartender said as if it would be comforting.
“I love my life,” the patron said as his voice started to crack. “I love this bar. All I want is a pint of Guinness and baseball and my friends.”
“These are your friends?” the bartender asked, astonished.
“You’re all my friends,” the patron responded. He was on the verge of tears. He pounded his fist on the bar, as if to scare the tears back into his eyes.
The bartender looked at him for a moment, grabbed his glass, and poured him another drink. He poured himself one too. He placed the glasses in front of the patron.
“On the house,” the bartender said as he picked up glass to toast the patron. “Why?” the patron asked, “It’s closing time.”“Cause bad news goes down better with a beer,” the bartender proclaimed. They clinked their glasses and began to drink their last drink of the night.