Ages . . . the Renaissance . . . 1776 . . . railways . . . the Panama Canal . . . the Great Depression . . . World War II . . . suburbia . . . JFK . . . Vietnam . . . disco . . . Mount St. Helens . . . 1984 . . . grunge . . . until, WHAM! , he’d hit the wall of the present with the death of Kurt Cobain. Whenever Rick did this mental exercise, there was a magic little piece of time a few numbers past $19.94 when he felt as if he were in the future.
And that’s how he feels standing inside the lounge after barricading the front door against the outside world. Except now there’s no other time stream to slip back into; he’s now living in the future 24/7. He rubs a cut on his left index finger, incurred while moving the ancient cigarette machine, its faded, yellowing image of Niagara Falls making it look older than a relic from King Tut’s tomb. He already knows he’s going to miss the past a lot. He hops the bar and scoops up the Winchester Model 12 shotgun stashed beneath the cash register, then follows Luke to the rear exit, where he and Luke use a dolly to jimmy the hulking ice machine in front of the locked door.
Rick doesn’t know what to make of the trio he’s been billeted with by the gods. As far as he can see, Luke is a disastrous drunk and possibly a scammer, Karen is a soccer mom going wrong, and Rachel is from another planet. But he doesn’t spend too much time thinking about them. He’s busy scanning the back area, looking for something, anything, he could use to kill a human being. But there’s precious little to weaponize, save for broken bottles and some cutlery. Thankfully, he has the shotgun his ex told him he was crazy to keep on the premises. She’d stopped by with Tyler a year or so ago, taken a look around the place, and said it was like a crack den without the crack. “And what’s with the stretch-waist rugby pants you’re wearing, Rick? Jesus, you look like a 1982 liquor store clerk with herpes.” Tyler was cleaning out the dish of bar mix, and Pam slapped his fingers away, saying, “Jesus, Tyler, they’ll put anything in that stuff.” She looked at Rick. “So let me get this straight — you want to keep a shotgun around so you can shoot somebody over something stupid like a hundred bucks from the till?”
Who’s got the last laugh now?
Rick thinks, Right now is the end of some aspect of my life, but it ’ s also a beginning — the beginning of some unknown secret that will reveal itself to me soon .
Rick thinks, Nothing very, very good and nothing very, very bad ever lasts for very, very long .
Rick thinks, My head feels like Niagara Falls without the noise, just this mist and this churning and no real sense of where the earth ends and the heavens begin.
Rick wants a drink.
Rick wants a great big crowbar to crack him open so he can take whatever creature is sitting inside him and shake it clean like a rug, then rinse it in a cold, clear lake, and then put it under the sun to heal and dry and grow and come to consciousness again with a clear and quiet mind.
And then suddenly he’s sitting with three semi-strangers on the ceramic tiles behind the bar, getting at least one of his wishes granted: a double vodka and soda with a lemon twist. Guilt be damned! Rick knows that alcohol will initially enhance his experience of events as they take place, even though in the end it will scramble his recall of the present tense, like sprinkling MSG into the soup tureen of his consciousness and waiting for the time headache to begin.
The group has been discussing what they’ve learned from their jobs — not something Rick might expect in a situation like this, but the unexpectedness of the topic feels intense and correct. Karen has just finished and it’s Rachel’s turn, but before she begins she asks, “Rick, what is the killing capacity of your shotgun?”
“This puppy? Five shots in the chamber, double-ought buck — pretty much all you need for human beings.”
“Are you
And that’s how he feels standing inside the lounge after barricading the front door against the outside world. Except now there’s no other time stream to slip back into; he’s now living in the future 24/7. He rubs a cut on his left index finger, incurred while moving the ancient cigarette machine, its faded, yellowing image of Niagara Falls making it look older than a relic from King Tut’s tomb. He already knows he’s going to miss the past a lot. He hops the bar and scoops up the Winchester Model 12 shotgun stashed beneath the cash register, then follows Luke to the rear exit, where he and Luke use a dolly to jimmy the hulking ice machine in front of the locked door.
Rick doesn’t know what to make of the trio he’s been billeted with by the gods. As far as he can see, Luke is a disastrous drunk and possibly a scammer, Karen is a soccer mom going wrong, and Rachel is from another planet. But he doesn’t spend too much time thinking about them. He’s busy scanning the back area, looking for something, anything, he could use to kill a human being. But there’s precious little to weaponize, save for broken bottles and some cutlery. Thankfully, he has the shotgun his ex told him he was crazy to keep on the premises. She’d stopped by with Tyler a year or so ago, taken a look around the place, and said it was like a crack den without the crack. “And what’s with the stretch-waist rugby pants you’re wearing, Rick? Jesus, you look like a 1982 liquor store clerk with herpes.” Tyler was cleaning out the dish of bar mix, and Pam slapped his fingers away, saying, “Jesus, Tyler, they’ll put anything in that stuff.” She looked at Rick. “So let me get this straight — you want to keep a shotgun around so you can shoot somebody over something stupid like a hundred bucks from the till?”
Who’s got the last laugh now?
Rick thinks, Right now is the end of some aspect of my life, but it ’ s also a beginning — the beginning of some unknown secret that will reveal itself to me soon .
Rick thinks, Nothing very, very good and nothing very, very bad ever lasts for very, very long .
Rick thinks, My head feels like Niagara Falls without the noise, just this mist and this churning and no real sense of where the earth ends and the heavens begin.
Rick wants a drink.
Rick wants a great big crowbar to crack him open so he can take whatever creature is sitting inside him and shake it clean like a rug, then rinse it in a cold, clear lake, and then put it under the sun to heal and dry and grow and come to consciousness again with a clear and quiet mind.
And then suddenly he’s sitting with three semi-strangers on the ceramic tiles behind the bar, getting at least one of his wishes granted: a double vodka and soda with a lemon twist. Guilt be damned! Rick knows that alcohol will initially enhance his experience of events as they take place, even though in the end it will scramble his recall of the present tense, like sprinkling MSG into the soup tureen of his consciousness and waiting for the time headache to begin.
The group has been discussing what they’ve learned from their jobs — not something Rick might expect in a situation like this, but the unexpectedness of the topic feels intense and correct. Karen has just finished and it’s Rachel’s turn, but before she begins she asks, “Rick, what is the killing capacity of your shotgun?”
“This puppy? Five shots in the chamber, double-ought buck — pretty much all you need for human beings.”
“Are you
Similar Books
