“Jacko, you think you’ve had
enough?” He asks while pouring two fingers of Wellers on top of the fresh ice
cubes he just dropped into my glass. I follow the dark amber liquid as it
cascades over the crystal cubes; I didn’t like that he picked up the ice with
his fingers instead of a scoop, but I don’t say anything. I don’t like that he
calls me Jacko, no one else does,
it’s not my name. But again, I don’t say anything. Ice with fingers, names that
don’t belong—those are unimportant things, things that don’t matter anymore.
Not when your falling away and fading out.
“It’s a beautiful thing.” I say
again, lighting a fresh smoke with the glowing end of the dying one. I’ve been
a smoker for more years than I can recall, but I’ve never chained-smoked, until
tonight. There’s probably a Freudian diagnosis buried in there somewhere—but I
don’t really care.
“What’s beautiful, Jacko?” Micky
smiles while pulling a draught of cold beer for another suffering patron.
Counting Micky, six other people, strangers without faces, have found Finnegan’s Rock on this cold Saturday
night. Five years ago, the place would have been packed wall to wall with
millennials spilling drinks, telling lies and dancing to the sounds of the night.
Not anymore. People move on. They want
louder music, cheaper booze, more chances.
Available in paperback Beautiful Dying by J Hirtle
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