I'm not terribly precious about my stuff, so if they thought it would work better that way I was happy to oblige them.

Frank Saxon’s Last Call
by Eric San Juan
[Ericubus edit]


There sat Frank Saxon, in a dirty gin joint on Eleventh Avenue, the light bulbs burned out and the toilets backed up. Stink rose from the corners like steam from a manhole cover. The bartender’s name was Ted. Three times divorced, a four-day beard and a mouth that never turned upward, Ted poured his gin and tonics without the tonic. I liked that.

I slouched next to Saxon at the bar. He tried to bum a cigarette. Asked, but I wouldn’t answer. The cigarettes I carry are only for the fairer sex. He asked again, and grunted a curse when I wouldn’t respond. Man was frustrated. He had every right to be.

Downed the first drink and Ted slung me another. The pale white scar above his right eye was begging to have its story told, but I wasn’t here to ask.

Saxon turned to me, his face red, and pointed a long finger, accusing. Lurched a bit. Bastard was drunk. He slurred out a long stream of profanity that was almost poetic and started to get up, looking like he wanted a fight, so I turned away from him, and downed my second gin (no tonic) in a swallow. Man wants to fight, he’ll have to show me he means it.

“Talkin’ to you,” Saxon declares, swaying in a wind that wasn’t there, his shirt stained with marinara and his left shoe untied. He spits out, “Day in a fookin’ life, man. Read da news ta day!”

“Sit down, Frank,” I said into my drink. Beatles. It figured. “You and me ain’t got time for this.”

“Wiff a little help from da friends!” The old drunk seemed suddenly happy. Quick mood changes. I learned to like that about the guy. Frank, he could go from loving you to hating you in a minute, then right back again. “Tay … take sad songs an’ make ‘em better. Let ‘er inna yer heart!”

“Just sit, Frank.”

Put my finger in the air and before I could put it back down Ted had another drink in front of me. It was gone before Saxon was able to get his ass back on his stool. I wheeled about. Faced him.

“It’s time, Frank. It’s time.”

Looked at him long and hard. Real hard. He knew what I meant. The booze passed from his eyes, sobriety peeked out, stood forward, and he straightened himself up as best he could.

“So,” Frank said, “I … I guess I should say my goodbyes, then?”

“Yeah, say your goodbyes, Frank. This job isn’t going to be an easy one. Your goodbyes? This time, you’re gonna mean them.”

He sighed a sigh of defeat. He could be a wild card, Saxon, but the man lived up to his promises, even if he hated every last damn minute of it.

“What about Lucy?” he asked. “She can’t know.”

“She’ll get the news today, my boy. . . . but don’t worry. She won’t know how things really went down.”

The stone look on his bloated face said all that needed to be said. Time to go. I tossed Ted some extra bills as we left, ‘cause my pop always taught me to do right by the man who fills your glass right. Then Saxon and I, we left Ted and his tonic free gin behind.

A few weeks later, that scar’s story was calling to me, so I came back. Saxon never did.

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