by Bō Jinn
Night had long fallen by the time the old man ended his story. A diffuse light over the bar counter took the place of the light of day. The masses, brimming with festiveness, dispersed from the city centre and were by now making their merry ways into the promised future … beginning with their preferred watering holes.
The young barkeep gaped into his glass, wordless. His son had fallen asleep on a bench at the back of the tavern. The low burble from the media broadcast which had transitioned from the live coverage of Capitol Plaza to a group of conversers joined in one of the eager dialogs which typically follow major political events.
“Quite a story,” murmured the barkeep, still staring into his empty glass.
“I am afraid our time is up, friend.” The old man smiled, finished off his fourth glass of scotch and took up his cane.
“You’re leaving?”
“We all have somewhere to be. There’s a long way yet to walk.” The old man lifted himself out of his seat with a groan. “My story ends where yours begins.”
“You’ll be alright?”
The old man grimaced as he straightened up, huffed, puffed and nodded. With one last look of valediction, the old man turned and hobbled to the door.
“Is it true?” asked the barkeep just as the door opened. The old man stopped on the threshold. “Your story. Is it really true or is it all just some yarn spun up over the years?”
The old man was quiet awhile. Then, he turned a bold eye upon the young barkeep.
“What is truth?”
The young barkeep seemed as though he was about to answer, then, appearing to smile, went silent again.
“Until such time as you are able to answer my question,” the old man said, “you may decide your own for yourself.” The old man smiled, raised his collar. “Farewell … young friend.” He stepped over the threshold and onto the night streets, where the traffic started to circulate on the overpasses and two trains shot past one another on the bridge. He set his sights northward and made his slow way.
The barkeep remained staring at the closed door, lamenting the fact that it might well be the last time he and the old man would ever cross ways. He finished off his own drink, set the glass down and lingered in his seat, dazed, deferential and slightly disconcerted. He looked over to his son, asleep in the corner. Then, anticipating the bands of happy celebrators who would soon fill his small tavern, he stood and walked over to the boy, lifted him up and carried him to bed.