Beers and Fears

by Tim Meyer

  ***

  The bartender polishes an already dry glass with his well-worn bar towel. The bar is dead. He hates to busy himself with boondoggle work but he’s happy to still have a job. The one that got away, got away in a most fortuitous way.

  He was able to work the loopholes in the demonic rules. Technically, it was Dusty that let the demon out. Technically. There was no tribunal, no instant replay or slow-motion captures from three different angles of the events of that night. There was his version of the story and nobody to dispute it. Nobody knew about the shot.

  The bartender might have avoided losing his job but the punishment for what he had done that night may have been much worse. He was stuck with Dusty until Dusty figured out the only door out was the one the demons walked through. That was the price. One demon let loose into the world to be paid for with one human soul joining the circles of Hell through the back door.

  Like the front door stuff, Dusty must figure it out for himself. And he is slow on putting the pieces together. Or maybe he isn’t. He’d sat around the bar for weeks now, nursing beer after beer. He’s now a fixture just like the stools and the billiards table and the jukebox.

  There he sits, quiet, at the corner stool, sipping beer he still doesn’t know the name of and listening to songs you aren’t meant to dance to. He says it is the best spot in the bar.

  ***

  “Corner stool,” I say, raising another frosty mug of whatever-the-fuck name the bartender had given the beer this week.

  “Best spot in the bar,” the bartender finishes for me.

  I’ve said it enough, it’s become my tagline, almost like when that cute little kid on Diff’rnt Strokes would say, “Whatchu’ talkin’ ‘bout Willis?”

  I’ve been sitting here at the corner stool for almost two months since the Mary Lou thing. I’m depressed. I’d let her get away. Not just the whole demon thing, but Mary Lou herself. She was going to be able to compete in the Olympics.

  I watch the news every night. I pay special attention to all the Olympic coverage once it starts. The women’s gymnastics event is going to be the highlight of the entire games. Not only are the games in Los Angeles this year, the U.S. women’s team is expected to be competitive. The buzz is they can place very high in the competition because the eastern European teams that dominated the sport are boycotting the games taking place in the United States.

  I know better. It’s more demonic influence on behalf of the demon known as Mary Lou Retton, alongside her coach, Lou C. Feir.

  She had made my life a living Hell. I know now what the demon, who called himself Snake, had meant when he said people never left the bar. I know the score. One demon out and one human in. I’m pretty sure the bartender thinks I’m too stupid to realize how this thing plays out. The fact of the matter is I’m not walking through the back door until I watch the Olympics.

  I’m obsessed with Mary Lou as much as Mary Lou is obsessed with the Olympics.

  “Turn on the TV, it’s time.”

  The prime-time Olympic coverage started. The bar began to fill with the evening’s regulars. The crowd is a little more robust that usual; no doubt several folks want to head out to the bar for a few drinks while they watch the much-hyped U.S. women’s team compete for the gold on their home turf. Everyone knew the potential for an unforgettable moment in American sports history being made tonight.

  I have the best seat in the house, the corner stool. It doesn't matter how crowded the bar is, you can see the TV and everything else from this spot. So, I have an unobstructed view as Mary Lou Retton steps up the vault.

  The gold is almost locked. Mary Lou will have to score a perfect 10 on the vault in order to win it. Unheard of, even for a demon. She has two vaults, but the chances of getting a perfect score are against her.

  I’ll revel in this moment. The last shred of satisfaction I will have over Mary Lou. She will not get her gold metal after all. I’m all smiles.

  I hold my breath as Mary Lou salutes the judge and begins her charge toward the vault beam. Just before she hits the springboard, I hear the TV commentator say, “Ugh,” disappointed. She screwed up, the perfect score evaporated. Redemption.

  An instant later she hits the springboard, bounds off the beam, twisted in the air and lands on the mat like it’s coated with Krazy glue.

  Impossible!

  It looks like the perfect vault. The bar erupts in cheers. Mary Lou’s vault looked picture perfect.

  The air is electric in the bar as the world waits for the judges' scores.

  10. A perfect 10.

  She had done the impossible. An inhuman feat when the chips were stacked against her. If I owned a gun, I would have blown my brains out right there. How can the world not see she is an inhuman devil who had sold her soul for fame and fortune?

  The people in the bar are celebrating as if they had all just won the gold medal.

  Mary Lou, being the fucking shitty show-off that she is, is entitled to a second vault even though it’s completely unnecessary. And you know what?

  She does a second perfect 10 vault.

  Hello! As if one was impossible, back to back perfect 10’s is unimaginable. Your chances of hitting the lottery twice are greater.

  Nobody questions it. They believe she is that good. They don’t know. I do.

  I get up off the corner stool, dig into my pocket and leave the bartender his tip.

  We look at each other for a moment through the sea of celebrating fools. He nods at me. I shrug. He knows I know.

  I turn around and open the door to Hell.

  Time for another fool to enter the front door. First drink will be on me.

  THE LAST TAPROOM ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

  (III)

  Paul pulled the car into the cemetery and drove up the small hill. Nolan watched as the headstones and extravagant grave-markers passed by. The storm was still in full-force, assaulting the road and the windshield, making it almost impossible to see into the distance. Lightning crashed and lit up the place, and Nolan shrank in his seat, second-guessing his decision to come along. Between the weather and the story Paul McDaniel had just relayed in the words of an old gymnastics coach, Nolan wasn't really feeling the situation.

  “Why are we here?” Nolan asked, as Paul whipped around the bend, probably too fast for these terrible driving conditions.

  “Told you,” he said. “We've come to visit my friend.”

  “He's dead?”

  “Of course, he's dead.” Paul chuckled. “Haven't you been listening to a goddamn thing I said?”

  “So, the door? It really did lead to Hell?”

  “You know, for a writer, you really are a few breadsticks short of a basket.”

  Nolan rubbed his eyes. Between the beers and the tales, his brain was on the verge of shutting down. Right now, he wanted to climb into bed, drift off into a dreamless sleep. He doubted his next snooze would be dreamless considering the thoughts and projected images Paul's stories had given him.

  No. There will be horror. Monsters. Demons. Ghosts.

  “I think we should head back. It's getting late and I have a hell of a headache. We can resume this—”

  “Nonsense. You came here for your story, so a story is what you're gonna get.” Paul didn't seem interested in slowing down. Heading back. Stopping with the tales. He seemed intent on driving through the maddening storm, risking both their lives. And for what? To prove what he'd said was true? Didn't matter whose name was on that headstone, it wouldn't prove a goddamn thing.

  Nolan thought about opening the door, diving out. He'd seen it in the movies, and it didn't look all that hard. Worst-case-scenario, at this speed, he'd only break a bone or two. Might be worth it considering he was driving with an absolute nut-job.

  “The coach's grave is just up ahead. Hold onto your horses.” He said this as if he knew Nolan was getting antsy, contemplating an early exit.

  Paul drove a little farther, taking the bends at a speed Nolan wasn't all th
at comfortable with. When he located the desired grave, he pulled over, onto the grass, dangerously close to a random headstone, so close that Nolan believed the tire would roll right over it. He thought his position was disrespectful to the dead, but he didn't say a word. At this point, he figured he'd go with the flow, not raise any concerns, and ride out the night.

  How bad could it get? It wasn't like he was in danger. If it did come down to it, he could always take the old man in a fight. He wasn't a brawler—never had been—but, if he felt his life was at risk, then he'd be ready to throw down. He didn't have that feeling now, and, though he wasn't sure how the night would end, he was positive the old man meant him no harm. He was a little crazy, a little eccentric, sure, but not dangerous.

  He's an old man for Christ's sakes. Just a lonely old man.

  “Here we go,” Paul said, looking over at him.

  Nolan nodded. A few seconds of silence passed between them. Paul raised his eyebrows as if he were waiting for Nolan to make his move.

  “Wait,” Nolan said, jerking his thumb toward the window. “You don't expect me to get out in this, do you?”

  “Of course.”

  “For what reason?”

  Paul pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Flipping Christ. You sure are short on brains, ain't'cha.”

  “I guess so. I don't follow. At all.”

  “Just get out of the goddamn car.”

  “It's pouring out there.”

  “It's water. Not acid. You'll be fine.”

  Paul opened his door, stepped out, rounded his vehicle and popped the trunk.

  This guy's nuts. Absolutely bonkers. I should have stayed home tonight. Continued my research on the Internet. Not have come out here. I should have—

  His car door opened. The sound of rain crashing down around him filled his ears.

  Paul shouted, “Let's go! Quicker you get out here, quicker we can move on from this place!”

  The old man had two shovels in his hand.

  Oh fuck no. FUCK NO.

  “I don't think we should—”

  Paul grabbed Nolan by his collar and ripped him out of his seat, dragging him into the wet atmosphere.

  “What the fuck, man!” The old dude had a lot of strength for someone who looked so brittle. He'd lifted Nolan up from his seat as if he were a child. As if he weighed almost nothing.

  Paul handed him a shovel. “Let's go. Won't take long. We didn't bury him that deep.” He started walking toward the row of small headstones.

  At first, Nolan didn't follow. Didn't want to. He thought about letting the old man lead himself out there, then taking his car. Driving back to the bar. Getting in his own car and driving back to the city. Leaving this nightmare behind. Fuck Paul McDaniel. He could walk back for all he cared, rain or no rain.

  Paul shouted over the rainfall. “You even think about leaving me behind, you'll be one sorry son of a bitch!”

  Gooseflesh danced over his skin, his scalp alive with a million invisible night-crawlers.

  After that, Nolan decided he wouldn't try anything like that. He wouldn't try to escape unless Paul tried to do something to him. Tried to...

  ...kill me?

  He was certain it wouldn't come to that.

  Wasn't he?

  Paul started to dig. Nolan came up behind him, looked at the small plot of land before the headstone with Coach Dusty's name on it. He couldn't read the last name because it had been marked up, scratched and weathered down. He barely made out the name Dusty.

  Nolan sunk his shovel into the dirt. Dug. Took them twenty minutes, twenty minutes of strenuous labor, but finally, they hit wood.

  A casket.

  Did he take me all the way out here just to see a dead body?

  It didn't make sense. But, then again, Paul had said he wanted to see his old friend again. Nolan just had no idea he had meant this.

  They cleared the dirt around the casket, enough so they could open it. The old man knelt in the wet dirt, reached down and undid the latches on the side. He opened the casket like a guitar case, revealing the thing that lay inside.

  Nothing.

  Empty.

  What the shit?

  Nolan opened his mouth to speak, but his voice had abandoned him.

  “Dusty, Dusty, Dusty,” Paul said. “You old son of a bitch, you.”

  “Where's the body?” Nolan asked over the downpour. Even if he'd died in the eighties, there should have been a skeleton or something.

  “If I had to guess... somewhere in the deepest depths of Hell.”

  Nolan laughed incredulously. “Come on, man. This has gone on far enough.” He had had enough of the funny man and his funny games. It was time to go home now. Time to leave and forget he ever met Paul McDaniel.

  The man is a kook.

  “You don't believe?”

  Nolan shook his head, his longish hair sending droplets airborne. “No. This is madness.”

  “Madness, yes. Madness is correct.” He climbed out of the shallow grave. With Nolan's help, he pulled himself up from the dirt pad and onto his feet.

  “You're insane. You realize that?”

  “Am I?” Paul flashed him a smile just as lightning lit up the cemetery. It sent shivers down Nolan's back. “You haven't seen anything out of the ordinary on this very night?”

  Nolan tried his best, but he couldn't block out the image of the girl. She'd come to him while he was in the bathroom, back at the Ocean View Hotel. Covered in blood. Speaking silently.

  Warning me, he thought. Warning me to stay away from Paul McDaniel.

  “No, nothing.”

  “No?” Paul glared at him, as if he were peering inside him, having a glance at his soul. “You can't conceal the truth from me, Mr. Nolan. I'm like a hound when it comes to lies. Can smell them coming from miles away.”

  Nolan turned back toward the car. His shirt and pants were soaked, shoes waterlogged. It was like walking through the muddy marsh.

  “Where are you going, Mr. Nolan? You cannot hide from the truth!”

  Nolan pointed to the car. “I want you to take me back right now!”

  Paul reared back his head and cackled at the sky. “There is no going back. Not tonight.” He picked up the closest shovel, started tossing dirt over the empty casket. “Come. Help. I have one more story to share and then we'll be done with this... madness, as you call it. Then you can decide what is real and what is not.”

  Nolan opened his mouth, fully planning to tell the old man to fuck himself, but he stopped himself. He had come this far. He didn't have his car with him. Paul was his ride, and, whether he liked it or not, he was stranded here. Hadn't the slightest clue where he was or how to get home. He considered his options and decided being stuck in the middle of the cemetery in an unfamiliar town, this close to midnight and caught in the storm's worst, wasn't the road he wanted to take.

  Dragging himself back over to the open grave, he cursed himself for being such an idiot.

  The royalties on this fucking book better be worth it.

  “One more story, huh?” Nolan said, picking up the other shovel.

  “Oh yeah. This one is killer, I promise. Your fans will love it.”

  Fans? He wasn't aware he had many of those, even though his readings packed in a fairly decent crowd.

  “Lay it on me, I guess,” he said, as if there were another option.

  Paul heaved another shovel's worth on the wooden box. “It was the nineties,” he said. “The spot that was once called Bayberry Bluff was then abandoned, a scrap heap that sat in the center of town.”

  “What happened to the previous owners?”

  “Disappeared, if you can believe it. I'd already left by that time. Went to Germany for three years in the late eighties to work for a world-renowned brewmaster. When I came back, Bayberry Bluff was in ruin. For some legal reason, the town couldn't demolish the site. So, instead, they tried to sell it.”

  “Who would buy that place?”

  “T
hat, my friend, is what this next tale is all about...” Paul smiled devilishly one more time, so wide that Nolan saw more teeth than face, and the rainfall continued its attack on the harrowing night.

  ALTERNATIVE

  While Alli only saw a decrepit building, fallen into ruin after sitting vacant for five years, Jackson saw a real estate steal.

  “It has good bones,” Jackson had said for the fifth time today. It was his go-to mantra and one he firmly believed in. He’d been searching the city for the perfect place to start his brewery, and when the realtor, Miss Smoltz, had said the building had, at several times in its illustrious past, already been a bar, restaurant and brewery, Jackson knew this was the right place. “I feel really positive about it.”

  Alli shook her head. She was staring up at the second-floor dirty windows, despite the cold rain pelting their faces. “There’s something wrong here. Tragic, even. So much loss.”

  Jackson turned her face away, to pull her from her negative shit and to save her from droning on and on about her stupid visions and premonitions.

  He knew she was a psychic. Card and palm reader. She’s picked up the bullshit from her mother, who’d learned it from her mom and so on. Gypsies, tramps and thieves in her family. Jackson loved her to death, and she was awesome to be around. He was even thinking about popping the Question once the brewery was making even a small profit, but her witchcraft garbage was getting on his nerves lately.

  Jackson was under enough stress. He didn’t need her tossing around her opinion about each location as if it was going to be part of his final decision. It had been a mistake having her come on these showings, and he thought once they were done and he was making his final run through the three possibilities she’d stay home. Hang out with her odd family. Go find a few friends.

  Be somewhere else so Jackson didn’t have to get pissed because she was ruining his buzz. His positive energy.