In college, I went on a date with the son of my mother's coworker. I couldn't remember if his name was Jason or Justin, so I spent the entire night maneuvering my way out of saying his name. He was ... [+]
Haddow's bar was nearly empty that night. What was once a bustling business had deteriorated over the past twelve years into a musty joint not even the most desperate alcoholic would step foot in. Chris blamed the owner. Haddow was a crotchety drunk who took out his marital frustrations on his customers, harassing regulars for money and huffing about his soon-to-be-ex wife. Chris didn't mind any of this. It was the closest bar to the dock, and Haddow always kept good stock. So every evening, Chris would sit inside and drink away his sorrows.
"What'll it be tonight, seaman?"
"Single malt, on the rocks."
Chris slumped down on the bar top, head buried in his arms. Music played from a jukebox in the corner, though the quality was crusty. The stench of liquor permeated the air. Haddow came back with the malt, which Chris swallowed swiftly.
"Long day?" Haddow asked.
"Hm, didn't sleep last night. Had to nap between ships," Chris responded, putting his head back down. " It's Saturday, man. I should be drinking this stuff at home."
"Well, I ain't complaining," laughed Haddow. "You're good business! You should get some of your buddies to pop on over some time. Another malt?" Chris nodded and Haddow poured the whiskey. Chris drank again and sighed.
"You think I've got buddies? I've got none, not here or anywhere. Don't even have a wife—er, sorry."
"Just get some friends, stay away from marriage. My wife's favorite thing to do when I come home is nag, asking me for more money on her debit card, saying ‘it's for us' but all she did was..." Chris stopped paying attention at this point. Haddow's increasingly insulting rants held no truth, but as long as Chris pretended to listen, he would keep pouring him drinks. The evening gave way to night. Chris downed glass after glass of first the single malt, then bourbon. With every drink Chris traded over crumpled cash from his pocket. At some point he stopped keeping track of the price. The music blended into Haddow's raspy voice. His eyes drooped, his body went slack, and Chris passed out.
Haddow was gone when he woke up. He found a note with keys splayed on top.
The bar's technically closed, but I felt bad waking you up. Everything's cleaned up, just lock the doors and don't take anything. Thanks for coming by. - Haddow
Chris could barely read the first few words before realizing his uncontrollable urge to vomit. He stumbled off the stool and rushed towards the restroom. There he dry-heaved for a few minutes. He returned, rubbing his eyes, and looked back at the aged, slightly ripped stool he was at. He was very confused to see himself still slumped over it.
"The hell..." he whispered. He stepped forward thinking it to be an unnervingly realistic hallucination, or (in a more unlikely scenario) perhaps a very similar looking man who took the chair. He touched the body's head, pushing it to the side so he could see the face. Definitely Chris. Just cold, and slack. His eyes were glazed over.
"Alcohol poisoning. I'm honestly surprised it didn't get you sooner," echoed a voice.
Chris stumbled back. He turned to see a woman in a corner booth, covered in shadow. "Bar's closed, you can't be in here..." whispered Chris, realizing what this woman had told him. "Alcohol poisoning? But that would mean I'm dead—"
"Which is exactly what you are. Dead," she smiled. The woman stepped out of the booth. She was younger, with shaggy black hair. But the most noticeable part of her appearance was the fact that half of her face was missing—as if it was bludgeoned off.
"Who are you?" Chris yelled, moving back further. He hit the bar top.
"Death. One, at least."
"The hell's that supposed to mean?"
"What, you expect the Grim Reaper himself to do all of the work?" she huffed. Death inspected the face of his corpse. "Yep, definitely dead. Alright, follow–"
"Wai-wai-wait," Chris stuttered. "I can't be dead. I'm 32, I've still got a whole life ahead of me!"
"Look, death just happens," she sighed. "It's never timely. Now follow me and—"
"I'll do anything to live again."
Death paused, amused. "Really? What have you got that's so important?" Chris stayed silent. A back-breaking job, an alcohol addiction, and a lonely apartment with a termite infestation were all he had.
"I'm still young, right? That means I've got a chance to live a life worth living."
Death stayed silent for a few moments, then laughed. "Fine! I'll bite. Let's play a game of blackjack. If you win, you live. If you lose, you die. Simple enough?"
Chris tentatively nodded.
"Then have a seat," she said as she motioned to a booth. Chris sat, and she pulled out a deck of ornate cards. "We'll play for three rounds," Death shared as she shuffled. "You remember the game?" He did. He would be given two cards, where the added total needed to be close to, but not over twenty-one. If Death had a greater total than him, he'd lose. If he went over twenty-one, he'd lose. Death slyly smirked as she gave Chris the cards. One face-up, the other face-down. "Go ahead, peak."
The face-up card was an eight of diamonds. Face-down was a king, worth ten. Eighteen points. Chris froze. Eighteen was a high number, but high enough? His life was quite literally on the line. Death noticed his hesitation. "Want another?"
"No." Chris was sweating now. If spirits could sweat that is, he certainly felt like he was. He shakily flipped over his face down card, revealing the king. "Eighteen," he whispered. Stone-faced, she flipped over her own.
"Nineteen. Sorry," she began to chuckle. Chris paled. His throat felt tight. Two more chances. Death shuffled the cards again. "I'm sorry, it was mean to laugh." She gave him new cards. "I heard you complaining to the bartender earlier. Waiting for you to die and all that. Why bother with this? Sorry, but it doesn't sound like you have much going for you." Chris looked down at his cards, the face-up an ace. Could be one or eleven points depending on what he needed.
"Maybe not now," he sighed. "But there's so much I haven't done. I just got...complacent." He looked at the face-down card. A nine of hearts. Twenty seemed like a good total. "Now that I'm, well, dead, I just feel like I wasted everything. If I win, I want to do better. Or at least try."
"Hm. Another card?" Death asked again. He shook his head, and revealed his cards. Death smiled again, revealing a queen and a six of clubs. She pulled another card from the deck. "Damn, I bust." She had taken a king. "You've got one more shot. Good luck." She winked, shuffled, and passed out the cards for a final time. Whatever nerves Chris had experienced before had increased ten-fold. Face-up was a four of clubs. Face-down, a jack. Fourteen. He quickly motioned for another card. He didn't want to hear Death's voice again. The new card was another ace. Fifteen. "Aw, you look scared," Death cooed.
"Another."
"You're the boss."
Chris couldn't look at the card. His vision slipped in and out, as if his life was actively being sapped away. This could be the end. Fingers twitching, he lifted up the card. Then he flipped every one face-up.
"Twenty-one," he grinned. Death frowned before composing herself. "Congrats," she said. "I guess you win." She stood up and extended her hand to shake. She smiled at him, sweetly. "I hope you know you won't have any other chances. Next time you die, you die for good."
"I know." He took her hand in his. It was freezing. "Th–"
Then he woke up. Back at the bar top. Again with the urge to vomit.