Ryan Jahn - The Last Tomorrow

He walks across the room to a barstool and sits down on cushioned red leather.

The barkeep, Jerry, a balding fellow with a gut that hangs over his belt, white shirt stretched over it like a tarp, dries his hands on a liquor-and mixer-stained towel, grabs a tumbler, and pours a double shot of bourbon into it. He pushes the drink across the counter to Eugene, who lifts it, puts it to his nose, and inhales its fine harsh scent.

He takes a mouthful, closes his eyes, and lets it sit on his tongue. He likes the tingling sensation it brings. He swallows. It goes down warm, feeling acidic, like heartburn in reverse.

He grew up during prohibition, so most of what he drank back home was bathtub moonshine. Occasionally, though, someone’s dad would get a prescription and bring home a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, which everyone would nip from for the next day or two. The bottle claimed the whiskey was

UNEXCELLED FOR MEDICINAL PURPOSES

and while Eugene still isn’t sure what medicinal purposes the whiskey might serve — sometimes it was prescribed for gout, sometimes for the very headaches it caused — he believed then and believes still that Old Grand-Dad is unexcelled for drinking purposes. There’s nothing finer than a good bourbon. He thinks he’ll have another three of these at least before he even considers letting his stool cool off.

He finishes work midday, eats lunch, and still has hours to kill. He loves the way they stretch out before him. He doesn’t understand boredom. Sitting on a barstool, sipping a drink, thinking about the book you will soon start writing — soon, but not today — is more than enough to fill the hours.

One need not actually do anything.

Thinking is enough. Dreaming is enough. Dreaming is the best. As soon as you do , the dream is dead, usurped by reality. It’s best to hold onto that bittersweet hope and the knowledge that there’s still time, even if it is slowly bleeding down the drain of the world. For now there’s time. There’s the future.

He again sips his drink.

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘How are the twins?’

‘Short and stupid.’

‘I’m not sure those were the wisest names for your children, Jerry.’

‘You ain’t met em.’

‘How old are they now?’

‘Ten months. I don’t know why they can’t be born twelve years old. What good are kids when they’re too goddamn small to take out the garbage?’

Eugene shrugs, thinks of his own childhood.

He grew up in poverty, but hardly knew it. He could spend entire days alone, playing, building fantasy worlds around himself as he went on great adventures, hunting nonexistent beasts and discovering imaginary treasures. There was an innocent magic to it that even now makes his chest ache with nostalgia when he thinks about it, though he knows there was ugliness there he’s since forgotten, or pushed from his mind. He could remember, but chooses not to. He’s simply glad he still has some small magic within him. He’s protective of it, never wants to lose it. Maybe this is why he doesn’t spend it, why he only dreams. He’s afraid if he uses it, the magic will be gone. He’s afraid he will use it up completely. Then what will he have left?

The door behind him lets out a high-pitched squeak as someone pushes through. He looks over his shoulder to see a slender woman with wavy red hair slither into the dim bar. She’s pale, with fine features, and manages somehow to be both beautiful and ugly simultaneously. There’s something oddly, disquietingly, reptilian about her. She sways silently toward the counter, in a brief dress, and sits down, leaving an empty stool between herself and Eugene.

She reaches into a clutch, finds an etched gold cigarette-ase, unlatches it with the push of a button, and flips it open. She removes a filtered Kent cigarette with slender fingers, puts it between her lipsticked lips. She glances toward Eugene, her eyes pale blue.

‘Have a light?’

Eugene flips open his lighter, a pre-war Zippo, gets a flame going with some effort — he needs to replace the flint — and holds it to the end of her cigarette. She inhales deeply, removes the cigarette from her mouth, the end of the filter now smeared red, and exhales a thin stream of smoke through sensually puckered lips. A smile touches them.

‘Thanks.’

‘You bet.’

‘How’d you like to buy me a drink?’

‘That depends.’

‘Oh, yeah? On what does it depend?’

‘What are you drinking?’

‘Is this a test?’

‘I guess you could call it that.’

‘A man who’s particular, I like it. But I’m afraid I’m about to disappoint you. Old Grand-Dad, neat.’

‘Old Grand-Dad.’ He smiles.

‘Did I pass after all?’

‘Pass? What say we skip to the end and get married?’

‘Ouch, that is the end. Let’s just start with the drink.’

‘Bourbon for the lady, Jerry. And I’ll have another myself.’

Jerry nods.

The woman holds out her hand. ‘Evelyn.’

He takes her hand lightly in his own. ‘Eugene.’

‘You don’t look like a Eugene.’

‘No?’

She shakes her head.

‘What do I look like?’

‘A Kurt. That chin belongs on somebody with a hard-edged consonant in his name. I’d even settle for Frank. Eugene, though, I’m not sure it works for you.’

‘I’ve managed to live with it so far.’

‘Then I suppose I can too.’

‘That’s awful generous of you, I appreciate it.’

‘I thought you would.’

‘You from out of town?’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Your accent.’

‘I have an accent?’

He nods.

‘I’m in from New York.’

‘I’d hate to call you a liar.’

A blush touches her cheeks.

‘I grew up in New Jersey.’

‘What brings you to town?’

‘Business.’

‘Business?’

Evelyn nods.

‘What kind of business?’

‘You a private dick?’

‘Just making conversation.’

‘I work for my dad.’

‘Well, what kind of business is your dad in?’ Evelyn downs her whiskey.

‘Stop asking questions and buy me another drink,’ she says. ‘Quick, before you ruin your chances.’

‘Another drink for the lady, Jerry.’

2

Evelyn takes a drag from her cigarette and watches Jerry pour her drink from an orange-labeled bottle. She says thanks and takes a sip. It’s harsh and unpleasant, but at least it’s the real thing. She respects a man who takes his liquor straight. Means he’s serious about it. She’s serious about it too. She just wishes Eugene had better taste.

But the important thing is that Fingers, one of Daddy’s west-coast peddlers, came through on the information. He didn’t seem too happy about it, but he came through.

And on short notice.

As recently as yesterday morning Evelyn didn’t even know she was taking this trip to the West Coast. She was called into Daddy’s office in lower Manhattan and, as usual, asked to wait in his outer office, so she walked-

3

Evelyn walked to Daddy’s bar and poured herself two fingers of scotch from a crystal decanter. She held the tumbler up to the light, swirled the liquid in the glass, looked at its honey color. She brought it to her nose and smelled peat and leather.

She downed it in a single draught and set the empty glass on the counter. She walked to the window, looked down at the street below, watched people walk by. They looked small from up here, like they were barely people at all. Amazing how a little distance could change your perspective. Seeing the world from this height she thought she could understand how good wholesome boys — like her brother, George, before the Japs shot him down over Tokyo — could fly over cities and drop explosives on them without feeling remorse, without feeling anything.