As one door closes...
Could the end of the world bring two widely different people together?
“Great is the art of beginning.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
by Sharon Ross
It was nine o’clock on a Tuesday in late August at The Stag, a neighborhood pub along Interstate 5. Georgie, the pianist was packing up after playing a night of cover songs from Billy Joel to George Michael. His tip jar was half full, nothing like a Friday or Saturday night, but Tuesdays he can test his new material. Tonight, he played it safe, sticking to the standards.
Shelia stepped inside from the rain. It was weird, the rain, in August in California, but the downpour was welcome. She brushed off the droplets from her red blouse and ran her fingers through her auburn hair. The highlights were still bright from her stylist’s magic two weeks ago.
Gerald’s words were still rumbling around in her head still, “You’re great, but I don’t think we have much in common.” He managed to wiggle out of their fourth date via text. God, she hated those words: “You’re great, but….” What does that even mean? She wondered. Is it an attempt to give her a compliment? Is it a way to smoothly exit? She understood men’s attempts at being nice; she almost appreciated it, but she was getting a little tired of being “great, but…” Wasn’t being great enough?
“I’ll take a Manhattan,” she said to the bartender, who nodded and went to work on the whiskey and vermouth. Her purse was still dripping from the rain. The precipitation no one expected. She took a deep breath and let her mind wander to the bartender, then to the couple a few seats away from her. They were talking about synthesizers and gently disagreeing about when exactly they were in every song of the 1980s, or was it the 1970s?
While she was listening the couple, a streak of bright white caught her attention in the corner of her eye. A man, about her age, burst open The Stag’s door, and his bright white sweatshirt was clinging to his chest because of the rain. His chest was broad, and thick black hair was visible beneath the now transparent shirt. He was solid, muscles slightly toned, not like a six-pack, but strong-looking, like he could help Shelia bring in a heavy bookshelf or perhaps change the tire of her car.
He was breathing heavily, as he paused on the stairs before walking down into The Stag’s central room. He looked quickly side to side, and for a brief moment his eyes locked with Shelia’s. She felt a jolt of something, recognition maybe, or an internal charge, then she quickly turned to her Manhattan, nonchalantly sipping from the glass, grappling with the feeling that was bubbling inside her. A feeling that she had buried during the last few weeks of her time with Gerald.
She looked up again at the man as he made his way toward the bar, the brightness of his shirt blinding her for a second.
“Jack!” he said, breathlessly. “Jack, did you hear?”
Jack, the bartender, paused. “No, what’s up? What can I get you, Paul?”
“Let’s start with a Martini, man,” Paul said. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard.”
Jack, a man of few words, edged his chin forward signaling to Paul to continue.
“Jack, man, they’re going to tear down The Stag.”
“What?” Jack said.
“Yeah, I just heard it from Bart. The landlord’s closed the deal on the land, and they want to build some condos or something. Some stupid condos.”
Paul walked away from the bar and into the bathroom. Within a few short minutes, he walked out, still wet, but his hair had been combed and the shirt more loosely covering his hairy chest.
He walked straight toward Shelia, or rather the seat next to her, and picked up his martini with determination. “This may be your last drink here,” Paul said, turning to Shelia for a toast.
“They’re not tearing it down tomorrow, are they?” She asked.
“No, but who knows… just thought I’d toast while I can,” so Shelia clinked her glass with his in honor of the abrupt news.
For a moment the two stared at each other as they watched the other sip from their glass. Shelia wondered, does he feel it, too?
Then Paul, breathlessly sat down next to her, wiping some moisture from his brow and upper lip.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t expect the rain today.” He wiped his hands with the cocktail napkin.
“I’m Paul,” he said, holding out his hand to Shelia.
Shelia smiled, set her drink down, and shook Paul’s hand. “I’m Shelia,” she said. “I guess we’re here to see the end of the world… I mean the end of The Stag.”
“It’ll be nice to watch it together,” Paul said, smiling.