The After

This story contains themes of childhood abuse, emotional distress, alcohol use, and death, which may be sensitive for some readers.

It doesn’t take much to piss someone off. All it takes is a stupid look on your face, and you wind up with a black eye and an excuse to tell your teacher the next day at school. Arthur’s pops was an expert at that, along with the constant berating and neglectful parenting. Sounds like an oxymoron, if you asked him. He wondered if John Abbott took his pop’s advice about anger, ‘cause he swore if you looked closer, you could see the exact same vein his father had popping out of his forehead when he was crossed about something.

For John, it was because someone had dropped an expensive package during delivery, and now the owner wanted to sue. Arthur heard all about it when he was eavesdropping on John earlier in his office. He was talking to some old, rich lady who apparently ordered a fourteen-karat gold duck all the way from Japan for her Easter collection. The mouth on that woman could’ve knocked the wind out of anybody, even John whose size was just as big as his ego. It was only two minutes later when he started ripping into everyone else about the situation, yelling so loud even the devil could hear him from below.

No one got paid that day. It’s not as if it mattered though, because despite working at John’s Mail and Bail full-time, Arthur still never had enough to pay his landlord at the end of each month. It was easier when his ex-wife, Elizabeth, was working too. At least then, he was sure he’d have a roof over his head. He hadn’t seen Lizzy since she stormed out of the apartment three months ago, promising him he’d never see her again until he got his act up and started being a “real provider”. So far, she’d held up her end of the deal.

Arthur stepped out into the cool, dark street on fifth avenue. It may have been Harlem, but like they say, the city never sleeps. The streets were filled, cars in every lane. People passed between them like a maze, enjoying life after sundown. He pulled out the half-empty pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his old, worn and torn jacket. He got it as a birthday gift from Elizabeth a few years ago, back when she apparently still loved him. Don’t know much about that now. He lit a cigarette, taking one long drag before letting the smoke out, and started walking back to his place.

Every night was the same. He’d walk back to his apartment with the same dread of going back to work the next morning. With a lit cigarette in his mouth, he’d replay the moments of the day he liked most, though there weren’t many. The night was cooler than usual, so Arthur tugged his jacket closer around his body. He kept his head down as he moved further into the city, pushing past through the sea of people as he made his way out. It may have been a good idea to look up at this point because he doesn’t notice the couple in front of him when he ends up tripping on a broken step and crashes right into them.

“Hey, watch it, will you?” said the man, every vowel stretched out in his angry tone.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Arthur quickly replied.

The man muttered something about Arthur being a goof before taking off into the dark alley, his lady at his side. Arthur watched as they stepped into the dark, and down a flight of stairs. Never had he noticed any steps on his walks to and from his apartment. But tonight, he did.

It’s almost as if it were second nature when Arthur’s body turned, and he started to follow the couple down the dark alleyway. With every step he took, it got darker, and his curiosity only grew. It felt like walking into an abyss, trapped with no way out but forward. When he arrived at the top of the stairs, it was almost as if he were on a mountain. The air felt thinner, cooler. Not exactly normal for a usual night in spring. He began to skip down the flight of stairs, each step taking him closer to something that felt warmer - and it wasn’t just the air.

At the final step was a door; a bright red door that was slowly being chipped of its colour. Nothing but a potted lamp glowed at the top of it, illuminating the quiet space between Arthur and the door. He looked at the shiny, golden coloured knob attached to it, and suddenly his palms started to sweat. He took a look back to where he came, but it was nothing but darkness; nothing but his usual life, with his usual job, and his usual mountain of bills sitting on the counter for when he got home. He turned back around, swallowing the fear of knowing, and opened the door.

Arthur couldn’t have guessed what was behind the door, because the second he walked in, he was hit with the brightness of life. He took a glance at the room around him, filled with people from all over in their fancy suits and dressy gowns, drinking and dancing to the lively sounds of jazz playing at the centre stage. At the far end was a bar, stacked with more bottles of hooch than he had ever seen in his life. Behind the counter was a man, tending to a shiny glass with a towel in his hand. It’s almost as if he felt Arthur’s gaze, and decided to look him right in the eye. Arthur could feel his stomach drop.

“Hey, you! Get over here!” The man said.

Arthur didn’t know whether to run and hide, or do what the man said. The latter felt safer, somehow. He walked over to the bar, nervously, and idled by the edge.

“Hello,” Arthur said. “I’m sorry to be of any trouble. I was just–”

“Rum or gin?” The man cut him off.

Arthur blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Or are you more of a whiskey kind of guy?” he asked. “Y’know, you seem like a whiskey kind of guy under all that nervous energy. I’ll pour you a glass,” he continued, whipping out a small glass from under the counter, his movements smooth as he poured one out for Arthur and slid it over to him.

Arthur picked up the glass with a nervous hand and took a sip, the velvet taste of whiskey hitting him like a ton of bricks. The man barked a laugh when he saw Arthur grimace.

“I’m taking that was your first shot of whiskey,” he teased.

“First shot of anything, really,” Arthur corrected him.

The man looked shocked but intrigued. “Well, we oughta fix that, shouldn’t we...?” he trailed off, pouring another shot into the glass.

“Arthur, but most call me Arty,” Arthur responded.

“Well, Arty, it’s nice to meet you. The name’s Vince,” the man responded, shaking Arthur’s hand. “You ever got an empty glass, you come to me. I’m your guy.”

Before Arthur had a chance to respond, a young woman jumped into the seat next to him. She had dark hair and piercingly bright blue eyes, ones that could cut through you like a knife. She took the glass of whiskey that was once Arthur’s and downed it in one go before slamming it onto the countertop.

“I swear, this is going to be the last time I ever step on that stage,” she said.

Vince chuckled. “You say that every night, and then every night, you’re back up on that stage again.”

“Well, this time, I mean it. Never again am I going to let anybody dictate what I can and can’t sing. My music is my art, and it need not be controlled by the likes of mentally declined grown men,” she spat out.

“Donald on your case again?” Vince asked, knowingly, pouring her another shot.

“Like any other day,” she responded, downing the glass once again.

Arthur looked at her, his eyes wide with curiosity. It seemed to catch her attention, and when she looked at him, he almost turned away from how beautiful she was.

“Who’re you?” she asked.

“This is Arty,” Vince chimed in, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. “He’s new ‘round here.”

“Pleasure, Arty,” she waved at him. “I’m Rose, the soon to be ex–singer at this fine establishment.”

“You sing?” Arthur asked. Rose looked at him as if he asked if she were a ghost.

“It’s my life. Ever since I learned to sing the alphabet, my daddy put me through years of vocal lessons. Could sing as high as an F6 if I wanted to,” she responded. “What about you, you sing?” she asked, almost teasingly.

Arthur shrugged. “Maybe in the shower where no one can hear me.”

Rose chuckled. “Cute and funny. The ladies must really love you.”

Arthur could feel a blush creeping up, but he ignored it. Rose must have seen it with the way she smiled at him after.

“So, how come you don’t like singing here?” Arthur asked her.

“I love singing here,” she corrected him. “I just hate being told what to sing. Music is about expressing how you feel, and if I can’t do that, then I may as well lose my voice forever.”

“Don’t give up yet, Rose,” Vince said. “There’s always another way around, you just have to look for it.”

Rose chuckled. “Don’t start sounding like Frank now, hear?”

“I heard that,” someone retorted from the other end of the bar.

A scrawny man with an almost empty bottle of rum in his hand looked over at the three of them with round, pointed eyes.

Vince laughed. “C’mon, Frank. Take it as a compliment.”

“Don’t,” Rose quipped, which made Arthur smile.

Frank took a swig of his drink. “I may be on the verge of complete, utter intoxication and dying of liver failure, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hear the two of youse talking behind my back. Minus Prince Charming over here,” he slurred, pointing at Arthur.

Rose leapt out of her seat, putting her hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Well, Prince Charming over here is about to enjoy the show of a lifetime,” she responded. “Save me a drink, yeah?” She winked at Arthur before heading toward the stage, the crowd applauding her as she stepped up to the mic.

It was almost instantly that the band started playing a soulful blues song, and Rose had begun to sing. Her voice was like velvet, soft and smoother than the shot of whiskey he had earlier. Arthur watched her intently, her body swaying as she immersed herself in the music. What caught him off guard was how she watched him back.

“For she had a tongue with a tang, Would cry to a sailor, ‘Go, hang!’ She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch, Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch.” said Frank, now sitting directly behind Arthur.

“Pardon?” Arthur responded, caught off guard.

Vince rolled his eyes. “He’s quoting Shakespeare again. He does that when he’s plastered.”

“I’m as sober as a judge,” Frank responded, defensively. He looked at Arthur, and nodded his attention towards the stage - towards Rose.

“There’s a kind of hush: all motion is stopped. A thing divine, for nothing natural I ever saw so noble.” Frank continued.

Arthur turned to him. “What does that mean?”

“It means to encounter someone who transcends ordinary human beauty or grace,” he said, before pointing at Rose. “She seems to fit the bill, don’t she?”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “I-uh,” he cleared his throat, nervous and unknowing of what to say.

Frank chuckled at the sight, leaning back in his seat and taking another swig of his rum. He wiped away at his lips with the back of his hand before leaning toward Arthur, the smell of booze incapsulating his presence.

“What brings you here tonight, Charming?” Franks asked.

“I’m not...I’m not really sure,” Arthur responded, honestly.

“Well, everybody’s got a reason. What I’m curious to know is yours.”

Arthur shrugged. “I guess I don’t have one.”

Frank smiled. “Yes, you do,” he said. “Your reason is because you wanted something different tonight. You wanted to escape the mundane life that you’ve been living for so long, and to live in the shoes of a completely different person, even if it was only for one night.”

Arthur’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Frank continued.

“Tonight, my friend, you find yourself with a glass of whiskey in your hand, the eyes of a woman on you like you’re the last man alive, and perhaps even a couple of new friends along the way.”

Arthur looked at the glass of whiskey in his hands, then to Rose, then to Vince, then to Frank.

“How did you-“

“When you find yourself running in circles, jump out,” Frank cut him off. “There’s a whole world outside of the bubble you’ve made for yourself. I mean, how do you think you found yourself here tonight?”

Before Arthur could respond, he felt someone grab his arm from behind him. He turned around to see Rose, her bright eyes gleaming at him as she pulled him to his feet.

“Dance with me,” she said, pulling him towards the dance floor.

Arthur swiftly looked back at Frank who cheered him, his drink raised and his smile wide. He turned back around to Rose, who brought him to the middle of the dance floor. The sounds of swing jazz became prominent as more and more people joined the dance floor, and soon, everyone was on their feet.

Arthur slowly immersed himself in the music, grooving to the beat as he danced side by side with Rose. Never had he felt more alive, more free. With every step, he felt himself moving further from the life he’s dreaded living. In that moment, and in that moment alone, he was where he wanted to be. Arthur could feel himself smiling after the longest of times, a smile brighter than the lights glimmering above them. Slowly, they started to pull him in, and soon, he was lost in it.

Suddenly, it was dark. Cold. The air became thinner, and the faintness of daylight illuminated the room. Arthur blinked his eyes open, and the once-vibrant bar had become desolate, hiding within shadows. The stage was covered in dust, and the vibrant sounds of jazz had faded.

Everyone was gone.

Confused, Arthur stumbled off his seat on the barstool, and searched for any sign of life.

“Rose? Vince? Frank?” He called out, but there was no answer.

Suddenly, his eyes caught a crumpled piece of newspaper by the countertop. He picked it up, and scanned over the front page. At the top read a shocking headline.

“Tragic Blaze Engulfs Midtown Jazz Bar, Claims 23 Lives in Early Morning Tragedy”

Arthur’s brows furrowed in confusion. He skimmed over the rest of the page, and found a list of names in the obituary section. Among the names listed were Vincent Burrows, Rose Moretti, and Frank Wallace.

Arthur’s stomach dropped, and his palms began to sweat. But what shocked him the most was that among the rest of the names listed, he saw his own: Arthur Grant.

Suddenly the memories began to flood back — a cold winter night, a lit cigarette, and a stumble onto the street... but nothing after that. Arthur dropped the newspaper onto the countertop, and turned towards the bright red door that led him into this very room.

With every step he took towards it, he heard a faint laugh, a whisper of jazz, and the clink of glasses behind him. Looking back, the bar was alive again, glowing with warmth, the air feeling like home. And when the door opened, Arthur stepped out, the brightness of the day welcoming him as he vanished into the fog, leaving the cold emptiness behind.