Whiskey Old Fashioned

As he appeared in the doorway, the grim reaper flicked the tip of his cigarette and tucked what was left of it behind his ear, under the black stocking cap covering his pale, bald head before stepping further inside the dimly lit, yet gentrified bar. He didn’t say he was the grim reaper, but I was quite certain despite not being able to articulate why. His skin was nearly without pigment and his eyes were sunken in. I sat my beer down and glanced at him again, without moving my eyes, and saw his dirty black work boots, faded blue jeans and tattered zip-up hooded sweatshirt. It was hardly the outfit one would imagine the grim reaper to wear at a bar, but nothing else really fit the bill, either.

“Ted, why do you think I’m here?” He said to me, without looking in my direction.

I was nearly forty years old, no wife, no kids. I had a job, but not a career and I rented an apartment with nothing tying me to a lease long term. One could say there wasn’t much going on in my world. “I have no idea,” I said.

He snickered and smirked.

The bartender walked over with a smile on his face. “Hey there, what can I get for ya?”

“Whiskey old fashioned, please.” The grim reaper scratched a scar within his stubble beard.

“Coming right up,” the bartender replied.

The reaper pulled a nail clipper from his pocket and filed a spot on the fingernail of his bony, index finger. My mind wandered as I imagined that nail clipper transforming into a full-size scythe. He then focused on his ring finger, but before filing that one too, he asked, “Tell me this, Ted. Do you have any big regrets?”

I thought deeply about his question and remained puzzled.

“Anything at all?” He pried for more.

The memory of my grandfather’s funeral popped into my head. I had partied the night before and woke up hung over, then relied on the hair of the dog trick as I got dressed and reverted to what was left of the bottle of vodka. I showed up drunk, fifteen minutes into the service and drew scowls from the congregation. My grandfather had died from liver failure, self-induced from his own relationship with the bottle. My mom cried and didn’t talk to me until Christmas.

“I’m not talking about your grandfather’s funeral,” the reaper said, reading my mind. “You fucked up, Ted. But I’m not here because of that.”

I racked my brain for what other regrets I had. While underwhelming at most things in my adult life, I didn’t screw up much. I always maintained a steady job, even though it didn’t mean much or fulfill me in any sort of way.

The bartender wiped the rim of the glass with a piece of orange and placed two Luxardo cherries alongside the massive ice cube in the glass, before setting the perfected whiskey old fashioned in front of the grim reaper on a coaster. “Enjoy,” the bartender said.

With a smile, the grim reaper took a long sip and smiled. His black eyes reflected the bar lights behind the bartender’s head. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he replied, before stepping over to the bar sink and drying clean pint glasses.

The reaper grabbed a handful of mixed nuts from the community dish on the bar, took another sip from his cocktail and laid a second coaster on the top of his drink. It struck me funny that the grim reaper would be worried about someone pouring something in his drink. “I’m going to use the restroom,” he said.

I waited for him and grew anxious with each passing moment, adjusting my hat and fidgeting with my wallet and keys. My shoes squeaked in sticky remnants of a spilled drink beneath me and the feeling bothered me even more than the sound. I bumped my hand into the dish of nuts as I tried to grab some and nearly tipped it off the ledge.

The bartender pointed at my beer. “Another?” He asked.

“Yes. Please.”

He grabbed the glass and brought it to the tap, tipping it to limit the foam before returning it to my spot at the bar.

“Thank you,” I said.

“My pleasure,” the bartender replied, then shook his head in annoyance. “I hate when they load that jukebox up with trash music and then leave. I never understood why people do that.”

“Fair,” I said, despite being completely oblivious to whatever music had been playing. We were indeed the last three people in the place, though. “Some people just don’t care about spending every last dollar in their pocket, I guess.”

“I’d rather cut the ears off my head than hear ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ one more time.”

While I liked the song historically, I did agree with the bartender. “I get that,” I said.

“Let me know if you need anything,” the bartender said before walking away again to continue his closing duties.

Waiting for the grim reaper to return and finish his drink felt terminal, as if my inevitable end would come when his drink was gone. When I was a teenager, we had to put down my dog, and although he was old and filled with cancer, it was difficult to make the appointment. We held on, longer than we should have and each day felt torturous as we awaited what we knew had to be done. This, in a way, felt like that.

“Sorry, I had to take a business call, too.” The grim reaper returned to his barstool. “You look anxious, Ted.”

“I suppose I am,” I said. “Considering whatever this is, I think anyone would be anxious.”

“Sure, that makes sense,” the reaper said, taking a drink.

“I just don’t get it.”

“You don’t get what?” he asked.

“Like, why now?”

“No reason,” the reaper replied. “When it’s time, it’s time.”

“When it’s time, it’s time. OK. You are just doing your job?” I imagined someone handing the reaper a work order, with a time, place and method to finish them off.

“Basically.” He could read my mind.

I took a big swig of my refill. “I don’t feel ready to die,” I said under my breath.

“Relax, Ted.” The grim reaper took a big gulp, finishing off what was left in the glass. He pulled the remaining orange slice from his glass and sucked the pulp off the rind. “We’re just having a casual, bar conversation.”

“Right,” I said while feeling the impending doom.

“I’m not here for you,” he replied and lifted his arm, pointing at the bartender with his bony finger. “I’m here for him.”