One for the Road

One for the Road

By

Peter Alexander James

She said I had changed. That was her reason. Her reason to end our journey in the present and to make sure we never reached that future I had imagined night after night in the run-up to our first kiss.

If I had changed, I hadn’t noticed it. I contemplated change as I swirled the ice in my glass. Does the caterpillar notice its metamorphosis into a butterfly? If so, what an experience that must be. One moment trudging along in the dirt, the next floating from flower to flower. An event I could possibly experience should I finish a couple more glasses and drive home without bothering with my seatbelt this late at night. Besides, there was no one there to stop me from attempting to metamorph from driver to statistic. The bar was empty.

It was shortly after Christmas, a day after Boxing Day, so the holiday drunks were sleeping off their benders, and the barman seemed annoyed that he was forced to stay with me as his only customer.

I’d tried to strike up a conversation with him but had struck out on two attempts, and I felt a third wouldn’t be much different.

Now our only interaction was me lifting one finger to catch his attention and then immediately pointing to my glass. His response was to take my glass, lift it to the whiskey dispenser, fill it, and finish off by tossing in an ice cube. I didn’t want ice, but I knew better than to test his thinning patience. And so the evening went.

If nothing else had happened, I wouldn’t have written this down or submitted it anywhere, as what is interesting about a man sad during the holidays, sitting at a bar drinking cheap scotch alone?

But it was around this time that something strange happened. It started with the barman walking past me and pulling out a pack of cigarettes from under the bar. He flipped the lid, pulled one out, held it in his lips, and sparked it. Smoke seeped out of the corners of his mouth, and his eyes met mine. He sighed and held out the pack to me.

I had quit smoking a while back. She had mentioned that she didn’t like the smell of smoke on my clothes, so I had quit. I hadn’t smoked since.

Feeling drunk and indifferent, I accepted the cigarette and the lighter. The barman retreated to the farthest corner, as if to say, I still don’t want to talk. As I put the cigarette to my lips and moved the lighter toward its tip, a man pulled up a stool next to me.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” he said with a smile.

“You aren’t me.”

“It’ll end badly.”

“It already has.” I sparked the cigarette.

The expression on his face turned to one of disapproval. He indicated to the bartender using the same finger signs I had. The bartender hurried and started to pull bottles from various shelves, carefully measuring out different volumes of their contents.

I drew the cigarette deep into my lungs and puffed out rings, one chasing the other. The man next to me turned and watched the rings slow and fade across the bar. The stillness was broken by the bartender shaking the mixer, from which he poured the drink into a glass and served it with a warm smile to the man sitting next to me.

“Thank you,” the man said with equal warmth. “You can go back to your corner now.”

The bartender, just shy of thanking him, did so happily.

“You must leave great tips,” I said, astonished by the interaction.

“Well, you didn’t accept my tip.”

“Advice is like candy; I don’t take it from strangers.”

He chuckled and sipped his cocktail.

“What is that?” I nodded toward his drink.

“An Old Fashioned.” He tapped the glass with his finger nail.

“I didn’t think this place did cocktails.” I took another long drag from the cigarette and savoured the smoke before exhaling it.

“When you’re back, I’ll order one for you—that is, if you take drinks from strangers.”

“Drinks I do take, but why not work your magic now? I’m not going anywhere.”

“Give it a moment.” He looked at my cigarette and then at his wristwatch.

“What are you talking about?”

He leaned in and took a deep breath.

“As you inhale that cigarette, the nicotine is rapidly being absorbed through your lungs. It reaches the brain within ten to twenty seconds. The nicotine increases your heart rate and constricts your blood vessels. Cigarettes also contain carbon monoxide; this reduces the blood’s ability to carry oxygen, and the brain is especially sensitive to even small drops in oxygen delivery—which can lead to—”

I didn’t know if it was his words or the way he delivered them, but I felt a strange wave wash over me. The room began to spin, which, together with the ringing in my ears, disoriented me something awful. I needed to vomit like never before. I grasped the bar, hoping it would stop me from spinning off into space.

His voice soothed the ringing, and the last thing I heard was him saying, “Three, two, one.”

It felt like someone had turned the lights off and kept them off for twenty or thirty seconds before turning them on again. I was blinded by the brightness as I came to. I fully expected to be on the floor, but to my surprise, I was sitting upright and felt completely normal—or as normal as you would after about five or six glasses of whiskey.

Between my lips was the cigarette, unlit, and in my hand was the lighter, alight but at a safe distance from it.

The man, now smiling from ear to ear, said, “I told you.”

“What just happened?” As I spoke, the cigarette dropped from my lips and rolled across the bar.

“You passed out. You aren’t used to smoking anymore”

“Wait, wait, wait. But the cigarette isn’t lit. I remember lighting it.”

“Oh well. I brought you back.”

“Back to what?”

“To the moment just before you lit the cigarette.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Please don’t swear. It cheapens a conversation.”

“Fuck you—don’t swear. Are you fucking with my mind?”

“No, I’m not fucking,” he whispered the word he didn’t like, “with you. It’s much more interesting than that. I bent time and space.”

“Fuck this.” I got up and picked up the cigarette. “And fuck you.”

“An Old Fashioned,” the bartender said, sliding a glass toward me.

“One for the road?” The man smiled and nodded toward the glass. “Then you can fuck this and fuck me.”

The bartender’s eyes darted from the man to me, as if to say, What is going on here?

“I’m guessing I misused that phrase. Please sit down.” He turned to the bartender. “You can leave.”

The bartender climbed over the bar, walked toward the door, and left the building.

“Where’s he going? Are you a hypnotist or something? What is going on?” I asked, still teetering on the verge of leaving.

“Don’t be absurd. A hypnotist can’t bend time and space. Sit. Have a drink.”

You’re probably thinking, Why didn’t I get up and leave? The answer lies in his demeanour. Let me describe the man. He was in his seventies, dressed in a wool blazer over a red sweater—think grandpa at Christmas. His eyes radiated warmth, giving me the sense that I was endearing to him. He smiled at me as if I had known him my entire life, as if he knew me as I knew myself. It was strangely comforting.

“Have we met before?” I asked as I sat back down.

He held out his hand and gestured to the cigarette. I passed it to him, and he held it between his index finger and thumb. I watched as he moved the cigarette toward a cupped hand and performed a sleight-of-hand trick, making it disappear. Not nearly as magical as I had come to expect, but the trick made him giggle.

“No, we haven’t met before,” he said, ending the sentence by using my name.

“How do you know my name?”

“I know everything about you, from the mole on your foot to your earliest memory.”

“But how? Wait—how do you know about my mole?”

“I know everything because it’s my job to know everything.”

“What are you, a programmer at ChatGPT?”

“Dear me, no. I’m your guardian.”

“What? Like my guardian angel?”

“We don’t use that term anymore. We found it too old-fashioned, since religion isn’t exactly what it has been. It’s just guardian now. Everyone has one, and everyone becomes one.”

“Wait, what?” I struggled to follow the information and, for some reason, just repeated what he said. “Everyone has one and everyone becomes one?”

“Oh yes. You didn’t think the human race made it this far without some sort of supernatural help, did you? Once you die, you’re given a lamb—someone you must shepherd through life. Often it’s a descendant. If you die without one, you’re given one at random. You are my great-grandson.”

“Bullshit.”

“Look, I’m not too pleased about it right now either. Imagine how I must feel watching my only great-grandson pass out from a cigarette. Other guardians help their family through war, sickness, and other mortal dangers. Look where I am.”

I smiled, knowing now that I had this old con man.

“Right. Go on. What’s my earliest memory?”

“The day your sister was born. Your grandparents took you to the cinema and afterward to the hospital to meet her. You named her. You were so proud that you tried to lift her from the cot, scaring your parents to death.”

It was as if he were remembering the event himself, which made him chuckle.

“Oh my God.” I pushed away from the man, knocking the barstool over. My stomach dropped, and a cold sweat beaded on my forehead.

“Sit down, son”

Trembling, I picked up the chair, not breaking my line of sight with him, and did as he asked. He moved closer and patted his hand on mine twice before letting it rest there. It was warm and soft.

“I’m here to stop you from hurting yourself.”

Please don’t mention it, I remember thinking, pleading with him with my eyes.

“Devilish thing, heartbreak. Unfair, on the face of it, to feel love so strongly when in its essence it’s so fragile.”

I squeezed the cold glass hard, hoping to hold back the tears rising from my throat. I gritted my teeth, trying to keep my mouth shut. I knew if the words slipped out, they’d become reality. He squeezed my hand—not tight, but enough to ease my restraint. My jaw unclenched, and with that, the words seeped out.

“I loved her,” I shuddered. “I mean, I really love her.”

With that, I felt a weight drop from my chest, causing me to exhale for the first time in what felt like a month.

His hand moved to my shoulder.

“I know, my boy. Let it out. I feel your love and the pain too. That’s what manifested me tonight. Pain and anger—these feelings lead to decisions, often bad ones. That’s why I’m here.”

“Are you going to take the pain away?” I looked toward him again, my eyes welling up, like a child with a grazed knee hoping Great-Grandad would make it all better.

“No, I can do a lot of things, but I would never cheat you out of a human experience.” He smiled and wiped a tear from my cheek.

“You can’t have sweet without sour, my boy. I’m here to tell you this—and only this. This pain, however awful it is, is good for you. It can be of use. It is the path toward happiness.”

“Really, that’s your message?” I sighed.

“Tell me you didn’t manifest just to tell me this fortune-cookie philosophy. You should know that I know this.”

“I do. You also know smoking is bad for you, yet you still did it. You know drunk driving is bad, yet you still will do it.”

“You know the future too?”

“I know you—not the future. You.”

I fell silent, my cheeks flushed with heat.

“Son, I have no intention of losing my job tonight. I quite enjoy watching you live your life. Well, the past month has been a bit repetitive, but usually I enjoy you. I’m proud of you.”

He paused.

“And to be honest, you’d make a terrible guardian right now. I’d pity the child who got you as their shepherd.” He snorted.

“Then help me. What should I do? How do I get her back?” I wiped my tears and sat ready to receive some otherworldly guidance.

He thought for a moment, sipped his drink, cleared his throat, and said,

“There is no getting her back. It’s that simple.”

“What? Then how will I ever be happy again?”

“I don’t know, I’m not responsible for your happiness.”

“Can I talk to the person who is—Great-Grandma or someone else in our family tree?”

“She’d have you by the ear. She hated the drink.”

He chuckled, then stopped when he saw I wasn’t in a laughing mood.

“Son… happiness.” He paused.

“Happiness is drawn from your own well, not from somebody else’s. You can’t quench your thirst because you are poisoning the spring that feeds it.”

He seemed pleased with that thought. He shook his glass and took a long sip of his Old Fashioned.

“God, I’ve missed sitting at a bar. I’ve spent many a bad night drinking and thinking. The difference between us”—he stared point-blank at me—“is I faced the hangovers.”

Then he fell silent. This old man sat there sipping his drink, quiet as the grave his mortal body rested in. I watched him, his words echoing through my mind.

Isn’t that one of the truest things ever said?

Once those words had sunk in, we talked some more. The topics of our conversations aren’t something I will share with you as they belong between him and me.

I wrote this piece because I thought this message might be of interest to you, dear reader. I still can’t decide whether this man truly was my so-called guardian. I had drunk a lot that night, but I believe his words to be true. So if you would allow me to be your guest guardian for a moment, and I’ll say this and only this.

Face the hangovers. Whatever they may be, face them.

I will share one last thing. As I stood to leave, he waved me closer. I thought he was going to hug me, but from behind my ear he produced the cigarette.

“Do you have a light?” He smiled.

“I thought you said those were bad?”

“For you, yes—but I’m dead.”

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