A Good Day

1.

As I sat at the bar, I slowly realized I had no idea how I got there or what I had done the rest of the morning, leading up to my first few sips of beer. I looked at the bartender and asked, “How long have I been sitting here?”

“Ten o’ five, I barely got the fucking doors open when you walked in,” she said in her grizzly tone.

“Well, could I get another pint then, please?” I asked. I saw the sign for bar pizzas and the jug of pickled turkey gizzards. “Do you serve breakfast here?”

“I can fry ya an egg,” she said.

“Two then, please,” I requested.

I drank three quarters of my beer by the time she slid my fried eggs in front of me. She then sat a fork, napkin and a bottle of hot sauce next to it.

“Thank you,” I said. The bell above the door dinged, and an odd man walked in, wearing an old St. Paul Saints sweatshirt. His hair was slicked back, and his beard was anything but groomed. He smiled wide, which struck me odd because who smiles like that in a bar like this, at this time of day.

The sunlight highlighted the thick dust on the fluorescent beer signs. “What’s with this guy?” I asked the bartender.

“I’ve never seen him before. Just like I’ve never seen you.”

I knew I had been there before, but it had been quite a few years. She had probably served hundreds of people just like me however, I certainly couldn’t misplace her gruff voice in my memory.

The strange man then sat down next to me, and I saw he had on a Hawaiian necklace and Nike flip flops; he did not appear to be the average St. Paul morning drinker.

“Another beer, please,” I requested. “I’ve got all day to myself, might as well have another.”

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” the strange man added. He then leaned in, looked me in the eye, and said, “This may seem strange, but I’ve got an extra ticket to the Saints game this afternoon. I heard you say that you have nothing planned. Want to join me?”

“Sure, why the hell not,” I said. I began to feel fuzzy from the beer and figured, I can’t even remember why I’m here so what could a little trip to the ballpark hurt?

“Excellent,” the strange man said. “We are going to have a great time.”

2.

“I prefer the third baseline, typically. But these tickets are great,” I said. “You know what? I remember the only time I ever sat behind home plate was actually here, a long time ago.”

“That’s great! These are my lucky seats. I’ve had season tickets right here for years.”

“Who do you usually go with?” I asked. It seemed weird to have two season tickets if he didn’t have someone who typically sat where I was.

“Oh, kind of whoever. Different friends. Family members.”

I found his vague answer peculiar.

“Here come two perks,” he said, nodding towards the two women settling into their seats in the only row between us and the field, and to the right three seats. He then whispered, “The one is the catcher’s girlfriend and the one with the black hat is her sister.”

“Really? How do you know?” Their fingernails matched their Saints jerseys, and their shorts barely covered the bottoms of their asses.

“Like I said, these are my lucky seats, and they come to every single game.”

I dozed off for a few minutes and woke to the strange man handing me a foil wrapped hotdog. I then opened it and saw it had mustard and onions, my typical choice of ballpark hotdog toppings. “How’d you know I like mustard and onions?”

“Good guess, my friend.”

I ate it gladly. It would assuredly soak up the morning beer in my system. “Well, thank you.”

3.

I realized we were driving north, and nearly to Como Park, but I couldn’t remember what the car looked like we were sitting in or even how we got to this point. “Where are we going?”

“I need to make a quick stop on our way. It’s tradition,” the strange man said. “Real quick.”

He pulled into a parking spot, grabbed a loaf of bread from the back seat, and got out. “Come with, it will just be a minute.”

I got out and joined him. While I could remember nearly nothing, I had a memory of feeding the ducks here with my grandparents when I was little. If there were stale bread in their kitchen, my grandfather would drive us here so I could feed them.

“I know, I know. We aren’t supposed to feed the ducks,” he said. “But it’s important.”

“Why is it important?” I asked. “I used to come here as a kid.”

“My friend, I know,” he said.

I was confused, standing and looking out at the water. Two dozen ducks surrounded us as we ripped little piece after little piece, tossing them out for them to snack on.

4.

“Let’s have a little nightcap,” the strange man said, as we were already walking into the same bar we started at earlier in the day.

“OK, can do,” I had sobered up by this point. I ran my fingers along the old bricks at the entrance.

Thump, thump.

“Back for more, I see,” the gruff bartender asked. She was still there, some eight hours after my first drink of the day. “Another beer?”

She opened two bottles and slid us each one, before I could even answer.

Thump, thump.

I took a sip of my beer and looked at the strange man. “Thanks for today. It's been a great time. I must say, though, I’m really struggling with my memory today. Most of the day is a blur and frankly, most of my past is, too.”

“That happens, my friend. Don’t worry about it.”

Thump, thump.

“What the hell is that noise?” I asked.

“Ah, you hear it?”

“How could I not?”

“It’s almost time, my friend.”

Thump, thump.

The lights turned up brightly in the bar. “Is it closing time already? It’s not even that late?”

Thump, thump.

“Quite the opposite, my friend. I’m here to greet you.”

“What?” I asked.

Thump, thump.

“It’s going to be fine. Better than fine, even.”

I looked at him, confused. The fuzzy feeling returned.

Thump.

Thump.

“It’s louder and slower,” I said. “What is that?”

“That sound is you, my friend. Welcome.”

The nearly solid white light slowly filled the room.

Thump.