Over a Scotch

I don’t often drink other than at home because the Scotch I like is too fuckin expensive and doesn’t agree with driving. A buddy, a Scotch buddy, told me about a bar on the Snohomish river in a small town with the same name. As I said, I enjoy expensive Scotch.

Saddling up to the bar the tender handed me a Scotch menu, double-sided; small font. Be still my heart. He asked me what I liked and I told him, Fiddich 21, thinking I was all that, and then some. The guy sitting next to me laughed as did the bartender. What?

“Now? You may think just because you drink Two-Hundred and Fifty-Dollar, a fifth, shit; you know Scotch. I will set eight glasses up in front of you; you just get a taste of what you’ve been missing. Five-Hundred, bucks.”

“Are, you, out of, your fuckin, mind???” I broke out in a laugh and had to ask just in case he’d been sampling a little too much of his product.

“He must like you, brown eyes.” The guy sitting next to me said.

“Rack-em up, Todd. I’ll pay for it just to see the look on his face.” That had me looking at him hard.

“Ryan,” I said sticking out my hand.

“RJ, Right???” He asked taking mine.

“You have me at a loss, Sir,” I replied.

He stood up slapping his hand down on the bar, “This, Is, A Crock, of Shit.” He yelled and looked at me laughing then sat back down.

I had only said that one time, in a crowded council meeting, twenty-five- years ago. “You still have me at a disadvantage, Sir?” And Todd set eight glasses on the bar.

The older gentleman sitting next to me had been circling with a pen then handing back the menu saying, “Right to left.” And Todd started reaching for bottles putting the smallest amount in each glass.

“Smell it first, Mr. Chancellor. Look at the color hanging on the inside of the glass. That is just a tasting so don’t waste it; taste it. Enjoy.” And I did as he suggested.

The smell was an aroma that hit the nose with a little bite, color, of the richest amber, and tasted like, fuckin candy. I looked back at him remembering the way Robby and I commanded that council meeting. Still, I was at a loss.

“Now the next one is from the High Lands of Scotland. A family-run establishment with castings over two-hundred -years old.” And I did again as he instructed.

“The color is richer but not as hard on the nose. Taste.” And I only took a little knowing I’d want what was at the bottom of the glass.

“Sir? You seem to know me but have yet to allow me the privilege of your name.”

“You wouldn’t remember me. Now the third is a Fiddich, a blend of 45, year, all the way down to what you like. Some years back a heavy snow took out the roof, many castings were smashed, and the ones that weren’t were blended into this. Is it, Snow Blend, Todd?” and he nodded.

I did as I had the first two, admired the color, the smell, and the fuckin taste. I set the glass down thinking about Robby; what we had and what was lost. He must have realized because he motioned Todd to the other end of the bar. “I’m sorry.” He said when I looked at him.

“You two were quite a team. We are very much alike, you and I, Mister Chancellor. I morn as you do; even after all this time.” I just looked at him.

“Now the next two are from the McAllen Klan. Have you ever been to Scotland, Mr. Chancellor?” And I shook my head back and forth.

“We must go some time.” And I raised the glass to my lips wondering just what this old fucker was talking about.

Now, I’d probably only had three-quarters of a shot, but set my card down. Four to go. I looked again and his head looked at the bar. “Your RJC III was my Johnny. Our stories are so much alike,” and he walked to the jukebox.

The first one fell, Billy Vera, ‘At This Moment.’ Todd came back over, “he’s been here all afternoon, be nice.” And I could tell he meant that.

“Tell me his name?” I asked.

“I don’t have a fuckin clue who you are? It seems like he’s been waiting for someone the last few months. I think it’s you. His name is, Mike.”

“Like in, Mike Brennon?” I asked. It had just dawned on me. And he nodded.

Son of a bitch. Mike was a writer for the AP when I was doing shit. He covered me for, hell, up till Robby died. I watched him at the old jukebox, swaying back and forth till he’d pushed enough buttons to eat his dollars.

He sat next to me again. “I’m sorry,” I told him, and he shrugged.

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Chancellor. You are a remarkable man, the shit you’ve done and the lives you have changed. I met your friend a few months ago, I won’t say he’s enamored; but he holds you in the highest regard. He loved talking about you and I loved listening.”

“Mike? I honestly couldn’t wait to read what you wrote; it was all very flattering.

“It was honest.” And the next track started. “Would you consider?”

I stood. “It would be an honor.” And we walked hand in hand to the deck.

I guess because I was a little taller my arms rested on his shoulders and his around my waist. LOBO. ‘The End of the World.’ Fuckin figures.

“Why does the sun go on shining? Why does the sea rush to shore? Don’t they know, it’s the end of the world? It ended when you said goodbye. Cause you don’t love me anymore.”

There was NO hardening between us; we’re, old, fuckin men. “Johnny was kind of like your Robby; but not, in so many ways. What we had was shrouded in denial. I only wished I saw in his eyes, just once, what I saw in Robby’s when you slammed your hand on the table.” And the record ended.

We still kind of moved like music was playing. And then it started. The Stylistics, ‘Let’s, Put it All Together.’ “Your arms around me are tender and warm. My arms are meant to hold you. Your arms and my arms, what more is there to say.”

“I wish I had what you did.”He said as we moved to the music.

I felt sorry for this man, the story he had was so… different than mine but the loss seemed the same. Would he really have wanted to walk lifetimes of miles in my shoes?

The next disk dropped. He released me. He stood at the jukebox, a hand on each side, and moved like a young man when the music started. Couldn’t blame him. The Stylistics again. ‘You are Everything.’ And I started moving as I found myself behind him. I envy the young. If they only knew what getting old was like.

I am sixty years old, and he was way older than me; he knew my story. My life was sad but I felt sorry for him. I moved behind. “Today I saw somebody, looked like you do, I thought it was you.” I took him in my arms.

I knew that feeling; ‘I thought it was you.’ “I’m doing my best to let that go; you need to do the same, Mike.”

“How could you let go of that? I would have hung on till the end.”

“I did Mike, till the very end.”

“You still have half a rack, Ryan.” And he turned pushing me back to the bar.

He sat beside me as I did tastings of the last four and he nodded to his glass and Todd. “You want to tell me, Mr. Brennon?” I asked.

“You know? I always thought you were so… fuckin hot? But it wasn’t just your looks in those tailored suits; honest. You did some amazing shit, you did. I knew for sure; saw it in both of you before the meeting. What were you saying to each other?” I know I blushed as the smile came to my lips.

“I really don’t remember, Mike. That whole thing was for, Rob. He took some amazing photos.” And I thought about that and the Gala, after.

“Others might not have been paying close enough attention, but I was. I saw the way your hand went to the small of his back under his jacket and your fronts came together. I saw how close your lips were to his ear, I saw when you pulled apart and the way he looked down, you were boning up.” And he smiled.

“And I thought we were being discrete.” I laughed. “He called me a ‘bastard’ thinking I’d set him up and I assured him that my parents were married. He called me a ‘fucker’ and I told him we never, just fucked. Then I told him I was going to get him off before we got back to The Lake House.” And he smiled.

“You know I was married, right?” he nodded. “Rob and I spent our late teens and early twenties as husbands.” And I took the sixth tasting.

“Johnny and I were kind of like that, but I too, married young, to a girl. The thing with him started before you were doing your thing and lasted; it didn’t last, and we had nothing like what you did.” He finished.

“Our life, this time, wasn’t great. I mean the early years couldn’t have been better, the middle ones, not so much: you saw him at his best. Me too.” And I took number six all at once.

“I remember,” he said as I looked at him smiling at the bottles. “When I saw RJC, how could I not read??? You have a gift.”

“OK? So you think you fuckin know me, now?”As my voice rose; Todd stepped in front of us.

I realized, “We’re good, thanks.”

I had never met face to face with a reader; didn’t think I ever would, even though I interacted with them in comments and emails. It is one thing to spill your guts and show strangers my backside, and it took me a few to take all that in. And I wondered if he’d commented or emailed me?

“The guy in the last chapter’s, Derion? You know him?” He asked.

“Yes, I know him,” And I smiled. “We talk and know more about each other than I ever thought. We have never met in person.”

“He is kind to you with his comments as are the others. I must have read it ten times. I could tell that the first had nothing to do with anything; just your need to get it all out.” And he sipped at his glass setting it back down.

“So, you enjoyed it?”

“I enjoyed it ten times. I like your other stuff too; fiction is ok. You’ve made quite a name for yourself again, haven’t you, RJC?”

“Tell me what you liked and didn’t?”

“I loved ‘The Start’ with the things you brought in and all the music. I hated both endings.” He said pointing to his glass again.

“It hit everything,” I told him remembering writing it.

“Yea, so… you said.” He reminded.

“Tell me, Mike. What did you like and what turned you off?”

‘Robby and Ryan’ was a solid ten. The ending, I assume was fiction? I won’t ask about the unbelievable.” He finished.

“Maybe, maybe not.” I returned.

“I saw so much of you in ‘The Start’. You had me in the second chapter when Dean was shot and died. Really? A dream sequence? Like on Dallas? I was so happy to read chapter three.” And he sipped again from his glass and my dimples showed.

“I have a hard time with short stories. I regretted hitting post, on chapter two a minute after. Who would have thought I’d go on to write other two-hundred-thousand words? I think it was some of my best work. What else, Mike?

“The music. I did as you suggested and listened on YouTube. You are quite eclectic, Ryan. I didn’t enjoy the inevitable death of Dean but you did it well. I loved the car; reminded me of, Knight Rider.” And I smiled.

“What caused you to interject yourselves into ‘The Start’? He asked.

“You were right about the two endings. But when I wrote ‘The End’ in chapter 15, I left an opening. I had come to another block. The birth of, ‘Dirt Road Main Street,’ ‘Something Different’, ‘The Boy Named Tristen’, And ‘The Bug’. All that came from writer's block so I could finish Robby.” And he smiled.

“I did enjoy those chapters and still cry reading them back. What else, Mike?”

“You always wanted to know if your humor came across? It did. I found myself smiling and even laughing; then crying. But I didn’t like the way you ended, ‘A Boy Named Tristen’; there was so much more to write. Why did you do that?” And he called Todd over.

“I’m cutting you guys off unless you eat.” And he looked back and forth between us.

“What do you say, Ryan? Some crab cakes? Maybe a basket of shrimp?”

And I nodded at Todd saying, “DUDE. I haven’t even had a full shot.” He smiled and did a subtle nod to Mike who was starting to slur.

“Why did you try and do so… much, Ryan? I mean writing one thing can be hard, two at the same time, difficult. Three and using POV; why would you do that?”

I kind of wondered the same thing? “Do you think my writing suffered doing all of that? I have a real problem with writers who make readers wait, weeks or months, sometimes longer. I get a block and something else gets me started again.” And the cakes were delivered.

“I totally get that. I’m with you; pisses me off too. I have no idea if it affected your writing because we don’t know what you could have accomplished had you not done what you did.” And we both took a bite of a really good crab cake.

“’Dirt Road Main Street’, was different. How did you feel starting a story with a promise to finish before moving on with the others; did it give you focus?” Then I smiled at him as he nodded in agreement.

“You could have cut back a little on the shamming; readers don’t deserve that. But you are the only Author who praises other writers. You do it over and over, recommending readers read their stuff, commented to your followers, I think it sets you apart from the others. Why’d you do that?” And we both took the rest of the little cake in one bite.

I thought. “I was a reader long before ever pecking at the keys. ‘Robby and Ryan’ needed to be shared or I would have gone crazy. I needed to make him relevant again. Those I mentioned, and others, inspired me to do what I’m still trying to do.” And I looked at the bar shaking my head.

“I mean; I’m a writer, Ryan. I never knew if I got the facts across, didn’t have a place to rate what I wrote. I have tried to do what you do and write; I don’t think I have it in me.” And the shrimp basket came.

“Are you trying to write fiction?” I asked fanning my mouth on the first bite of a shrimp. He nodded.

Finally, able to swallow the bite I had prematurely taken, I said, “Write about Johnny, Mike. Tell your story as I did. Don’t hold back and give yourself some release. Show your ass, Mike.”

We finished in silence and Todd gave us another round. “What about the other stuff, Mike? Did you like it?”

“I really don’t understand why you’re doing, ‘Author’s Notes’?” He stated.

“I want readers who haven’t read any of my stuff to seek it out and read. I think it’s important. That’s why I always reference other titles. A lot of my chapters never saw over a couple of hundred readers but I hover just under ten in most of them.” And I took a sip from my freshly filled glass and picked up another prawn.

“You know, Mike? I never saw myself sitting where I am today. I don’t mean here with you but on GD. Out of the hundreds of authors on that site, I am number ten; Really? Again, my readers are few compared to those who are behind me now, I won’t even start reciting their names.” And I took another bite of a much cooler shrimp.

“Is it about that? I mean; does the number of readers and where you sit on popular Authors matter? What does that mean???” and he dipped his in the glass of Scotch.

“I never thought about it, Mike, until I saw myself at eighteen. I didn’t look again until I saw me at ten. Would I like to be sitting behind Grant, at number three? Fuck yes, I would. I respect that guy and his ability as a writer. Is that what you wanted to hear?” And I took another bit sucking the meat from the tail

“I guess what it is Mike.” And I paused. “I thought when writing, ‘The Start’, it would be about a school shooting and that was to be my focus. Obviously, on a gay site, you need to add some hot and steamy. It was all fiction but I delved deeper into sexuality in small North Dakota town.” And I picked up another shrimp.

“I thought the dysfunction was important, suicide, rape, fame and death, and the other stuff. I actually cried as I wrote, felt what I was writing, and somehow related to the characters I’d created.” I had just shared so much with him.

“Your friend doesn’t really know about you, does he? He thinks he knows you but doesn’t?” He questioned.

“He is a really nice guy, Mike. Our sons are very much alike. We both have a brainiac and a drug addict. I only show my ass to a select few. He has never let on that he reads this site or knows who RJC, really is.”

We finished and he told Todd to put it on his tab and I shook my head no. Mike, stood behind me with his hands on my shoulders, mouth next to my ear, and I crossed mine over my chest coming to rest on his. “Will I read about this in the morning, MR. Chancellor???”

“One never knows what tomorrow brings, Mr. Brennon.” He squeezed then walked out the door.

You really have to be careful in a place like this; ‘on me’, can take a toll when buying a drink. I paid twelve-hundred-dollars with the tip to sit here this afternoon, would have paid two-grand.

It’s not like I needed an UBER. I had only a little buzz when I got behind the wheel then drove across the river. I had done that bridge hundreds of times and home was only twenty minutes away. Truth be told, I was already composing it in my head.

I called and picked up a pizza for the boys; can’t go wrong with pizza. Robby looked at me when I came in with a large, “You ok, Grampy?” He asked.

“I’m good, little dude.” And I set the Pizza on the counter then moved down the hall to my room.

I thought about Mike as I disrobed. I thought about Rob and the way we capitalized on that Council Meeting; then I got in the shower hoping to pull one out; didn’t happen. I dried, combed my hair, and did pit stick. I looked at my naked body then pulled on the back of my head to see my face as it was years ago. Fuckin vanity.

Robby walked in with my robe, hung it where my towel would hang, and he looked at me in the mirror. “Put on your sleep-pants, Grampy; I want to show you something.” And he walked out.

Nakedness is something that isn’t an issue anymore. Both my grandsons have seen my old naked self and I knew they showered together sometimes. I don’t see it as a bad thing, brothers see each other, walk in on me, and skin is skin.

He was in the sitting room and I sat across from him. “What were you doing today, Grampy?” He asked like he knew exactly what I was doing.

From your Author:

This is only a two-chapter thing and you just read 3500 words only to get here. The next chapter will hold much more personal shit about what goes on in a day of a writer and heeds warning to all. RJC.