She rushed through the door and strode toward the only open seat at the bar, the stool next to mine. Just like the boss said she would. She was in her mid-twenties. Short hair accenting her oval face. Audrey Hepburn cheekbones. Anya Taylor-Joy eyes. Tiny mole left of her lips. No obvious piercings or tattoos. A kind aura.
Some days I hate my job.
She waved the bartender over, ordered a cheeseburger and fries with a double Scotch on the rocks. She showed him her ID before he asked, told him she was in a hurry, promised a fat tip for fast service. She tapped her phone to check the time and sighed in exasperation.
“What’s the rush?” I asked.
“Like it matters to you.”
It did matter to me, but I couldn’t tell her why. Couldn’t tell her I’d been thinking about bucking the system. So I said, “This isn’t the kind of place most people run in and out of.”
“Yeah, well I’m not most people. Fast-food chains are evil. I like local and I need a drink.” A pause. “And if that’s your best line, no wonder you’re alone.”
“Line?” I laughed. “Don’t worry, I don’t troll girls as young as you.”
“Troll?” she laughed right back. “That’s not what the word means, grandpa.”
I laughed with her. Vulnerability goes a long way, I learned a long time ago. “Ah, the problem with slang. I can’t keep up.” I gave her my best smile.
“Hit on. That’s the term you want. And you can’t hit on me ’cause I have a date.”
“A date?” I looked around for effect. “Where is he?”
“He’s a cheapskate. Said he couldn’t make it to the theater until right before the movie. You know that place that shows old movies for two bucks? That’s my date. Cheapskate.”
“So why rush?”
“I promised a friend. Stupid me. Her brother’s not my type. Three lip piercings! How do you kiss that? And tattoos everywhere, even on his face. Letters in his hairline that spell D-A-N-G-E-R. Yuck!”
“More ink than the daily newspaper, huh?”
“Whatever that is. But it gets worse.” She was warming up. It hadn’t been as hard as I expected.
“He’s into gore. The movie’s a horror flick. Something about a crazy guy who thinks he’s the Grim Reaper.”
“But you’re going?”
“I can’t say no to my friends. I know I need to. There are so many things I’d rather be doing tonight. Instead, I’m meeting a bizarro for a gross movie I’ll probably cover my eyes the whole time. Is that pathetic or what?”
“Sometimes, you have to put yourself first,” I said as kindly as I could.
She grunted, turned away, downed her drink. She lifted the empty glass toward the bartender, and he nodded. I picked up my phone, found the theater’s website, looked at the ad for the movie. Sure enough, it pictured a dark figure carrying a scythe, black cloak, face menacingly obscured. What a cliché. Gabriel never gets treated this way. Michael and Peter and all the rest, they get the flowing white robes and wings and shiny halos. Maybe that’s too pretty for the angel of death, but why can’t he ever be shown as a regular guy. Short graying hair. Unremarkable face. Glasses. Polo over khakis. Penny loafers. Like me.
I guess I said it out loud because the girl snorted. “That wouldn’t be very scary.” The burger, fries, and her second Scotch arrived, and she dug in like she was training for Nathan’s July 4th hot dog contest.
“It’s not death that’s scary, it’s dying before you’ve had a chance to live,” I mused. “When you grow old, you die with decades of memory. You’ve had your time. Maybe you’re lonely, with all your friends and brothers and sisters past tense. But to go young? That’s tragedy. It’s cheating you of so much.”
She squirmed and scooted as far away from me as the stool allowed.
“Sorry,” I said. “I can get a little morose.”
She chased another huge bite of her burger with a swig of Scotch. She was doing her best to ignore me.
“It’s just, no one is guaranteed tomorrow. Treat each second, each minute, each hour as the precious gift it is. Don’t waste your time on losers …”
“Cool the sermon, old man,” she said curtly and stood up. Half the burger remained on her plate.
Such spunk. She deserved better. “Don’t walk out that door,” I said quietly. “Don’t rush off to gore and darkness. Stay for dessert, my treat. Enjoy a long and happy life.”
“Who do you think you are!? You’re creepy as hell! I’m outta here!”
She gulped the Scotch, slammed the glass down, stormed out. The bartender chased after her, waving the unpaid check, my silent cheers urging him on. But it was too late. The girl fishtailed her Mustang into the street without looking, ran a red light, slalomed through traffic.
Just like the boss said she would. Damned omniscience.
I dropped a Franklin on the counter. A good tip for the bartender, just like the girl promised. I nursed my IPA until I heard the ambulance coming, lights and siren blaring. Time to get on with it.
Robert Leger is in his third chapter as a writer, spinning fiction after stints in newspaper journalism and public affairs consulting. He served as national president of the Society of Professional Journalists in 2002-03. A member of SouthWest Writers, the Arizona Authors Association, and the Phoenix Writers Network, he lives outside Phoenix with his wife, Cindy.