The End of the World, Glen Marcus [any book recommendations .txt] 📗

      On the corner of Hope and High Streets, you’ll find a cozy little bar called the Cross-Eyed Cricket. Jacky “Hoss” Forsyth has been the owner / bartender of the establishment since 1979. Jacky inherited it from his uncle after he was killed that same year. First-time visitors often get to hear about the tavern’s transition of ownership and to tell the truth, it’s a classic.
      The couple had been debating the purchase of an automobile for weeks. It seemed that Uncle Bruce wanted a pickup truck but Aunt Jane wanted a shiny new sports car to zip around town in. He would probably have settled on any make of truck, but everything she liked was substantially out of their price range.
      "Look!" Jane said. "I want something that goes from 0 to 200 in 4 seconds or less. And my birthday is coming up. You could surprise me."
      So, for her birthday, Bruce bought her a brand new bathroom scale.  Services were held at Downing Funeral Home on that following Monday. Due to the condition of his body, it was a closed casket service. To this day, Jacky has a tip bar on the counter that reads, ‘Think Before You Say Things To Your Wife Foundation,’ which of course, he is the sole benefactor.
      Jacky’s nickname is well deserved and he acquired it in the Marines. At a formidable six foot, four inches tall and a solid two hundred-twenty pounds, most other fifty-year old men would be jealous of his shape. Or as he likes to brag, ’I’m 19 hands’ tall and can whip any man half my age or twice my shoe size. Oorah’. Needless to say, most folks at the Cricket didn’t cross the “Hoss”.
      To say the bar is a dive would be a gross understatement. The neon signs and cold beer posters hanging on the walls were mainly installed to cover holes in the plaster caused by a multitude of barroom brawls. The floor boards have not seen a good polishing in years, so sawdust is routinely spread around to absorb spilled drinks and to aid the occasional tobacco chewer. And no one knows...but maybe Uncle Bruce, what the original ceiling color was. It is presently a deep, dark brown, stained by ages of haze bellowed out by the smokers in the bunch.
      To its credit, the place does have a separate game room with an old Brunswick pool table and a Bally’s “Capt. Fantastic” pinball machine that works sporadically. The food isn’t half bad, if a couple of stiff drinks are ordered beforehand. An antique jukebox in the back corner still plays two songs for a quarter and there’s one television above the bar that perennially stays on some news channel. Jacky opens the place every day about eleven a.m. and closes it when he damn well pleases. And to the loyal congregation of the Cricket, it’s their home away from home.
      This particular Friday started off no different than most. Jacky kissed his wife of twenty-six years goodbye and left for work. Upon arriving at the Cricket, Jacky noticed a corner of the banner he hung last week over the door had come loose and was flapping in the breeze. Retrieving a ladder from around back, he proceeded to repair his work. Afterwards, he gazed upwards at the bold, block letters that simply read, ‘END OF THE WORLD PARTY 12/21/2012’. Jacky returned the ladder to the storage shed and walked into the kitchen through the back door.
      “Good morning Bella,” said Jacky as he saw his cook at the prep table shredding some cheese.
      “Hiya Hoss. We’re running low on hamburger again.”
      “I’ll send Kirk down to the butcher shop when he finally decides to show his face.”
      “Oh, he’ll be here. Kirk knows it’s payday. And since today is the end of the world, he’ll probably want cash.”
With a slight grin, Jacky turned and headed to the office around the corner. Unlocking the door, he slipped inside the cramped quarters and sat down. Piles of invoices and other assorted paperwork lay before him on the imitation oak desk. It had been his plan to tackle those stacks this morning but with the impending doom of the sun not coming up tomorrow, he thought better of it.
      A knock at the door got Jacky’s attention. Not having enough space for multiple bodies in his self-described “sardine can” of an office, the owner rose from his Naugahyde chair and walked outside.
      It was one of his liquor salesmen, with whom the owner had no rapport. The “oily-haired slicker,” as Jacky referred to him sometimes, was about as poor a vendor as he was a dresser. For a man as advanced in years, you’d think he’d know his polyester slacks were out of style and about two inches too short in the cuff. The suit coat had seen its better days and Jacky could tell what the man had eaten for breakfast that morning by looking at the menu on his tie. Nonetheless, he dealt with him since Jim Beam didn’t get in the stockroom by itself.
      “You get my order right this time Stanley?” barked Jacky as he turned and headed towards the barroom.
Following closely behind, Stanley was shuffling papers, adjusting his glasses and generally not watching where he was going. Bumping into a table and nearly tripping over a chair, the order manifests came loose from Stanley’s clipboard and washed over the floor, gently landing in a scattered mess on the sawdust floor.
      Jacky turned and simply shook his head as he poured himself and the blundering buffoon a cup of coffee. After gathering everything together and taking a seat across from Jacky at the bar, they got down to business. Stanley cleared his throat and prepped himself to deliver the speech he had rehearsed multiple times on the drive over this morning.
      “Now Mr. Forsyth, the wholesale price of liquor is going up across the board in 2013. You’ve known this was coming and we discussed it thoroughly on my last visit. I’d say a five to seven percent increase is on tap. You’ve garnered some of the lowest prices on my route for years but this time I fear you won’t escape the impending rise in costs. It’s just a fact of life that products will cost more next year and we have to pass those increases down the line.”
      Jacky had “escaped” many price increases over the years since his brother-in-law had a prominent seat on the state’s liquor license review board. His wholesaler needed more liquor licenses to be granted, ergo, an increase to their revenues. But poor old Stanley wasn’t privy to that. So it gave Jacky all the leverage he needed to shoot down the wayward salesman once more.
      “Listen Stanley, you’re as full of crap as a Thanksgiving turkey. If you think I’m paying one red cent more for your product next year, you’ve got another think coming. Times are hard and the economy doesn’t look like it’s going to uptick anytime soon. So if you want a raise next year, you’d be better off shaking down the next tavern. I’d serve sarsaparilla and goat’s milk and turn this place into an eco-friendly, electric car charging establishment before I’d give you a nickel more for your hooch.”
      Pointing his long, beefy index finger towards the befuddled salesman’s nose, Jacky added, “And one more thing. Have a merry Christmas on your way out!”
      With that, Stanley shuffled his way out the back door. Bella was trying poorly to hide her giggles as Jacky walked back through the kitchen.
      “Well, he had it coming. I’m tired of being nickel and dimed to death by these drummers. I’m just trying to make a living, not a killing. If I wanted to do that I’d be a stock broker.” Turning to walk back to the office, Jacky grumbled in a low tone, “Aw hell, I couldn’t do that, I’ve got a conscience.”
      Bella continued to giggle and shred more cheese.
      After once again declining the task of catching up the paperwork, Jacky got the tills ready and decided to open up a little early. He thought there might be a smattering of people that swore off work today, in lieu of the circumstances of 12/21 and he wouldn’t want them to not have a place to tie one on.
      When the back door slammed closed, Jacky knew that Kirk had arrived. At a mere twenty-two years old, Kirk was a legend in his own mind. Or at least, that's what his boss had told him repeatedly. A good-looking kid that simply lacked direction, Jacky had taken Kirk under his wing after both of the young man’s parents were killed in a plane crash a couple of years ago. Kirk had just started college before their untimely deaths and with poor planning on the parent’s part; they hadn't the foresight to purchase life insurance. So Jacky helped Kirk get a place of his own and gave him a job at the Cricket. Though he wouldn’t admit it, Kirk was like the son he never had.
      Poking his head into the office Kirk said, “Bella told me I needed to go get some hamburger.”
      “Yeah, but first set up the table and chairs. I want to open a little early.” With a sheepish grin, Jacky continued, “Well, how’d it go last night?”
      “How’s what go?” feigning a puzzled tone.
      “If you don’t want to tell me what happened with you and that elderly lady you left with last night, it’s none of my business.”
      Realizing he had not slipped out of the bar as covertly as he thought, Kirk decided to change tactics. “Well I was just helping her with…car troubles.”
      “The only trouble that woman had was getting to her car. Hell, she even left her walker behind.”
Knowing he was busted, Kirk turned around and said, “I think my breakfast burrito is about to say hello. I’m going to set up.”


      The larger than normal lunch crowd came and went, probably drawn in by the banner outside, thought Jacky. Some new faces even promised to be back for the festivities later in the evening. By mid-afternoon, the regulars started to wander into their favorite watering hole.
The old antique doorbell jingled as ‘Bald Harry’ strolled through the door. As Harry bellied up to the bar he said with a grin, “Happy holiday Hoss.”
      “What holiday?” replied Jacky, while wiping a few glasses from the drying rack behind the bar.
      “Well…Christmas.” Harry replied with a puzzled look.
      “Then, merry Christmas to you too.” Jacky said, never being too fond of the politically correct version of Harry’s seasonal greeting. Making small talk, Jacky continued, “You’re looking good Harry. Have you been exercising?”
      In a standard “Bald Harry” response he said, “Whenever I feel the need to exercise, I lie down until it goes away.”
      After serving him his usual highball of Tennessee sipping whiskey, Harry began to slowly troll the floor, looking for someone that might listen to his dribble.
      In a few minutes, Maria shuffled over to the bar and abruptly slammed her empty glass down on the shellac surface. “Hoss, I needs a refill.”
      Slowly turning around, Jacky looked the middle-aged lady down and said, “Maria, don’t you think you’ve had enough for today?’
      Ignoring the comment, the inebriated lady continued, “And by the way, I was just lookin’ under the Chritmas tree and I…I didn’t see a present wit my name on it.”
      “Maria, those presents aren’t real. They’re just decorations. They’re empty boxes.”
      Almost breaking out in tears, she replied, “Aww, can I have one. I don’t have any presents to open this