I sit at the end of the bar, silently sipping my whiskey by myself. I watch the football game on the tv. Unlike all the other guys here, I didn't come here to get drunk and root for the team. Simply to get drunk enough to forget.
The door opens, the bell rings. The winter air floods in, I can feel it's chilliness on my back.
Footsteps, then he plums down on the barstool. I look to my left at the poor soul who just stumbled in. A young fellow. Looks I'm his mid 20s. Wonder why he's here. Pulls out his ID and slaps it on the counter.
"Scotch." He says, sliding his ID to the bartender. The bartender carelessly glances at it and nods. Even if he was underage, he'd probably serve him anyway. He looks like he needs it. He seems drained. Stressed.
He glances over at me and then up at the TV.
"Football huh," He spoke. "Never cared much for it. You here for the game?"
I shrug. "Just here for a drink."
He nods in agreement. The bartender slides his glass down. He picks it up quickly, eager to take a sip. A big sip.
We sit in still silence for a couple seconds, starring up at the game. The soft chatter of small talk hovering in the background.
"So, what happened to you." I ask him in a statement tone. I look over at him. It was obvious he was messed up.
He hesitates for a moment. It's probably all coming back to him. "Got sent home." He began. "Decided they didn't need me anymore."
"Damn." I mutter. We both take a sip of our alcohol before he continues.
"Said I wasn't good enough. Found someone who could take better shots. I call bullshit. Was probably because he had the more expensive shit, you know? Did it most of my life, dreamt it ever since I was a kid. Finally started doing something I liked and it all ended in a shit show." He sighs, fiddling with his fingers. "Thought I took the perfect shots, I knew I had a good eye. Not good enough for them I guess."
I glance down at my reflection in my glass. "Yeah, I know what you mean man."
"Really?" He ask. "Same thing happen to you?"
"Quit." I start. "Couldn't take it anymore. Too stressful. Eyes gettin' bad. I wouldn't have lasted any longer anyway." Another sip down the hatch.
He just looks down at his hands. I can see the agreement on his face.
"Guess some people don't really see it as a passion. Seems dumb to them. They wouldn't understand." He mumbles. "Never met anyone else into it, pretty cool."
Touchdown. Everyone in the bar shouts.
"Maybe I'll try football next." He raises his glass to the TV. I chuckle. He grins, shaking his head.
"Well, did you think you were good at it?" I ask, looking over at him.
"Hell yeah. I took the perfect shots."
"Oh yeah?" I smirk.
"Was really focused. Equipment worked damn well too. I'd shoot anything I could. People, animals. You name it, I'd shoot it." He waves his arms in excitement.
I snicker. "Yeah, pretty addicted when you first start off. Hard to stop."
"You're telling me." The door dings again. Another gust of winter air passes by us. More people pile in.
"I used to take pretty good shots too, I'd say myself. Did it for 5 years. Over in Iraq." I finish my glass. I signal the bartender. He's already pouring another.
"Iraq?" He ask. "Well, at least that's different. Far though. Did you at least get some good ones?"
"Yep. Wasn't as bad as you think over there. Could knock a whole group down with 5 of em." My glass slides down the counter.
"Damn, you must've had a lot of practice. When did you start?" He shifts to face me, clearly interested.
"Dad used to do it. Used to use his back in the day. Maybe 15 was when I first learned to shoot."
"I started when I was 10. Used my dads too." He laughs loudly. I grin. The door rings again, more people coming in.
It starts getting hot. I take my jacket off and put it in my lap.
"Nice tattoo." He says, pointing to the sniper on my arm.
"Thanks, got that in Iraq too. Old pal did it himself." I look down at it. I haven't really acknowledged it till' now.
"Why a sniper though?" He ask, looking confused.
"Wow, I figured that would've been obvious." I chuckle. He gives me a clueless look, clearly not knowing what to say.
"Man, you don't really look like a photography type of guy." He says, taking one last sip. "But I won't judge. If that's what you like, you like. I mean, who am I to judge right?"
The smile fades off my face as I realize. "Mate, I'm a sniper. Not a photographer."
He looks over at me, then quickly looks away.
"Fuck." Is all he says, before reaching down into his pocket, pulling out a wad of cash. He slaps it onto the counter, gets up and walks out.
The door dings as he leaves, and once again the cold air brushes against my back.
