I am sure you understand the importance of a familiar atmosphere and a set routine. I, for one, would be lost without my Sunday trips to the shooting range and weekly knot-tying class. There are only so many knots that can resist the average squirmy citizen, you know.
But enough about me. Our main character, Edward Smith, has his own routine, one that involves a nightly drink at Jack's Saloon. "Saloon" is a bit misleading as Jack's is actually a fine establishment nestled among the capricious streets of downtown Washington, DC.
In any matter, Edward journeys to the bar at six o'clock every evening. And every evening he has a Beefeater martini, extra dry, straight up, with a twist, rocks on the side. He cannot remember the last time he needed to state his order. The bartender knows.
Edward drinks to ease his mad mind. He drinks to forget about the congressmen and the bills and the interns. Oh those interns. But mostly he drinks to forget about that night, last October. He drinks to forget about the splash and that murky plea for help.
He doesn't talk while he is at Jack's Saloon. He keeps his mouth occupied with the gin. When he leaves, he is filled with the nutrition he needs to make his way home. To fall asleep. To face it all again tomorrow.
It is disturbing when one's routine is broken. I remember a dreary afternoon when my knot-tying class was cancelled. I was so bored I could have hung myself.
But back to Edward. Last week, after he climbed atop his regular stool, the bartender placed a white Russian in front of him. It seemed almost luminous, directly under the light.
"What is this?" Edward asked. His voice stirred the other laconic customers curled around the bar.
"Your regular, sir," the bartender said, eyebrow cocked as he wiped the counter. Edward knew not to press further.
He sipped it. He tried to enjoy the different taste. But there was something metallic about it. And there was a clinking sound that simply could not have been generated by an ice cube.
As the drink drained, he came to understand. An idle bullet resided at the bottom of the glass.
Now Edward may not be what most would call a good man. But he would be called a good employee—-especially in our nation's capital. He has never shied away from nefarious assignments. Namely, he helped dispose of a body using a boat. And by helping dispose of a body, I mean that Edward shot a live man on a boat and pushed the still murmuring body into the water.
And the formerly live man was not just any live (now dead) man. He had connections, connections of the Russian mafia persuasion.
So you can begin to comprehend why a bullet in a white Russian might be a tad startling to Edward. He persevered nonetheless. Hopeful that things would return to normal, he spent a week at Jack's drowning his fears in cream and vodka. But staring at the clicking of a fresh bullet at the bottom of a glass can take a toll on a man. The white Russians--well, white Russians with a twist, but I kid--were poor substitutes for his usual martini. When you mess with a man's routine, you mess with his fragile mind.
Tonight, Edward resists the urge to have his feet move down that familiar sidewalk. He does not pass the familiar street sign that is just a smidge crooked and the familiar homeless man who proclaims wisdom with black markers and cardboard—-yes, the world will eventually reach its demise. (When it does, I hope a brandy is nearby.)
Instead, Edward enters the unfamiliar liquor store. He escorts the Beef-eater gin home before he rummages for those olives he knows are in the back of his refrigerator. He wipes clean the one martini glass he owns along with the martini maker, a gift.
But what is this? When he pours the liquid it does not flow with the delicious clarity he expects. It is white. And there is a clink, a now familiar clink.
Why yes, a bullet has traveled to the center of the drink. It settles. It rests.
His mouth hangs open and his heart beats faster. Until a thought scratches inside his cranium.
This is good news.
He is not a hunted man. He is simply an insane one.
He smiles as he toasts to himself and downs the drink. The bullet is shockingly easy to swallow.
All rights Reserved. This story originally appeared in Foliate Oak Literary Magazine:
http://www.foliateoak.com/caitlin-jennings.html.
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Your Room: A Flash Fiction Collection
Short StoryA series of quirky, often dark short stories. Each title also shows the number of minutes it takes to read it. Many can be read in a minute or less.
