One Shot

Chapter One

My name is Jack Shot.

As it turns out, I lead an interesting life.

That’s not to say your own life isn’t interesting. I’m sure your existence on this blue planet is filled with its own shocking and exciting events too. We are both flying through space at sixty-seven thousand miles-per-hour on a rock which, on the cosmic scale, is nothing more than a speck of dust, after all. It’s hard to imagine things could ever get dull.

You may be wondering why my name is even important.

Well, to be honest, it’s not.

If we are going by today’s standards, one must be famous to have his or her name engraved in metaphorical stone. The rest of us will be forgotten in time, and several generations later it will be as though we never existed. I do not find this to be a sad thing. When dead, I doubt I will care about being remembered.

I am not famous. I do not care about getting famous. I am not related to any famous people. And for the most part, I cannot recall ever having even met anyone famous.

Once at a local fair, at the age of fourteen, I shook hands with a fat man who had just set the record for the most watermelons smashed with his head. That was my closest brush with stardom.

I am writing this not because I have any desire to achieve that worshiped celebrity state through massive book sales and an interview with Larry King, but for my own sanity.

I like to write.

It gives me peace of mind, although when pen hits the paper, poems are nearly always the result. What I am doing now is a bit out of context for me, but I feel it needs to be done.

I’ve been writing poems for nearly as long as I can remember. They aren’t half bad, either. Don’t get me wrong; you won’t find any of my works inside a Hallmark card, or even published for that matter. However, those who have read them all managed to avoid vomiting where they stood, so I take that as a good sign.

At this point I’m sure you’re wondering just what attributes make up my not-so-normal life. I promise; I’ll get there. If I told you right now, I am not sure you would believe me. I would not blame you either, because often I don’t believe it myself.

For all I know, I could be living in my own mind, a severely brain-damaged patient currently rocking back and forth in the padded cell of a mental hospital. I’m pretty sure that is not the case, but with all that’s happened I cannot rule out the possibility. To be honest, I’m not even sure I dislike that idea. It would make things a lot simpler, to be sure.

Actually, I take that back. I don’t think I would prefer that reality. Even if the world existed only in my head, then not only would I be going through copious amounts of unnecessary stress, but I’d probably also be drooling on myself.

It’s a give-and-take situation at best.

For the time being, please give me the benefit of the doubt that this is reality, in which case there is one more thing I should explain to you. I tend to get lucky. Now, I should probably clarify that. By get lucky I am not referring to the slang used to describe a potential sexual experience. My luck is a bit different.

For example, during my seventh grade year of school, I was bullied by one particularly large fellow with diagnosable anger issues. At one point near the end of the year, I decided it would be a wonderful idea to give this oversized pre-adolescent classmate of mine the middle finger. I had just so happened to be standing near a tall, solid oak bookshelf when I raised my defying digit of justice. The bully’s face turned red with rage, and he charged me like a bull that had just received an electric shock to the testicles.

I froze with the terrifying realization of what I had just done and remained unmoved until the last possible moment when I had the presence of mind to sidestep.

The bully rammed into the bookcase behind me with full force, causing the bottom end to fly out while the top end crashed forward. The scene would have made any physics teacher ecstatic.

The tall set of shelves and all its contents crashed down on both of us.

One of the empty shelf spaces came down where my slim frame was standing. It passed right over top of me all the way down to my feet like one of those old school comedies where a wall falls on a joker, but he just happens to be standing where the open window lands. When the dust settled and the screams began, I was still standing, completely bewildered but untouched. Like the comedian, I was amazed my body had not taken the shape of a pancake.

The same could not be said for the mammoth bully. Unfortunately for him, the bookshelf had landed on his head, cracking his skull all the way through. The doctors later assured us that his death was instantaneous, but I swear I had seen his body squirming for a second or two as the puddle of blood spread across the floor.

That was one of my less pleasant childhood memories.

Apparently, the good luck I have just keeps me alive, but doesn’t bother to spare me the gruesome details. Don’t worry, though, not all my luck comes in such graphic forms. Yesterday, in fact, I just happened to win a fifty-inch flat screen TV for free.

I was the millionth customer to pass through the threshold of the Circuit-Plus electronics store. Upon entering I was greeted with confetti and a giant banner reading: 1,000,000th Customer.

I was a bit skeptical about the whole thing at first, but then I was presented with the prize. By that point I realized it wasn’t a joke, I felt bad because I wasn’t even planning on buying anything. I had just hitched a ride with Larry simply because he was the only friend I had with a vehicle. He also happened to be my chain-smoking, alcoholic boss who has often passed out on the couch in my apartment. As we entered the store, I even happened to walk in behind him, making Larry the 999,999th customer and myself the millionth.

Before I left, I bought a three-dollar mouse pad with Shrek on it, because I felt like I shouldn’t leave without at least spending a little money.

I’ve talked to people who don’t believe in luck. They call the events that happen to me coincidences. I tell them I must have very lucky coincidences. Others who don’t believe in luck tell me all things are acts of God. I suppose that’s possible. If there is a God, perhaps he created me a lucky person.

Either way, my luck is very sporadic. Sometimes it does miracles and other times acts as though I have just broken a mirror and doomed myself to seven years of its bad side. I suppose then you can make an argument that my luck isn’t that good after all, but I will still beg to differ.

This luck that I speak of has nothing to do with why my life is on the higher end of the odd chart.

So, are you dying to know what makes my life more interesting than your average nine to fiver’s?

I can see the future.

Chapter Two

I woke up in bed feeling no luckier than any other day. The familiar scent of peeling paint and damp mold entered my nostrils. Without having yet opened my eyes, I imagined that scent as being a tangible entity à la the Bugs Bunny cartoon. However, instead of tantalizingly grabbing my nose and carrying me gracefully across the room to where a fresh pie sat cooling on a window sill, it reached with its clawed vapor-based hand into my brain and yanked me out of REM land and back into my apartment by force.

I rolled over.

I’m a hard-working guy, but I am also a heavy sleeper. At twenty-three, I can already out-sleep the dead.

At the other side of the room, my alarm clock began buzzing. I’d placed it there on account of my own lack of early morning discipline. Dragging myself across the room to turn it off revokes my right to the snooze button, a right which I would otherwise abuse.

Without lifting my face, which was still planted firmly in the pillow, I threw off the covers, and with great effort, I planted my feet on the floor of my bedroom, which also substituted as my living area and kitchen.

I like my one-room apartment. Although I suppose it isn’t technically one room as it does have a separate bathroom, and the area where my bed rests is somewhat separated by a natural indentation in the building. As much as the small space suits my needs, HGTV will not be knocking on my door anytime soon asking for a recorded tour.

I went to my dresser and grabbed a pair of socks. The floor is made of particleboard, and I’ve learned that the soles of my feet tend to mate with splinters if I do not put something on them. You are guaranteed to have bad day if you initiate your morning with wood chips embedded in your toes.

My mini-kitchen sits to my immediate left (containing only a microwave and mini-fridge). To the right rests the giant plasma television I mentioned. It’s mounted on an orange crate against the opposite wall and is probably worth more than the rest of my possessions combined. To say it looked out of place in a room where the ceiling itself was only six and a half feet tall would be an understatement.

Larry Washington, the guy I mentioned who often passes out on the couch, is more than thrilled at the acquisition of the television.

He owns the bar that I work at, as well as my apartment above it. So I guess technically he is my landlord as well, but he doesn’t charge me any rent so long as I pay electric and heat. It’s a convenient set up, because I can wake up and stumble down to work.

I showered, freshened up, and put on a white casual dress shirt with vertical blue lines. I left it unbuttoned, so the white t-shirt beneath was plainly visible, and I didn’t bother to put a belt on. There was no dress code for bartenders, but I’ve found that not dressing like a complete slob gets me slightly better tips.

I glanced in the mirror before leaving. I certainly wasn’t ready for prom, but my physical appearance was not deplorable enough to suggest last night had been akin to The Hangover movie, so I prepared to head downstairs to the bar. On my way, I grabbed a piece of paper off my desk with a poem I had written for a special someone.

After coming down the flight of old wooden stairs, I found myself in the familiar back room behind the bar where I had worked for the past two years. The stairs themselves came out to an area just behind the bar where the liquor was stored. It also held the extra glasses, shakers, lemons and other random products needed to run a successful tavern.

The neon green analogue clock on the wall proclaimed the time to be 10:15 AM, which, for your average barkeep who had worked until 2:00 AM the night before, is the crack of dawn. I yawned and proceeded to restock the necessary elements for the bar, which opened at noon, but would not get busy until after 5:00 PM.

I strolled out to the front of the house. The bar had a rustic, old school theme to it that bordered somewhere between 80’s rock & roll and country, and the air was saturated with the faint smell of cigarette smoke and the residue of spilled alcohol. A retro jukebox waited patiently in the back corner for patrons to exchange a dollar for a song, and dozens of neon signs, mostly beer promos, covered any empty space on the walls. Currently they were all off, and morning sunlight shown through the windows on the right side of the building, illuminating rays of dust particles that wandered aimlessly in the air.

The bar itself sported a standard setup with a stained wood counter and worn, red felt padded bar stools lined up along it. Behind, where I worked serving drinks to the masses, were shelves of liquor bottles, several beer fridges all complete with decorative amenities. To the left of the sitting area, three booths ran along the side wall, and a handful of dark stained wooden tables with matching chairs were clustered in the center. In the back corner opposite the jukebox sat a billiards table with worn green felt that provided cues and ceramic balls to match. Bits of dirt and a few cigarette butts littered the floor underneath some of the tables and chairs. I made a mental note to sweep before we opened.

Good morning, Jack Shit, Larry said, purposefully mispronouncing my last name. He had been calling me the non-radio friendly version of my name shortly after we met.

I chuckled. Good morning, Larry, I said and proceeded to restock the liquor.

Larry leaned back in one of wooden chairs with a half-drank Samuel Adams on the table in front of him. He held a newspaper and was reading it intensely, mumbling something under his breath.

What’s up, old man? I asked while re-shelving bottles.

I just can’t believe it anymore. I mean really, what is this world coming to when a man picks up the paper and reads this every goddamn morning?

Somebody blow up something again? I asked over my shoulder.

May as well have. He slapped the paper down on the table and took a swig of beer. Check it out, he said in a raspy voice that told a tale of 30 plus years of smoking and drinking.

I set down the bottles with a clink, walked around the table where he sat, and plopped down next to him. I looked at the newspaper, then at him, and then back at the newspaper. It’s a comic, Larry, I said.

It’s a Garfield comic, he clarified. They replaced the Wizard of Id with another dumbass Garfield strip. I mean who cares about Garfield? You hate Mondays and like lasagna. We get it!

It’s tragic.

Goddam right it is. He took a drink.

Breakfast of champions, I see, I said, referring to the beer.

Want one? he offered.

Nah, I’m more of a toast guy when it comes to breakfast. In truth, I wasn’t much of a drinker at all, despite working at a bar. I grew up in an extremely religious setting, and though I no longer attend church or consider myself a religious person, I’ve found myself maintaining certain habits, sobriety being one of them. Truth be told, I just never much cared for the bottle.

Come to think of it, you’re here early. Did you go home last night? I asked.

Nah, too drunk. I just passed out on that couch in your apartment again, Larry replied.

Really? I didn’t even hear you.

Because you sleep like a koala bear that just downed a bottle of Nyquil.

A koala bear?

Yeah, they sleep eighteen hours a day. Lazy little bastards.

Really?

Oh yeah, see. He pointed at another section of comic on the paper in which a koala was explaining to Garfield that he could just sleep through Monday. I didn’t read the whole thing, but assumed it was somehow funny in context.

Well, if the comic strip says so, it must be true, I said.

It’s the only honest form media anymore, Larry replied.

I sat back in my chair. Though rough around the edges, Larry was a good man. I had met him just over two years ago while driving through Letum, Pennsylvania. I had left my hometown in Ohio and had just started driving. I had wanted to get out, so, without much foresight, I packed up what few possessions I owned, got in my car, and started driving east. I’d kept going until my car had received not one but two flat tires just a stone’s throw from Larry’s bar.

With only one donut and no alternative, I called a local tow truck to haul me to a mechanic’s shop. However, to the local shop owner’s derision, I explained that I possessed only forty-six dollars after my car had been towed.

So after running circles with the mechanic, explaining that I did not carry a credit card, and did not have anyone I could call, they came to the conclusion that they would keep my car until the debt could be paid. This had not been an unreasonable deal. In fact, looking back, it dawned on me that the impounding of my car had been a much better alternative than the thorough ass-kicking politely suggested by the shop owner. At the time, however, I was as frustrated as anyone would be. I was stuck in a small town where I didn’t know anyone, and had no money, job, car, or food.

And in that span of utter hopelessness is where Larry comes in. I explained my situation to him, and he, being the deep philosophical thinker that he is, took a solid two to three seconds to mull it over before offering me a job at The Bar until the debt was paid off. He even offered to let me stay in the vacant upstairs apartment free of charge. Still, to be fair, it had no heat, electricity, or running water at the time, so I wasn’t actually breaking his budget. I readily agreed, of course.

As Larry gave me a ride back to The Bar, he asked me why I had been out here to begin with. I told him I was looking for a job. He laughed and told me I had a hell of a way of finding one.

After more conversation, Larry came to the realization that I had no real direction in my life. It was true, I didn’t have any, and for all intents and purposes, I suppose one could say I still don’t. Once I paid the debt off, Larry offered to continue employing me at the bar, which turned out to actually be named The Bar. I had nowhere else to go, so without hesitation I agreed.

This was the time when I, once again, became very grateful for my entire situation.

Shortly after committing to work full time, Larry helped me get the electricity working in the upstairs apartment. I had to buy a heater as well as pay for a shower and toilet to be installed (ironically, I sold the car to get the money; I didn’t need it anymore). After I fixed up the apartment, Larry let me stay there free of charge so long as I paid the utilities. I have been a bartender there ever since.

So, Larry said, changing the subject, what did you get Abby for her birthday?

What makes you think I got her anything? I shot back.

He grinned. Because you’re crazy about her!

I felt my face turn a soft shade of red. The old drunk wasn’t wrong. I wrote her a poem, I admitted.

Larry nodded and took down the last swig of his breakfast. Good idea. Ladies dig that mushy crap.

Thanks, Larry. I stood up and stretched. I’ll keep getting this place prepped.

Looking back now, it’s odd to think that all of my problems began on such a mundane day.

Chapter Three

Love is a bitch.

I don’t completely agree with that statement; it has always struck me as too concrete. I’ve wondered before from whom such a phrase originated. I’ve always imagined it to be a man kneeling in the middle of a street during a rainstorm after a brutal breakup, raising his arms up to Heaven and proclaiming this announcement as a definitive reality. Granted, the man is emotionally stressed, possibly to the point of insanity, so his proclamation cannot be taken too seriously. I will not judge him for this, but neither will I agree with him. Personally, I would describe love as the emotions of ecstasy, confusion and derision mixed together in one hell of a stormy current. Like most descriptions of god, it is simply a beast whose nature man is not meant to understand.

It was 5:00 PM, and The Bar had been open for a while, but local patrons did not normally show up until later. I had recently finished wiping down and prepping everything for the evening. I looked like your stereotypical barkeep, organizing beers in the fridge with a white dish rag hanging over one shoulder. Larry had left for reasons he felt unnecessary to explain, so I was alone there when Abby Werner came through the door.

She was tall, just a few inches under six feet I’d guess. She had curly, dirty blonde hair which she kept in a ponytail, and wore a tight green T-shirt and jeans that belled out at the bottom, as though they were subtly refusing to accept the 80’s had come to an end. She had breasts that rarely went a day at work without seeing at least one drunken compliment and a charming smile that revealed white teeth and a dimple on one side of her face.

Hi, Jack! she said.

"Hey Abby, you ready for