Unpolished Excerpt

The bar was dimly lit, and very cramped. A somewhat middle aged bartender kept his personal space kept behind a half circle of glossy wood. The entire room was bathed in a shadowy yellow coming from ancient chandeliers that groaned from the ceiling. Though the light was being emitted from little bulbs, Thomas thought he saw what looked like remnants of wax as well. A dangerously brave attempt at authenticity, but he was glad they had decided to go with electricity after all. Every man looked particularly careworn with the exception of the barman, who was dressed neatly in white shirt and black tie. This didn't strike him as a professional attire sort of establishment, as the stone walls were slick with what Thomas hoped was not faulty plumbing. The only lady in sight was a sultry mermaid painted over a rock in an elaborate piece set in a heavy frame. The bar accoutrements were scarce, none of the some of the fancier articles Thomas had seen at the trendier places had made an appearance. There was only one type of glass, and crystal clear decanters without label. Thomas saw a haggard looking man with two empty seats next to him, and although he made his way over to him, he had no intention of filling the seat to the man's immediate left. In spite of his good intentions, the man turned his worn face and regarded Thomas with a defensive stare.

"Don't sit here. You never sit here! You might have brought this whole place down in one fell swoop!"

"I beg your pardon," Thomas replied. "I was intending to sit in this empty seat, next to the empty seat, that is next to you. Would that be alright with you?"

The man merely grunted. Thomas took his seat, and saw the barman lean toward him on one elbow, in just the fashion that barmen are wont to do.

"Don't take any offense to Whitcomb over there. He's been in here every night since he got back from the war, he keeps that seat next to him open. Probably lose his mind if anyone ever sat there. You can watch him tonight; he likes to order an extra round and leave it on the bar for some ace he used to know who died in the war. You watch; he comes up with a different excuse every night to drink  Ace's beer. Watch him talk to no one, he'll put his hand on a ghosts' shoulder and leave it there, and it never gets tired. He stares at him, jokes with him, and it terrifies me every night. I'm not saying that he's doesn't actually see anyone. I'm not saying he's not getting any replies either. I think he sees him, but I also happen to know he's touched. I don't think his ghost was ever a real man to begin with. I just feel sorry for him. He's just a poor addled son of a bitch." He nodded wisely as his speech came to a close. 

"Indeed," said Thomas. During the tale the raconteur had set down a dark ale in front of him. He supposed the gentleman had a knack for knowing what drink a man liked best at once, and therefore didn't need to ask. Completely unperturbed at this sudden loss of his free will of choice, Thomas took a long sip and decided the gentleman was good at his job. He kept quiet for the entirety of the first beer, and most of the second. He tried to engage Whitcomb one or two times, but to no avail. Whitcomb was arguing over the state of the nation with Ace, who's beer was still full. 

"The whole damn thing is going to pieces!" he roared. "You see it all the time. No labors of love in those factories, and sixteen hour shifts. We're building up, up, and out, but it's shoddy work! Whatever happened to craftsmanship? Who put the cobblers out of business? It's only getting worse, the workers get younger every year, and they get sick so they'll die that way. This is what we almost died for?" 

Silence, and then Whitcomb thumped his fist on the table.

"Nuts to that Reilly, old man. You say I knew what I signed up for, I say I never even signed up for it. I put my name down because I thought a man should fight to keep something beautiful intact. This ain't beauty, this place. This is bleak any way you look at it."

Silence.

"Agree to disagree I guess," shrugged Whitcomb. "Best not to go on about it before I take a swipe at that damn bloated head of yours. Your drink is gonna be warm as hell if you don't stop talking, and I'm gonna watch that sour face attempt to enjoy it." He began to laugh raucously. 

"Look," interjected the bartender. "He's gonna lay a hand on that fake phantom shoulder any second, and when he does, I'll buy you a beer. When they get to joshing each other it's the best part of the night."

Thomas glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at the barman with a grin. "I guess you better wipe me out a clean glass then."

The night passed amicably in this fashion. Thomas and the barkeep made prophecies to each other regarding the old man that became more outlandish as time wore on. As they chain-smoked their respective cigarettes, the bartender, (who went by Ames), progressively grew more red in the face. Attribute this change in physicality to the number of beers he was pouring for himself, one to match each of Thomas'. At a few points in the night Whitcomb stared around his invisible man to demand the thoughts of Thomas, saying things like "What do you think?" and "Like hell you are!" He was certain there would be another great war, and soon. Thomas disagreed, maintaining that we had had enough warfare this last century to fill the next two.

"It's true," Thomas would reply dolefully, or else say, "Would I lie to you, Whitcomb?" 

Watching this man with his dead friend was truly, as the barman said, terrifying. Whitcomb's stare was so intense, Thomas was sure he was boring into eyes unseen. His laughter at the punchlines of unheard follies was full of life, and Thomas was certain he was genuinely reacting to a well recounted anecdote.  When he grabbed the unseen arm and gave it a shake, there really seemed to be something to hold onto. They reminded him of the pair of friends that were inevitably at every bar. Those two men, or maybe two young girls, who were full of life and enthralled in catching up with the other. The vivacity would endear them to others, who would flit in and out of their circle all evening, but the two would always remain at the core. Ames would look at Whitcomb's disheveled figure with pity in his eyes, and every now and then he would shake his head sadly. Thomas found nothing to be sad about; this man would never be without his best company. Whether it really was a breach between worlds at play, or merely schizophrenia, Whitcomb and Reilly would always have each other for company.  

Thomas lingered for the grand finale, and he was not disappointed. Whitcomb held up hand up, as if to shush someone in mid-sentence. "Look here old man, you're unintelligible. You sound like a  dog underwater, and you always make me swear to cut you off before you do something to make an ass of yourself." He eyed the full beer. "Waste it? We won't waste it, old man. I'll drink it for you this time, and now we'll know just when to stop. We'll order one less next time." And with that he picked up the glass, threw his Ace a shifty grin, and drained it in one. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but it was this that finally made Thomas depressed. He took this as his cue to go, and stood up to leave. The barman waved him away jovially and said he had set Thomas up on a tab, that he hated dealing with money often or late into the night. They shook hands, and unlike Forscythe, Ames had a steady grip. Thomas clapped his hand on Whitcomb's shoulder. "Whitcomb," he said. "Reilly." He added with a tilt of his head in the unknown's direction. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you all very soon." And he turned and walked back out through the entryway.