Sam Hattock's Story

Sam opened the doors to the bar and shambled inside. He sat on the nearest open stool at the bar and reached into his right pocket. All he felt was lint. He sighed before sticking his hand in the left pocket, pulling out several bills. He smacked it on the table and eyed the bartender, whom came over to him and looked Sam over.

What the bartender saw was a man with hollowed out eyes, in a loose green jacket with tattered jeans. The man was unshaven and grimy, he looked as if he just clawed his way out of a grave.

"What's the strongest thing you got that I could afford?" Sam asked, his voice drawn out and rugged.

The bartender took the cash and inspected it.

"A bottle of whiskey."

"That's good."

"The whole bottle, sir?"

Sam nodded, solemnly and silently, his eyes closed. He rubbed his hand through his hair and shook his head as he waited for his bottle of escape to arrive.

Shortly after Sam ordered his bottle of whiskey, the door to the bar opened again. In slipped a disheveled man, his right hand holding a cell phone to his unshaven cheek as the left tapped an impressively long ash from the end of a smoldering cigarette.

“No, baby, I ain’t nowhere I ain’t s’posedta be! I told ya! I’m visitin’ my mum.” He paused for a moment, glancing around the room giving anyone who looked up at him a sheepish lopsided grin. “Ya hear that? She says hi.” His grin faded as he listened to the response on the other end of the phone. “Music? I ain’t hearin’ no music. Must be pickin’ up on someone else’s signal or somethin’.” His eyes shifted over to the jukebox as he inwardly cursed. “Aww, baby, why would I be at the bar? I know that money you gave me is for rent… No… I know… I’m not gonna drink it… I’m at my mum’s! Don’t be stup—No! No, I didn’t call you stupid! I didn’t… hello?”

With a groan, Graeme stared down at his phone, the signal disconnected. Shrugging, he moved over to sit beside Sam, eying the bottle of whiskey out of the corner of his eye. “Women,” he sighed, reaching for an ashtray and stubbing the cigarette into it. “They always gotta accuse ya of lyin’.” Flagging down the bartender, he ordered a pint of Guinness. Upon its delivery, he took a long swallow and came up with a satisfied exhalation and a smack of his lips. “Ah, ‘ere’s the good stuff!” Turning to Sam, he grinned. “Norm’ly, I can’t ‘ford this stuff. I forget how good it is.”

The bartender came back with the bottle. Sam tore open the cap and lifted it up to his lips. He opened them and embraced the strong alcohol, sliding down to the pit of his stomach. Right when he felt it arrive in his empty stomach, the doors opened and one of the loudest people to ever be heard by Sam, had arrived. The man was crude and seemed to be pitiful, especially from what Sam heard when the man was conversing with his partner. Sam heard Graeme sit next to him at the bar. He didn't bother to look or even acknowledge Graeme, even when Graeme was speaking to him.

But, Sam couldn't help but turn to Graeme and speak to him. He didn't have a full conversation with another person for months on end. It was about time he spoke again. He slowly thought about what Graeme said about the Guinness and realized that there was some hint of sarcasm in the tone of Graeme's voice, or at least that's what Sam thought.

Sam took another swig of the stuff before sliding it down the bar table to Graeme.

"I'm assuming you'd want something a little more...potent. Have some."

Sam's grip on the bottle ceased and he eyed Graeme and saw that they both share similar physical attributes. Well, they both looked like shit.

"The name's Sam Hattock."

It wasn’t that Graeme was surprised that the man had actually acknowledged him, but when Sam turned to him and spoke, Graeme found himself momentarily rendered speechless. His eyes shifted to the offered bottle of whiskey and he blinked. When he spoke, the surprise and disbelief lowered his tone significantly. “You… You’d share that? With me?” He allowed his eyes to slide over this generous stranger and he slowly smiled. “That’s a most generous offer!” His eyes lingered on the bottle once more before breaking away. Before taking another swallow of the Guinness, he ran a hand over his stubbled cheek, wincing slightly. He seemed to be considering the offer.

After a few moments of silence, he shook his head. “Naw, mate, ya look like you could use it more.” To be honest, Graeme wasn’t daisy-fresh, but Sam looked just as bad if not worse… yet he still offered to share the whiskey. Because of that, Graeme felt a new sense of kinship with the stranger. Extending his hand, he introduced himself. “Graeme Snale.” He pronounced it as ’grey-em snah-lee. Reaching into the inner pocket of a tattered brown leather jacket, he withdrew a pack of cigarettes and offered them to Sam. “Smoke?”

That was probably where Graeme should have stopped speaking… but he had never been one for following social etiquette. Instead, he plowed forward, once more into the brash and clueless territory: “You look like hell, man. Woman kick ya out?”

Sam withdrew the bottle and took another swig. A buzz was beginning to set in, mostly due to the fact that Sam hadn't eaten the whole so he was liable to get drunker quicker. He felt the pit of his stomach burn again as the alcohol settled within. He saw Graeme offer his hand for a handshake and Sam couldn't believe it. It's not like he knew the man, but to see the man talk the way he did to his partner and then to be welcoming to Sam the way he was. It was a little uneasy, but Sam figured that Graeme had an extreme personality. After all, it had been a while since he conversed with another person.

Sam outstretched his hand and received Graeme's hand, shaking it. Sam felt his lips stretch as he smiled, it was uncontrollable, but it happened because it had been so long since he had done anything social. He saw the pack of cigarettes and kept his smile wide as Graeme asked him if he wanted a smoke. Sam had been debating whether to use the rest of his money for smokes or alcohol and decided he needed a proper escape from his life. And now he is being offered cigarettes, his day was beginning to look up and it was due to Graeme.

Then Graeme decided to hit him with a dose of reality.

It hit him hard. When Graeme asked him the question, Sam was in the middle of taking out his lighter from his coat pocket and dropped it on the bar table, slipping from his hand. He was struck so hard that it interrupted his action. He froze for a split second, waiting as all the reasons as to why he even went to the bar began to wash over him again. Then he shook his head as he scraped up his lighter. The lighter was silver and engraved with a skull, its teeth contained a bullet and on the end of the bullet smoke protruded from it, it was smoking a bullet. Sam had received this lighter from his dead comrades. He flipped it open and lit his cigarette.

He sucked as much smoke as he could handle before letting it all out.

"She left me because I was too busy being a fucking corpse in a hospital. Can you fucking believe that? She fucking left me because I couldn't support her because I was fucking dying and I wasn't making money. I was a burden to her. A fucking burden. She took my baby with her and just disappeared...you uh, you need a light?"

Sam didn't wait for Graeme to respond before flipping his lighter open and flicking up the flame. His hand was visibly shaking, along with the rest of his body. All of his life was too much for him and he just wanted to stop talking about it, but he didn't know how, instead he tried to change the subject and hoped that Graeme would see the hint and instead start talking about the lighter or something other than the reason as to why Sam came to the bar.