On The House

"I got a problem, Max."

I wiped the last beads of moisture from the surface of the glass before placing it on the shelf with the others, and when I turned towards the bar, I saw that Walt had already settled himself on his regular stool. He'd slumped over the counter, and his reflection in the lacquer looked dark and strained. "You look pretty bad tonight, Walt." I said. He shrugged the beige overcoat from his shoulders, nodding and adjusting his shirt collar. I tossed the dish towel over the edge of the sink. "Is Sarah giving you a hard time at home?"

"Oh, Christ no, she's an angel," he replied in a rush of air, resting his elbows on the bar and wiping his blunt nose with the back of his hand. "Naw, she's the best woman a guy could ask for, y'know? God, I love her."

I gave him a sympathetic smile as I drew a pint of Guinness for him, and he took it with an appreciative nod of the head. There was no need to ask; Walt ordered the same drink every night. The man was the most predictable creature I'd ever met, and that says a lot - bars are the watering holes of the predictable. "So what's on your mind, Walt?"

"Christ, Max, it's the business. It's starting to go under." He took a long drink and ran his hand through his thin hair. "The bottom's falling out of the masonry business with this damn recession, and I just don't know if we'll last another year."

"Walt, I'm sorry to hear about that." I replied, "What'll you do?"

"My family's had the business for fifty years," he said, raising the glass to punctuate his statement, "Fifty years worth of work, all running down the drain because of tariffs they've lifted on imports and this ridiculous tax on domestic work. I had to fire sixteen people today, and one of them had been with us for twenty-three years." He shook his head, and a meager lock of grey hair fell over his eyes. "Poor Ruth. Christ, what'll she do? She's never worked anywhere else."

"Don't worry about her, Walt. I'm sure she'll find a way to get by," I said, but he was sinking into sadness faster than I could save him.

"And her kids!" he continued, "They always came to the company barbecue. And this year the business may not even be around to HAVE a company barbecue--"

"Walt," I said, clapping him on the shoulder, "Walt, listen. People survive. They're a tough bunch, and you can throw all sorts of hurdles and problems in front of them, but somehow, people always come through. Don't worry about Ruth, she'll find a way to pay the bills. She'll rebuild her life."

"Ah, Max, I know you're right." he said, taking another swig and slumping forward. "I just feel bad, you know? It's a hard thing to take away someone's hope."

"I know, Walt, I know."

"Maybe I should open a bar," he said with a weak smile, casting his eyes around the sparse customers. A middle-aged couple sat in a booth by the door, and old Rory McLean was nursing a whiskey sour at the far end of the counter. Walt's mouth kinked into a sad smile. "You seem to do well enough. I guess, in hard times like this, your business actually goes up."

I tipped my head to the side, to agree with his logic.

"How long have you been running this place, Max?" he said, "I've been coming here for, what, eight years?"

"Eleven." I corrected. "I've been here for a long time, Walt. A long, long time." I rested my palms on the bar and cast a look around the familiar interior; the polished burl tables, the shiny brass taps, the old silk fern in a pot by the door. The rain lashed at the windows, and as the hour was late, most of the booths were empty, but I didn't mind; some evenings, it was nice to have the place to myself. I cast a grin to Walt. "Sometimes it seems like I've been here forever."

"What did you do before this?"

I laughed. "You're asking me to think way back, Walt. I don't know if my memory's that good."

"Ah, c'mon then," he replied good-naturedly, "What did you do?"

"Oh, let's see," I said, taking another glass to dry as I spoke, "I worked on the railroad for a bit. I tell ya, that was hard labour. Did a spell as a security guard for a bank on the East Coast. Spent time up north as a trapper."

"You?"

"It was a long winter but I made good money." Setting the glass aside, I said, "But boy oh boy, it was lonely work. The nights lasted forever without anyone to talk to, just me and the bears and the wolves. I have to have people around, so after one season I came back to the city and bought this bar."

"When was that?"

I cast him a quick glance as I took his glass and refilled it. "1852."

He did a doubletake and laughed. "1852?"

"The market was good. The building used to be an abattoir, but the proprietor wanted to sell before the cattle ranching in the area went belly up, and he gave it to me for a good price. The city was growing, and where there's working men, there's a need for a place to drink. It was one of the wisest investments I ever made."

"You mean 1952."

"No, Walt, I know exactly what I mean." I set the glass down. "The Depression was tough, but I changed the bar into an entertainment club until Prohibition was overthrown. I saw it coming and just put all my equipment into storage, so when alcohol was legal again, I didn't need to reinvest in taps or bins. I went right back to selling alcohol the same day that Prohibition ended."

"Christ, Max," he said, "That makes you over a hundred years old."

"Oh, I'm much older than a hundred." I replied, and bobbed my head towards the couple leaving. "See you tomorrow, Frank! G'night, Diane!"

"You're pulling my leg."

"Have I ever joked, Walt?"

"No, no you haven't." he said, taking a cautious sip. "A straight up guy, that's what you are, Max."

"Nature of the business, Walt." I replied, "There's enough jokers and liars in a pub already."

Walter leaned forward, squinting. "How old are you? Really?"

"Pretty damn old." I took his glass to top it up. "You're taking this rather well, Walt."

"You're a good guy, Max. You don't seem insane." He held up a hand as I started to pour, "I don't have enough for three drinks tonight--"

"Don't worry about it, Walt," I replied, "There used to be a saying: if the bartender listens to your problems, you pay for your drinks, but if you're forced to listen to his, the drinks are on the house."

"I've never heard that."

"Of course not," I replied, "And I doubt you'd understand it if you had. It's an old Roman proverb."

"You speak Latin?"

I laughed. "Yeah, amongst other languages. My father owned a tavern in Lucia, just north of Rome, during the reign of Augustus."

"Who?"

"It's ancient history," I replied, "Just believe me when I tell you that people will deal with their problems in their own way, no matter what fate throws at them. The good and the bad goes in cycles, Walt, and it will for you, too. Life's going to be tough for a while, but it'll get better again."

"You're pulling my leg with all this 1852 stuff," he scoffed, "C'mon, be honest, Max. When did you buy this place?"

"If you check the records, you'll see that a Maximillian Scipio has owned this bar since the end of the 19th century. Every thirty years or so, I fake my death and will my investments to a son or nephew, also named Max Scipio; no one looks at the history of a place. They only see the single coincidence of two men with the same name, they never notice the chain of Maxs." I grinned. "It works well. And a bar is perfect for me; I open at sundown, I close before dawn, and I get to meet all sorts of interesting people in between." I dipped my head close to his. "That includes you, Walt."

He'd gone an odd shade of grey.

"Night, Rory!" I said as I waved to the patron leaving the bar. Rory tipped his fedora and shuffled out the door, into the rain.

"So you really are OLD?"

"I'm a vampire, Walt." I replied, pulling up a stool on my side of the bar. Rory had been the last customer, except for Walter, who now flitted his eyes from side to side. "But don't let that concern you. It's not that big of a deal."

"I thought," and here he swallowed, "I thought vampires had fangs and wore tuxedos and seduced pretty women to drink their blood."

"Christ, if I could seduce a pretty girl, do you think I'd be hanging out with drunks and barflies every night?" I said with a chuckle. He laughed, too, more of a nervous titter than his regular, jowl-jiggling guffaw. "I wore a tuxedo to a wedding last year; that's the last time I wore a tie. As for the teeth, well, yeah, I've got them." I pulled up my upper lip to reveal my left tooth, and Walt leaned forward to look at it in the low light.

"Shit, looka that," he said in bewilderment. "It's not very big."

I drew a glass of Guinness for myself, grinning wide enough to show both fangs. "Aren't you the critic."

"I thought, well, you know." He took a long sip. His colour was returning. "I though vampires were a myth."

"That's okay," I replied, "My feelings aren't hurt."

"What are you doing running a bar?"

I took a sip of the lager and rubbed the foam from my mouth with the back of my hand. "It's a good job. I've got to make a living somehow."

"Vampires, the undead, make a living?" Here, he laughed.

"It was easier in the old days." I replied, "You could kill a peasant and live in their house until the neighbours grew suspicious, or take over a castle and devour a serf every now and again. But with income taxes and debts and the rigors of modern life, it just isn't possible. I have bills to pay."

"You've killed people?"

"Not in a long, long while." I shrugged. "Like you said, it's hard to take away a person's hope."

He nodded his chin towards my glass. "What about drinking blood?"

"What with modern forensic techniques and the resources the police have these days? I don't want to risk it." I shook my head. "The last guy I killed was a drifter in 1932, and I almost got caught. A flatfoot came in with a million questions and an accurate theory, but he couldn't prove anything -- still, it was too close for comfort. I made a solemn vow: no more blood for me, just raw steak and beer, and I'd make damn sure I never killed again."

"Forever?"

"At least until civilization crumbles."

"You say that like it's just a matter of time."

"It is, Walt." I tipped my glass at him. "I've seen governments fall and cities collapse. Nothing lasts forever."

"Except you."

"No, Walt, not even me." I replied, "One of these days the sun will rise, and I'll be standing on my balcony, ready to greet it." I took a long sip of beer and choked it down. "Once this life gets boring, I'll give it up, but as long as I have interesting clients like you, there's no fear of that."

Walter smiled. In the low light, I almost thought I saw him blush. "So what now? Are you gonna kill me to keep your secret safe?"

"Oh, no, Walt. You're one of my best customers. It would be bad business to get rid of you."

He mirrored my grin.

"I could tell anyone." he said, not as a threat but as a warning. "I could go to the papers and reveal all, or to the police and tell them you're a murderer."

I tipped my glass towards him. "And I could go to Sarah and tell her everything you've ever told me. Let's face it, Walt, the police and the press probably won't believe you, but I'm sure Sarah would listen to stories about your affair with Ruth. You've told me a lot of things over the last eleven years, and I've got a good memory for tales."

He turned even greyer than before.

"Ah, Christ, Walt," I said, "You know everything you've told me is just between you and I. Don't fill your pants."

"You wouldn't tell her, would you, Max?"

"Don't worry about it, Walt. I'm good at keeping secrets." I replied, "Here, let me get you another drink."

He opened his mouth to accept, but then said, "No, no, I better get going. It's late and I've got things to do." He stood and shrugged his coat over his shoulders, and looking around the empty bar, said, "I promise I won't tell a soul."

"I know you won't," I replied.

Walt leaned forward. "But why now?" he said, "Why tell me all this now?"

"I'm a vampire, Walt, and I can smell death on a man as quick as cologne. You came in here, pretty damn upset, and I want you to know that life isn't as bad as you think it is."

His eyebrows arched into the centre of his forehead.

"Walt," I said, standing, "Leave the gun here and go home to your wife; she loves you. Ruth will be fine, the business will be okay, it'll all work out." I held out my palm and glanced towards the heavy swing of his coat.

He paused, letting my words sink in.

"I... I needed a beer to calm me down," he said quietly, "To make me brave."

"No, Walt." I replied, "That's the coward's way out."

With shaking fingers he took the handgun from his pocket and set it on the bar. I picked it up quietly and laid it on the shelf below the taps.

"I'll give it back next time I see you, Walt."

"Thanks, Max." he whispered, his throat dry.

"See you tomorrow, Walt. Give my regards to Sarah."

"I will, I will." he replied, his eyes wide and haunted, his intentions discovered and brought to light. He looked like a schoolboy whose naughty plans had been foiled. Walt shuffled towards the door, hunched forward, his wispy hair falling over his eyes.

"Walt?"

He turned at the threshold.

"Believe me," I said, "The good and the bad come in cycles. If you can hold out long enough, the sun will come up on a better day."

He gave me a thin smile, a weak nod, and raised his hand in a mute goodbye. Walter opened the door and, taking a deep breath with his head held high, stiffened his collar against the rain and the night.