Mr. Brown

Mr. Brown sat down on his favorite stool and lit another cigarette, grateful for at least one public place where he could light up. He sucked the nicotine down into his lungs and drug the bowl of peanuts on the bar closer to him. What was taking the barkeep so long, and why did everything in his life have to be some overly protracted event? Everyone else's lives seemed to go smoothly but, as far back as he could remember, nothing ever worked out in his favor.

The Sleepy Beagle pub looked like it always had - a typical dive nestled in the oldest part of town, with a firehouse red color scheme that seemed to mask its inner rage. Mr. Brown liked it just the way it was, and exactly where it was. It was so far removed from the funeral home where he worked that none of his clients could spot him there with ease. Plus, he liked its murky, smoky interior because it smelled of stale beer, old cigarettes, and cigars. Its smells were the complete opposite of the funeral parlor, where everything wreaked of fresh flowers and strange perfumes and oils that barely masked the true stench of the death and decay that was hidden behind pastel-colored walls.

Franklyn, the night shift bartender at the pub walked over to Mr. Brown and asked him what his poison was. He ordered a screwdriver, and lit another cigarette, then checked his watch. His lifelong best friend was nowhere to be seen, and he wondered what was keeping him. It wasn't like him to be late. He rested his chin on one palm and lightly tapped his free forefinger in rhythm to the music on the jukebox. It was an old jazz number, a piano piece mostly, with an occasional saxophone utilized for effect. It sounded like something he'd heard before, but he didn't completely recognize it. Great. Another weakness. A faulty memory. Was there anything else wrong with him that he wasn't aware of?

A familiar voice broke his train of thought. "You know what your problem is, Charles?" It was his best friend, whom he'd long called VP, nestling himself down into his usual spot. Both men loosened their ties, but neither looked the other in the eye. They were too busy looking up at the television screen mounted over the shelves of liquor bottles and beer taps. There wasn't anything on that either were regular viewers of, but they kept their eyes fixed on the TV nonetheless.

Charles looked up after a moment of silence, finally acknowledging VP's question.. "Other than being mostly bald, and worthless in any and every way a grown man can be worthless?"

"I would hardly regard you as an unimportant member of polite society." VP responded calmly.

Franklyn the bartender interrupted the conversation's natural flow by taking their orders, and asking if. Brown needed another vodka. He said yes, and VP ordered a rum and cola on the rocks.

"I'm being completely serious," Charles muttered, knowing full well he would receive a stern rebuke at what he was about to say. "I'm in my second marriage, and Marsha and I still don't have kids. Everyone else does, even my ex wife, your sister, and she's a prominent psychiatrist, and she's happily married to a concert pianist. I work in a funeral home, and other than you, my other best friend works at the City Dump!"

VP was a licensed therapist, so he wasn't surprised to hear Charles make his usual whiny rant, but he was also aware that it was his unconscious way of asking him to give him a pep talk. So that's what he did.

"Funeral Directors, as well as ministers and priests, provide an invaluable service to their communities, Charles. I'm sure your own father, the most well-loved barber for decades in this area, would agree, as he knew full well that other than barbers, cooks, doctors and nurses, Funeral Directors fulfill a need that can never be completely eradicated as long as there are human beings on this planet. You work in a very specialized field. Not everyone can be a Funeral Director."

"But I never wanted to be a Funeral Director," Charles interrupted, looking over at VP with suddenly reddened cheeks.

His good friend loosened his baby blue tie a little more, not exactly sure if he was about to hear a new confession. "Well, then." VP asked. "What did you want to be?"

Charles looked up at the television again, not sure if he wanted to answer. He did, though. He figured he might as well let it out. What would be the worst thing that could happen? "Well," he said, "I've always wanted to be a...well...a sculptor." 

VP looked up at the television screen. "A sculptor, eh? And how long has that desire been burning in your heart?"

"Since we were kids." Charles retorted. "As far back as I can remember, I've wanted to be a sculptor. When all the other kids were making snowmen, I was making abstract ice sculptures. I never felt more fulfilled in my life."

"Did you ever show your work to anyone?"

"Never got the chance. Whenever I'd convince someone to come take a look, it had already melted in the sun."

"Pity," VP replied, polishing off his drink. He took a look at the empty glass, then stroked his greying goatee.

"I failed at everything as a kid," Charles continued, lighting up yet another cigarette. "Made it all the way to the finals in the national spelling bee, and then choked. Managed our ball team, and yet never once led us to a victory at the tournaments. I couldn't even fly a kite properly."

VP smiled at the memories that were emerging. "Well, you'd always get it hung up in the biggest tree in the park. What did we call that thing? The 'Whomping Willow,' or something?"

"I don't remember," Charles laughed quietly. "I always thought it was, like, a tree zombie or something, with a mind of its own. I could have sworn it was eating my kites. But I thought a lot of weird stuff when we were kids."

"Yeah," VP chuckled. "We had big imaginations back then. I guess our emotions were stronger than our common sense. Remember how we always imagined how your dog was schizophrenic? I would have sworn that he was pretending to be different characters from time to time."

"Yeah," Charles laughed softly. "Just like we used to imagine seeing things in the clouds."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I did see things in the clouds." VP chortled, taking a swallow of his freshly delivered second drink.

The laughter stopped almost as quickly as it had begun, and Charles Brown sighed. "Well, it's a shame we can't go back to being kids again. I enjoyed it when we were wee folks."

"Yeah," VP breathed out softly."But we all have to grow up sometime. And I don't know about you, but I don't want to be anything like I was when we were kids."

"Me neither," Charles agreed. He tossed back the last of his vodka, pulled out his wallet, and tossed a twenty to the bar, motioning for Franklyn to keep the change. 

The two friends walked over to the coat rack and pulled on their jackets and headed outside. It was cold outside for early September.

As they walked to the nearby train station, VP blew frost as he spoke. "As we grow older, October seems to come quicker each year, doesn't it, Charles?"

Charles Brown nodded, fishing for his train pass, and was surprised to see that there was a small rock amidst his pocket change. How did that get in there, he wondered, then tossed it aside. Finally, he found the pass.

"I love October, as you well know. It's my favorite time of year." VP smiled.

"I know," Charles grinned back. "It's when they start bringing out all those great pumpkins."

VP zipped his jacket up as far as it would go, then ran his fingers through his thinning hair. "I can't wait 'til Halloween. Sally gets as excited as I do, and we both dress up with the kids. I can't wait 'til Halloween."

"Me neither, " Charles agreed. "Me neither."

The defective speakers in the train station made a weak attempt to play music, but the local public radio station's broadcast came out sounding exactly like a muffled trombone. For some reason this made the two friends think of their school days.

They closed their eyes and waited for the train to come and take them to their respective homes. As they looked up into the night sky through the station's windows, they could see a full moon in the distance, and their minds drifted back to a story they'd once heard of a lone soldier trying to make his way home in the darkness, navigating by the moon's light. 

A low-flying plane could be heard in the distance, its engine buzzing like a dragonfly over a body of water.

"Sopwith Camel," Charles giggled, looking over at his friend to see if he'd react. 

VP opened his eyes and smiled, clearly listening to the plane. His grin grew larger.

"Bloody Red Baron," they both said at the same instant. They laughed long and hard as the train finally arrived and they both climbed aboard.

Charles Brown looked out his window as the train chugged along, and for a moment thought he saw a vulture sitting on an extended tree branch. Maybe he should cut back on the vodka, he thought. Perhaps he would take up sculpting again instead. Even a Funeral Director needs a hobby, after all.