The Well Lit

A light came on just as Ray got the screwy little door finally shut. “Is that you, God?” he said, and snorted, which was a habit he had. He looked up at a dusty light-bulb.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said.

He was about to sit down on the wooden seat, but there was something.... It looked like a long feather. He picked it up off the seat and held it close to his face. “What am I supposed to do with this? Huh? A yellow feather? Oh, so sorry, it's a yellow eagle feather! Oh, right again! Excuse me, your Majesty! It is indeed a marigold colored fucking eagle feather!”

Ray twirled the feather by the quill and studied it in the light.

“You're a beauty, you know that?" He was talking to the light bulb. "You won't let me off, will you, you blood sucker?" He stuck the feather in his shirt pocket and sat down.

Ray took a deep breath and shook his head. He looked around at the floor, at the walls, at the telephone, and up again at the light bulb. “It smells like a wet dog in here. A sad old wet dog with lumps on its back and bad teeth. The kind that wags its tail without lifting its head,” Ray snorted. “You like that one, you fat bastard? You son-of-a-bitch.? You stole most of my stuff, you going to steal that one too?”

“Okay,” he said into the silence. He looked at the two strange old hands gripping his knees. “Just thought I’d say hello. Going crazy like you. You know that shotgun? They won’t sell it to me. Can you believe that?”

He stood to open the door. It took several tries. Then the overhead light went out. “Talk to you later,” he said and walked back toward the bar where his cane leaned against the stool he had been sitting on.

“Want another one, Ray?” Hank, the bartender asked.

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” Ray said and everybody in the bar, all four of them, laughed at the same time for the same moment. They loved it. Ray thought about writing it down.

“Have one more and I’ll call your daughter,” Hank said.

“Just called,” Ray said.

“Okay…well… I might give her another buzz,” Hank said as he set a fresh drink down. It was a bourbon soda with mainly soda, and a splash of coke for color.

“Did you say hi to her for me, Ray?” some kid asked. The kid sat on Ray’s right. His name was Tommy or Willy or Jimmy or Kenny.

“Sure did,” Ray said.

The bartender gave Marcus a look. Marcus had his mouth open to say more, but then stopped when he saw Hank looking at him.

Hank gave Marcus a few more moments of eye-contact to make sure Marcus knew there wasn’t going to be any playing of that game. Then he picked up the phone behind the bar and dialed a number by memory. He eyed Marcus as he held the phone to his ear. We all know the payphone doesn’t work and hasn’t worked in twenty fucking years, let’s not go there--his eyes said.

Then: “Hello,” he turned his back to the bar. He patted the top of his bald head and smoothed the wispy hair above his ears. “How you doin’, beautiful?” he spoke with a deep voice and listened for a beat, then said, “All’s good, no, your dad’s fine. He’s almost ready—wait a second--Ray! Ray! Get down off that table! My God! And put your clothes back on!” Then he whispered, “Just kidding…” They watched him chuckle. His face had turned red and was ducked down now, just inches above the old fashioned black rotary dial. “So how ya doin? You good?” He twirled the phone cord around his index finger, first one way, and then the other.

Ray, the only one in the bar not listening to Hank, took a sip of his drink and smacked his lips.

“Used to drink these with Hem,” Ray said. “Well, I was a little on the young side, but Hem--” Ray snorted. “Hem could murder these things, one right after another! He used to slip me a few. I would come home plowed!”

“Hem?” Markus said. His eyes widened. “You mean Ernest Hemingway the writer?”

“Right here in this bar!” Ray said and slapped the wood.

“Here? You mean right here in this bar? The Sun Valley Tavern?” Markus made his voice sound like this news was too much to believe.

“Got a picture of us right over there,” Ray said and pointed to the wrong wall.

“Over there,” Markus said. He pointed with his thumb to the other end of the room.

“He gave me this feather,” Ray said. He took it out of his shirt pocket and held it up like a flower.

“You mean to tell me that Ernest Hemingway gave you that feather, Ray?”

“Sure did,” Ray said. “Eagle feather.”

“Okay,” Hank said, catching the conversation going on behind him now. He turned around and was looking at Marcus, the phone still to his ear, but the look back in his eyes “See you soon!” he said. He hung up and continued to stare at Marcus.

“He shot himself,” Ray said.

“Okay,” Hank said. “You want another one, Ray?”

“Asked me to do it, begged me, but I said no.”

“You ready, Ray? A final final?”

“He was, you know Hem, a good Catholic boy…I just couldn’t--”

“Yeah, okay. Ray! You ready for another?’

Ray suddenly brightened and put his feather back in his shirt pocket. “Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

Everybody always got a kick out of that one and they all did this time too. Ray shook his head and snorted. If Hemingway were here, the son-of-a-bitch would probably steal it.

--992 Words--