sunday prompt: the good old days

black ash on the white snow. smoking an american spirit down to the tip of the wing and then carefully putting it out in the ashtray. sun's been gone for days. days and days. the weekend late-wakers saw snow slammed down like a white hand overnight, smothering the earth.

the din of gray and winter all around, a constant static. he thinks about his unfinished tractatus, ink-stained and beleaguered by scarlet marginalia. it is scattered now over his desk, which is a set of 2x4s propped up on milk crates. a simple lamp. a cigar box full of writing implements. an old inkwell with no quill. he is rather full of himself and spends most of his time alone. there is a small framed picture of Thomas Edison on his wall. beside the bookshelves - milk crates, again - stuffed to groaning - with kierkegaard and hume and hegel and freud and kant, et al. his facebook profile lists his occupation as Philosopher Errant. he thinks he knows Latin and speaks it floridly, with accompanying gesticulation. wears tweed jackets with suede patches at the elbow. has a tendency to become astoundingly and suddenly bland when confronted with someone who might know more about something than he does.

he retreats indoors, stomping his wingtips off on the mat outside before entering, fussily, a bit rather like an elderly gentlemen, brow creased and sniffling slightly in disdain for the whole process. once inside, he unlaces his shoes and leaves them properly by the door, pointing resolutely east. like vassals waiting the return of their lord. he pads back into his room and further into his studio, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. he is constantly aware of himself. as though there is an invisible camera floating around him at all times. it has a tendency to make him feel paranoid and egocentric. at times causes him to be spectacularly impotent.

he hasn't always been this way. he can remember another time. the halcyon days, he calls them. recalls fondly, goes through a whole litany of fondness. takes off his glasses, rubs at them with his omnipresent handkerchief, stares off distantly. the very height of pretension. he talks about his wayward youth, of his maturation from those things. he finishes off the telling with the same phrase every time. "ah - those were the good old days!" and those around him suppressing their laughter.

this is of course when he comes to the bar. every once in awhile he'll jaunt down to the local saloon - that's how he'll say it, "the local saloon," and "mingle with the commoners." airily. everyone knows he's hiding something. he knows he's hiding something. but nobody knows what it is. there's theories. he's one of those people that is easy to hate. he asks for it. begs for it. he can be arch and aloof. he tips well, but it's kind of the kind of benevolence that you hate because of the person behind it.

he does this tonight. plans on it all day. can taste the rough burn of the scotch he's going to drink all day. thinks idly about switching to a martini. or a manhattan. he knows that what he will drink will have to correspond with his manner of dress, and so he invests a lot of effort into the process. by sunset, he has donned a brown vest over a white shirt and a corduroy blazer with elbow patches, tilted a hat just-so over his eyes and picked up his meerschaum before lacing up his wingtips and exiting the apartment smartly. at seven minutes past the hour, he arrived, carrying a satchel of books he didn't intend to read but carried with him nonetheless.

as he walked into the bar, he couldn't help but notice his least favourite bartender standing in front of the array of bottles. the proper amount of disdain pasted itself on his face and he sat down properly, hands folded in front of him while his eyes darted around to see who was around to see him. just once, his nervous tongue flickered out to moisten his lips.

"what'll it be?" the man loomed over the bar, or seemed to. his sleeves were rolled, exposing a frenzied array of tattoos that coiled, snaked, exploded, or leered out of his skin. his eyes were hard and his jawline was harder. he always seemed to be cracking something - his neck, his knuckles. popping his jaw.

"glenlivet, neat, if you please." was the kind of guy that chose a poison and then learned everything they could about it. he could even tell you - and would, at length - about the battle of glenlivet. the drink arrived and he sat it in front of him, relishing the picture he imagined the omniscient camera was recording. the amber glint of the single malt, the oscurro of his silhouette against the lowlights of the bar.

there is a table tonight against the wall filled with three ruffians. they don't consider themselves ruffians. they lounge easy and lanky over their chairs. one picks at his teeth with a splinter of wood. their eyes rove endlessly around the place, sometimes colliding with someone else's. sometimes their conversation picks up and then falls off again. there is no real rhythm to them. they simply exist wherever they are and are completely unaware of it. from time to time, one blinks. they are all dressed in plaid button-down shirts and practical winter boots and plain knit winter hats. thermal shirts. one of them has a sister who recently died. his face doesn't show it, but he in fact is the reason they are congregated - he hasn't left his apartment in six days except to go to work and they are worried about him. they figure a night on the town - such as it is - is what he needs. unfortunately there are very few people here tonight. and then that guy walks in. you know that guy. there's one in every bar with their important looks and their expensive drink and their newspaper or textbook. the three ruffians have a small, match-sized fire of hate for that guy. they are drunk, but not enough. nate - the grieving brother - orders three shots of Bushmills. they quaff it in a disinterested hurry and nate stands up. now he is drunk enough. he sniffles. wipes his nose on his sleeve and approaches the bar.

"hey." he leans against the empty stool adjacent. "what you readin?"

he blinks at the interloper and then blinks again. re-places his glasses on his nose and squints through them. "do i know you?"

nate thinks about it for a second. "sure. remember?"

he blinks, then blinks again, then blinks a flurry. "no. what is your name?"

"c'mon man." nate is having a bit of japery. "we met a long time ago. surely you didnt forget?"

he scratches his head, then cautiously presses a well-worn but sturdy bookmark between the pages of his book, closing the cover with care. both hands lay on top of it, one over the other, as if protecting it. "how long ago?"

"i dunno man. a long time ago. c'mon, man. how could you forget me?"

"... the good old days," he mused, a hand lifting to his chin in the requisite manner of those reminiscing.

"yeah, man." nate is starting to slur slightly but keeps his game face on. he ups the ante, extends his hand. "the good old days. how could you forget your old friend Gus?"

a flicker of something riots through his eyes and his spine goes ramrod straight. "Gus! oh my goodness. i ... i did know a Gus, once ... but very briefly, and not for very long. a party ..."

"right! the ... party." the bartender slides "Gus" a bottle of beer and "Gus" nods his approval, flashing a thumbs-up. takes a hefty draught and leans in closer. "i knew i knew you. whass your name again, man?"

"August," he replies, then, slightly lamely, shoulders inclining, "... but back then they used to call me Augie."

"Augie! That's right! you old son-of-a-gun!" nate slaps August heartily on the back and August nearly chokes. "hows it been?"

August reassembles himself, eyes swirling around inside of their sockets like a shaken doll's. struggles to get a grip on his bearing. "fine, fine. just fine. working. a lot."

"thats right. you work a lot."

"yes. i am diligently completing my tractatus."

nate blinks and steps back. "your ... wha?"

"my tractatus," August says again, this time a bit stiffer, defensive engaged.

nate can't help it - he explodes into laughter, staggers backwards and claps his hand over his mouth as if to stuff the noise back inside. he's let up on his game now. he can hear the fellas in the corner laughing at his laughter. maybe he can get it back. "right ... your. sorry. i just - wow. whoo. oh wow." August is offended. if he had feathers, nate thinks idly, they'd be ruffled. "sorry man. just a funny word."

"it is the perfect word for my undertaking." he looks almost birdlike in the dim light of the bar. nate rights himself.

"right, right ... your undertaking. so. how have you been? mind if i - " nate gestures to the stool.

at first, he seems outraged, then seems to fold down and inside of himself and shrugs, gesturing broadly. "it is, after all, a free country," he adds as if by way of afterthought.

"thanks man. you're a sport." he claps August's back again. "do a shot with me, huh? for old time's sake?"

"a shot. oh, no. i don't think so. sorry, Gus."

"c'mon. it'll be fun. here - " the bartender had overheard and ambled over. "two shots of jager. for me and my friend Augie here."

an arched eyebrow and amused expression later, two small glass shots appeared in front of them and were filled with the dark, viscous liquor. nate clinked August's closer to him. "asses up, man."

August's eyes went back and forth, from shotglass to book, to bartender, to "Gus," to the shotglass, to nate's shotglass, to the bartender - who was walking away, towards the newest entrant, a pretty girl with blonde hair and a black shirt, covered in ink - and felt something drop out of the bottom of his stomach. he watched his hand extend forward, like an antenna, and pinch the shot awkwardly between forefinger and thumb. he held it up, staring at it, squinting at it. nate reached in and clinked his glass with August's and downed it in a flash. August took a moment, sniffed, wrinkled his nose, glanced back at "Gus," and drank it in a pained hurry. the cold seeped into him first, then the burn. he gagged, then coughed, grabbing his chest with one long-fingered hand. starting to double over, his other hand shot out to fumble at the nearest person. nate, in bewilderment, seized it and dragged him upright. weakly, August arranged his glasses and stared ahead, clearing his throat, gasping just once, like a fish newly out of its water -

"hey man - you ok?"

August nodded and retracted himself back into himself, hands fluttering at his pockets, withdrawing his pipe and tobacco. gingerly, he packed it. nate watched, a mixture of amusement and concern muddled in his eyes. "my. it has been a long time."

"a long time?"

"yes. well. those were the days before. the .. ah .. golden oldies. you know. you were there."

"before?" nate was losing ground. the jager had dulled him slightly and he felt his face turning gray.

"yes, of course," August said, rather impatiently. "before the accident."

"right ... " nate blinked, slurred, and confused time - "she was too young."

"she? to what are you referring to?"

"my ... sister."

"your sister?" August stood up, a bit unsteadily. coughed again. "my dear man. i have, quite frankly, no idea what you're talking about. i was speaking of something entirely different. perhaps we don't know each other at all." he was feeling a bit of fire. perhaps it was the shot. perhaps it was how pallid "Gus" had become. a triumph of reversal. "if you will excuse me. i am going to step outside for a brief puff." and exited fluidly, pulling his longcoat over his shoulders as he went.

nate blinked, slumped against the chair, staring blankly at the bottles. his eyes unfocused and then refocused. his hand came up as if of its own will and slammed down hard on his face, where it remained before sloughing off like skin from a molting snake and dangled, useless again, by his side. "c'mon nate. let's go." the fellas were punching at his shoulders, lightly, as if he were a punching bag. feigning being boxers. dancing back on their feet, laughing with one another. drunk as he was, if not worse. he was an angry whirl of remembered grief. didn't give voice to it. peeled himself from the chair and staggered at them. the three fell like bowling pins, scattered, motionless, on the floor. a second or two elapsed before their laughter - sick and wheezing, snaked out of them like air from a pin-holed balloon. then the shoving, the struggling, the mock-fighting - the at-last bartender finally hollering that they had to leave, the dubious faces, the shuffle to the door. the first white blast of snow and wind in their ruddy faces.

August leans against the side of the building, tucked in a small lee from the weather. he puffs on his pipe and watches them go, shambling like B-movie monsters into the snow. the fire in his stomach has increased, has stained his throat like soot stains a chimney. he has a terrible case of heartburn. nostalgia creeps up on him, ambushes him

"AUGIE! WHERE ARE YOU?" he is wandering around blindly, hair obscuring his vision. he's lost his glasses somewhere. they're broken, on the floor of someone's party house. his heart is clogged with something terrible. he can feel it thudding like a small giant inside of him. he is in an unfamiliar basement. there are cobwebs everywhere and they snag on his face and clothes. he shivers but can't tell if it's out of fear of spiders or being totally, eternally lost.

"AUGIE" the voice is strained, getting further away. the basement seems Byzantine, a weird gray labyrinth of filmy casement windows and raw concrete walls. he is spinning around, trying to re-orient himself. he bellows out but no voice comes out of him.

when he wakes up he is lying in a froth, contorted, screaming, in the back of an ambulance, strapped down, connected by plastic veins to plastic bags. he has become an octopus, a squid. he pisses his pants and passes out.

it had been laced with something. the pot. what a funny joke. Augie loves a good joke, they'd said. watch what happens. you'll see. it'll be fucking hysterical.

August smiled bitterly and tapped out the pipe. the three figures had long since vanished behind the veil of snow. the wind slapped him in the face as he stepped out of his cranny, as if reprimanding him. he sighed. stared off into the distance. returned inside, thoughts returning to his work, his brow strained by the passage of the slippery eel called memory, twining around and around in the murk of his skull.