Hidden Hands

The bar is a little too warm, a little too full, a little too much. There’s cigar smoke and the smell of alcohol surrounding him; the sounds of distant solitary piano and loud banter; the leering eyes of bar guests who are all too nosy; the dim glow of the lights hanging above; a faint taste of cheap whiskey on his lips. The bar is all too much. And yet, the comforting familiarity of it makes all of that go away.

He sits alone, and stares at his foggy glass vacantly. In it, he can see his warped reflection: his dark brown skin, the circles under his eyes, the lines in his face. Time always seems to go away at the bar, like everything else. Some days, he feels like a sense of loneliness lingers wherever he goes. Today is one of those days. Though it’s all too noticeable when that feeling goes away as someone takes a seat next to him.

“Well, howdy there, Haywood.”

Haywood knows this voice as well as he knows the bar. He doesn’t look, because there’s nothing to see. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.

“Y’know, that joke gets funnier every time you make it.”

“Naturally.”

“Splurge on yourself, then. It hurts me to watch you drink Grand-Daddy brand.”

Haywood waves at the bartender. “Another one,” he says. “From the top shelf this time.”

They watch the bartender get to work, before Haywood hears: “How’ve you been?”

Haywood doesn’t consider this a question with a productive answer, so he says, “Why are you here, Augustus?”

“Gus,” he corrects. Haywood doesn’t dignify him with a response. “Same reason as always, Hay,” Augustus goes on, a playfulness to his tone. “Boredom, and I like you.”

Haywood takes a sip. Thinks. Takes another. Then: “Don’t you think you’ll ever pass on?”

“This again, huh?”

“You didn’t answer me the first time.”

“Didn’t I?”

“You said you liked it here. At the bar.”

“I meant here.” Augustus’s voice is a baritone. There’s an accent buried in there somewhere. “If there’s some final destination to be at—and we don’t know there is—I don’t see why this can’t be it. I like it with you.” There’s wryness in his voice as he adds: “Even if you’re too quiet.”

“Have to listen more than you talk. Especially when you’re talking to people no one can see.”

“Plenty of truth there, Hay.” Haywood is intimately familiar with how Augustus speaks: the way he drags out the sound of his “i”s and chews on certain vowels. But with all the familiarity, he isn’t fully sure what Augustus looks like. Staring at a ghost is hazy: about as clear as looking at someone through peripheral vision. He thinks he’s seen a sandy skin color, and a leather hat. He knows he has a smirk that’s anything but fleeting. 

“What’s with the eagerness to get rid of me, anyway? Don’t I make superb company?”

“I don’t mean that I want you to leave,” Haywood says, though sometimes he does, “but I can’t guarantee that I’ll always be there to keep you company. I won’t be around forever.”

“Who’s to say you won’t join me here one day? And who’s to say I don’t wanna stick around ‘til you find out why you can see me? Which you still need to look into, by the way—don’t it bother you at all?

Haywood’s shoulders rise in a noncommittal shrug. “Waste of time. There’s no guarantee that there’s an answer.”

“Don’t mean it ain’t a good use of time.” He can feel the ghost’s stare. “Are you under the impression that sitting alone at a bar drinking whiskey is?” he presses.

Haywood sighs, because you can’t win against Augustus. There’s a moment of silence, before he hears him say:

“Didn’t you once say I was a lingering memory?”

“That was my working theory. At the time.”

“I say it’s still a good theory. I think about it sometimes. But then I wonder… can a memory have feelings, like me?” Augustus pauses, but not long enough for an answer. “Who knows. But I wonder if I stick around as long as you do, since I’m sure you’ll remember me longer than anyone else.” 

“Because you never leave?”

“I was gonna say ‘cause you’re old. But sure, if you wanna be mean about it.”

Augustus finally goes quiet; this topic used to come up a lot, but not much anymore. In their silence, the ambience of the bar takes the stage, and Augustus hums, taking a sudden interest in the piano. 

The piano’s melody meanders. Haywood glances at Augustus’s shape, which leans in its direction. He hums along. It sounds lonely.

Haywood feels Augustus’s eyes on him as he puts some crumpled bills on the bar counter. “Are you leaving?” he asks. He feels Augustus’s presence again, over his shoulder now. “Mind if I come?”

“That’s not up to me, is it?” 

He hears Augustus laugh heartily. “Right you are, Hay! Where are ya off to?” Haywood pushes open the heavy doors to the bar, feeling the cold air outside blow against his face. “Y’know,” continues Augustus, and Haywood can hear the indulgent smile he’s sure is on his face, “brevity may be the soul of wit, but I’d say you take that too far. I worry about you sometimes, Haywood.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Oh, the humility! What a man.”

“Remind me why you won’t go away?”

“‘Cause we’re two peas in a pod, Haywood. Two peas in a pod, and in more ways than one.”