The Only Heritage We Have to Leave

The Only Heritage We Have to Leave

by

Steven L. Wright

     William Travers nursed a double neat Scotch, intent on completing the work promised his publisher weeks earlier. Since the conclusion was proving difficult, he thought visiting his favourite Chicago bar, ordering a Scotch or two and chatting with bartender Johnny--the sage of Lush Life--might bring success.

     An attractive middle-aged couple soon appeared and, despite plenty of isolated tables and empty bar stools, they selected two seats at the bar. One stool separated from Travers. The man looked agitated, intent on settling the emotional disagreement. Whatever the issue they shared one commonality: extra dry gin martinis with a twist.

     "So you're ending it just like that?"

     "It ended long ago, Charles."

     "Then it sits on your lap."

     She flicked her shoulder length black hair away from her face as an act of defiance. Took a healthy sip of the martini. Charles stared.

     "Your're pretty when upset, Julia. Should be angry more often."

     "Flippancy no longer works."

     Travers sipped his Scotch trying not be seen ease dropping.

     "Hello, Muriel, how the hell are you, my dear?"

     "Not good."

     "So . . .should I prepare the regular or do you prefer something with more bounce?"

     "More bounce, Johnny. Send me to the moon."

     "Had little when we married. Educated but in debt and yet, we succeeded and supported each other along the way. Lost a child. Survived cancer. Buried both parents and . . .and. . . . ."

     "Somewhere along the way something died. Something deep inside."

     "For you perhaps, not me. You had an option after the diagnosis. You knew, we both knew the challenges."

     Charles took off his steel rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes.

     "Here you are, darling: Gin, Lillet Blanc and Grand Marnier with a twist."

     "That should dull the pain. Thank you, Johnny."

     "Would it be impertinent to ask what's troubling you? If I've overstepped . . .I'm sorry."

     "Not at all. Why I'm here, I guess. You know . . .David died two months ago--a week after retiring, having worked forty years for the same company."

     "Didn't realise it was that long."

     Travers found himself ease dropping on two conversations.

     "Thought we worked through the difficulties. Why now?"

     Julia ran her fingers dismissively through her hair again and sighed.

     "Why? Because . . .because I feel alone lying in bed next to you."

     "I received a letter today, well--actually it was addressed to David--from the president of the company in Connecticut. He wished David . . .A long and well-deserved retirement."

     Johnny stopped hand-drying a tumbler. Placed his hands on the bar counter and looked at Muriel. Tears streamed down her face.

     "Couldn't someone, somewhere in that 'deep, cold tundra of the company' taken an interest? A genuine interest, and not write some formulaic prattle altered only by whom it's addressed?"

     "How are you, Johnny? The usual please. Uhhhh, no, make it a double. Thanks."

     "You're early, George. Playing hooky?"

     "Wish I was. The company's decided to 'go a different direction'. It doesn't need me. So . . .I'm out. No longer the vice president of sales strategy."

     "God, I'm sorry. And here I am making a joke. This one's on me, George, and the next one, if you decide to travel there."

     "You didn't know . . .nor did I, until a board member took me to lunch. Started smelling bad as soon as he ordered us two martinis. Company has a no drink policy at lunch."

     "So, who replaced you?"

     "You don't understand corporate speak: 'go a different direction' means the position has been eliminated. Guess it's being outsourced to a 'one size fits all' consulting firm. What the company has to pay in fees will be cheaper, I suppose, than my salary and benefits with a possible bonus. Joined the company after earning my degree. Would have been twenty-seven years this June. Christ."

     Travers took a sip of Scotch and looked across the bar at George. A well put-together man in his early 50s. His sartorial code shunned business casual. Clothes no longer mattered now. He was unemployed. That made all the difference.

     "I want to move on Charles. We had fun--during the best years of our lives--but I've had enough. You need to accept it and move on, too."

     "You should have left after the cancer operations. Would have been a whole lot easier for me to accept, Julia. Now it's . . .it's personal, not physical."

     He laid forty dollars on the counter. Julia didn't look at him. Simply stared at the wall on the other side of the bar.

     "I've learned something today. Too damn early to know what exactly. Goodbye, Julia."

     "What you're experiencing Muriel proves the obsurdity of life, I think. We pledge faithfulness to people, to organisations, to governments . . .but are left unfulfilled. Drained of whatever had made us whole."

     "We learn too late, Johnny. Acquired wisdom is wasted on the old and the young don't want to hear what we've learned."

     "Can I bother you for another double neat, Johnny?"

     "Here you go, my friend."

     "Haven't been totally up front. Diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer two months ago. That's probably the real reason I was let go. They'll honour my health benefits . . .but only for a few months. Then it's on me."

     Travers finished his Scotch and asked for another. Ease dropping on three conversations provided the necessary inspiration to finish what he had come to Lush Life to do. They weren't his words and he felt guilty using them but he didn't care. And Travers knew Ernest Hemingway wouldn't mind:

                   There are some things which cannot be learned quickly and time, which is all we have, must be paid heavily for their acquiring. They are the very simplest things and becasue it takes a man's life to know them the little new that each man gets from life is very costly and the only heritage he has to leave.

Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon, 1932, p. 192.

The End