When I loaned Gino the money, he swore to pay it back in a week.  I knew what it was like trying to make it on Social Security so I fronted him the money.  He was a regular at Del’s Bar and Italian Restaurant.  I didn’t even know where he lived but he was always at Del’s.

Then I got a bad attack of the gout in the right foot and was MIA for ten days.

Finally, I’m able to hobble the five blocks to Del’s and it’s freezing outside, but no snow on the ground.  I got an old sweater over my sweat shirt, a muffler around my neck and the collar of my old navy jacket turned up against the wind.  A cloth cap is pulled down over my shaved head and my hands are jammed down in the pockets of the coat ’cause I don’t know where my gloves are.

A few of the regulars sit around the bar.  No Gino and nobody bartending.  I sit next to Al.  On one of the four televisions, a Hollywood reporter interviews that Kim Kardashian.  The television tuned to the music channel is the only one with sound.  When The Musics Over by The Doors is playing.  I unbutton my coat.

Image by Damian Morys Foto via Flickr

Al says, “Where are your gloves?”

“I can’t find them.  Has Gino been in?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“His landlord found him a couple of days ago on the floor dead.”

“He’s dead?”

“Kaput.  Kicked the bucket.  Bought the farm.”

I just look out the big picture window.  It’s snowing.  The poor bastard.

I say, “Who’s on duty?”

“Marianne.”

Marianne comes out of the dinning room and goes behind the bar.  We say hello to each other and she draws me a draft.

“You hear about Gino?”

“I just heard.”

I reach for my wallet and give her a twenty.  When she gives me my change she also hands me a small envelope, the kind with the flip top that you get at the bank.  It has my name on it.

She says, “He left this for you.”

The poor bastard.

The End

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