Freddy Thread sat alone. A dark beer settled on the table in front of him. He didn’t immediately take gulps as he usually does, instead letting it sit there as still as his breath.
He used to frequent this old, shady bar regularly with a friend. Just one friend, Banks, who recently entered the hospital with head trauma. He tried not to think about brain damage and quietly observed the busy patio occupied by young drunks.
The 21-year-olds slamming bitch drinks reminded him of a thousand nights ago when he lived just like them. Part-time waiters and state college slackers. Mediocre poets and skateboarders. Heartbreakers and chumps. The nostalgia overwhelmed him.
Thread drew a sip from the glass and lit a cigarette. His first smoke in ages didn’t bring the satisfaction it used to. He could still blow smoke rings, but no one sat close to admire it. Sad thoughts drifted to his friend Banks and the night of the accident.
Banks was neither teetotal, nor a drug addict. Though, that night he snorted oxies and drank a few bourbons. He briefly mentioned a phone call from his ex-girlfriend which presumably upset him. Around 3am, he picked up a skateboard and went for a ride. At great speeds, Banks misjudged a turn down a very steep hill and smashed his skull hard against a concrete sidewalk. The incident occured two days ago and Banks silently rested in coma.
Thread extinguished his cigarette. Lonliness draped over him and he waited for something to happen.
Nothing came. No one called.
He paid his tab and left for the hospital.