Closing Time

The last barstool at Callahan’s was as worn as the flickering neon sign that hung outside. The once vibrant red leather had cracked and worn having faded after countless hours of supporting the asses of whatever unfortunate individual sought refuge there. It was the most unimpressive object in the most unassuming establishment - a warped piece of wood that could’ve been found in any watering hole in the world yet somehow found itself tucked into the corner of a Northside neighborhood bar. 

Carl, the mustachioed proprietor, had stood behind the counter silently observing the occupant of the last stool for nearly 30 years. He was a deftly quiet man who made healthy pours for his regulars and dutifully heard their tales of woe, offering only a pint or glass as solace for their troubles. His glassy eyes offered little tell and his perfectly pressed bowtied shirt gave the impression of a higher-end establishment. Yet even the most regular of patrons had never seen him wear anything else. 

If you asked 10 different customers about who Carl was you’d get 10 different stories. “I heard he was a Vietnam veteran who killed 60 VC in hand-to-hand combat,” one might say. “He’s the son of a wealthy oil magnate who left it all behind to tend bar,” another might suggest. “No, he’s an ex-IRA criminal on the run and in hiding”. 

The only truth at Callahan’s was that a man named “Carl” would be pouring your drinks and that no one sat at the last barstool unless invited to do so. 

One blustery winter evening, a snow-covered businessman stumbled into the near-empty pub looking for a place to park his sorrows. Carl watched as the man, eyes half-closed shook off the snow from his peacoat and waddled toward the bar. He reached out and steadied himself with both hands on the sticky wood paneling and let out a belch that reeked of bourbon and meat. 

“Good sir!” He called out to Carl with a wave of his hand. “Old Fashioned. Makers if you got it.” Carl smiled and nodded politely, crafting the order with expert precision. The man watched in awe as the gray-haired Carl made the drink in record time.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises!” The man chuckled as Carl strained the cocktail from a carafe and into a glass before him. His eyes went wide as the drink touched his lips.

“Sonofabitch, now that’s the best damned Ol’ Fashioned I’ve ever had. What’s your secret?”

“Practice,” Carl replied. 

The man slapped the sticky bar and laughed. “Practice! Damn, that’s good.” He reached out his hand, making sure to steady himself with the other. 

“Frank Walsh, Walsh Concrete & Tile. If you’re on the sidewalk in Chicago you’re walking on Walsh.” 

Carl shook Frank’s hand. “Carl.”

“So what’s your story friend?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Who you ask.”

Frank laughed into his glass. 

“Ain’t that the truth? I knew this Spanish-looking fella once– a contractor– tells me his name is ‘Juan’. Guy seems nice enough. So we give him our business on some parking lot or something out in the suburbs. So I go to the work site and ask around. No ones ever heard of a ‘Juan’. So I say jefe which is ya know, Mexican for ‘boss’– and this fella says ‘Oh si, si Mr. Matthew is over there.’ So I go up to this guy and I’m like, what gives? He tells me that he never tells his crew his real name so that they can’t find him if he chooses to stiff them. You believe that?”

Frank downs his cocktail and signals for another. Carl snaps into action. Frank loosens his already crooked tie and stumbles back. 

“Damn sciatica. You stand for two minutes and it starts up again.” Frank saunters down the bar towards the last barstool, nearly reaching it before Carl places the drink down firmly on the bar.

“Excuse me sir, that one’s occupied.”

With half droopy eyes, Frank twirls around and looks at the bar. Except for a bearded man sleeping in the front booth it’s completely empty. 

“By who?”

“It’s occupied.” Then, “Anything else I can get you?”

Frank takes a sip from his glass.

“I’m just sayin’ I don’t know who else is here except for me and that fella but he seems pretty content where he is so I don’t think he’ll mind.”  The bearded man snores with his mouth open and his head cocked back. 

Frank again makes his way towards the stool, holding onto the bar for support. He stopped in his tracks as he felt Carl’s icy cold hand gently placed on top of his.

“Excuse me, sir.” Frank looked down at Carl’s hand on top of his and then back up to meet the steely, unwavering gaze of his bartender. “I’m afraid I must insist.” Frank felt a chill through his spine as he pulled his hand away as if it had touched a flame. 

“What the fuck— what the hell is wrong with you?” 

Carl simply brushed it off as if nothing happened.

“Anything else I can get for you sir?”

Frank spun around to once again place both hands on the bar. He grabbed his drink and downed it in one fell swoop, placing the glass back on the bar with a forceful thud.

“You can make me another and kiss my ass.”

Frank strutted to the last barstool, letting out a long sigh as he sat upon it. 

“Ahh that’s the stuff. Little wobbly don’t you think?”

“Apologies sir, but I think I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Last I checked, it’s a free country and no one tells Frank Walsh he can park his ass other than Frank Walsh.”

Carl put down his drying towel and began unbuttoning the cuffs on the sleeves of his white shirt. Frank drunkenly mumbled to himself as Carl nonchalantly made his way over to the front door, locking it and pulling the string that illuminated the neon Callahan’s sign. 

“Hey, what in the hell are you–

Rolling up his sleeves Carl walked with calculated steps until he was directly in front of Frank, who now sat up, startled.

“Hey, what in the hell are you–

Carl knelt down until their eyes met and smiled.

“Mr. Walsh, do you know what a throne is?”

“What?”

“I said, do you know what a throne is?” 

Frank slammed his fist on the bar.

“Fuck you and your word games buddy.” Frank buttoned his peacoat and stood to leave, only to notice the snoring bearded man from the front booth now looming in front of him. Frank stared into the man’s dead eyes, panic setting in. 

“What-what the fuck is this place? What do you want?!”

Carl reached up to the top shelf of the bar where behind a collection of spirits sat a dusty, weathered and blackened bottle with a withering cork. Carl grabbed the bottle along with two shot glasses.

“A throne,” he stated while pouring. “Is a seat for a king and you know what they say…”

Carl placed the shot in front of a hyperventilating Frank.

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown.” He smiled as he tossed back the black liquid with ease. 

“Care for a drink?”