Chapter 9 Josh
9
Josh
The front door to the Bronze is locked.
It’s a mystery as to whether it happened automatically when I came out of it this morning or if someone’s been here since I left. Either way, I’m stuck out here on the sidewalk.
Great, just great.
I glance around the main street. The bald-headed grocer is still outside his shop, and there are a few people leisurely strolling along the sidewalks. I could probably ask one of them if they know where the bar’s owner is, but I’m not like Brynn—ready and willing to jump into someone else’s life. I need some time to process.
For a moment, I consider the half-broken brick at my feet. The place has enough cracked and broken windows. One more won’t make much of a difference. But my conscience won’t let me do it. So instead, I walk to the corner, find a three-foot gap between the Bronze and the building next to it, and follow that all the way to the back until it opens up to a single-lane alleyway.
As I step out onto the pavement, a flash of orange jumps from the blue metal dumpster beside me and lands at my feet.
“Hey there, little buddy.” I bend down to pet the orange tabby, but he dodges my hand and skitters away, hopping up onto a black wrought-iron staircase. My gaze traces the path of the steps that seem to extend all the way up to the roof, with a brief stop at a tiny balcony right outside an open window.
“A fire escape, huh?” I say to the cat, who does nothing but blink back at me.
My memories from this morning are still a bit muddled from all the cross-dimensional travel, but the view from that window looks an awful lot like the one I woke up to. If I were a betting man, I’d bank that it leads straight into Fletcher’s apartment.
“Well, that’s rather serendipitous.”
The cat hops off the step as I grab the handrails and start to climb. Sure enough, when I reach the top, the window is open a few inches and slides the rest of the way easily when I lift it.
As I climb inside, I hear the low groan of creaking wood somewhere from within the building and pause.
Shit.
I’m a strange guy climbing through an open window.
What if I have the wrong apartment?
I freeze half-in, half-out as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting.
There’s not much to the place. A bed. A nightstand.
There’s a narrow hall that acts as a walk-through closet, with bars of clothes on either side and a door that opens into a small bathroom with a sink, shower, and toilet.
Yup. It’s definitely the same room I woke up in, right down to the crinkled sheets.
My heart settles back into an easier rhythm as I climb the rest of the way in and survey the place for the second time this morning.
I walk through the closet and find a few pairs of jeans and some T-shirts. Basics. “You are no fashionista, are ya, Fletch?” I say, picking up a simple gray hoodie that looks as if it would fit me perfectly. But I set it back on the shelf, not quite desperate enough yet to wear some other dude’s clothes.
I stare at the bed for a few seconds, torn between the urge to make it and the stronger desire to dive back in, with the hope that I’ll somehow wake up back in Toronto with one hell of a story. But there’s another sound—this one coming from downstairs. Maybe Brynn has already given up on her search?
I take the same route as this morning, out of the apartment’s door to a second set of stairs that leads directly down into an open warehouse with a large U-shaped bar right in the middle.
The place looks even more run-down now that I’m coherent enough to give it a second look. The lighting is dim, but there’s just enough of it to tell that the floors are gray polished concrete and the walls are the same red brick as the outside. The windows are big and airy, but every third pane appears cracked. I can’t see through them, and it’s not evident if they’re intentionally frosted or just in desperate need of washing.
Brynn is nowhere to be found.
“Hello. Anybody home?” I call as I descend the final step. My voice bounces off the brick walls.
Nobody answers.
When I woke up here this morning, this place reminded me so much of my dad’s old bar that I couldn’t stand to be here. But now, as I take a closer, more objective look, I realize that although it’s a family-owned bar with an apartment above, it’s really not like Buddy’s at all.
Buddy’s may also have been dimly lit, but it was a cozy kind of dark. It was tucked into an alleyway, and its dim corners felt homey. And although the decor might’ve been considered a little dated, its matching booths and high-top tables were made of quality oak wood, and the green leather cushions were cleaned and conditioned nightly. In this place, the furniture is a hodgepodge of mismatched tables and chairs strewn about in no discernible pattern whatsoever. There’s a stage along the far wall, but the velvet curtains are faded from what I imagine was a bright red to what is now a washed-out pink, which is fine because the stage itself is too cluttered with old Christmas decorations to be useful.
Buddy’s might have had its flaws, but you could see the love my dad had poured into the place, from the perfectly polished beer taps to the Polaroids of my dad and all his regular customers that hung behind the bar, next to the shelf of trophies given to him by all of the local kids’ sports teams he sponsored. Buddy’s had an old soul. This bar has no soul at all.
I take a seat on one of the stools and run my hands over the wooden bar. My hands come away dusty, and I have this urge to grab a rag and wipe it down. My dad was always and forever wiping his bar.
I miss him.
It has been almost five years since he passed suddenly and too soon. I never got the chance to say goodbye. Instead, I poured my heart and soul into Buddy’s, his other baby, hoping I could keep it, just like he did, as a place in the community for everyone to gather. A shrine to my dad and the great guy he was.
Instead, I lasted six whole months.
Until 2020 happened.
All the community events and creative ideas I could come up with to keep the place afloat were no match for a global pandemic. My mom even sold her and Dad’s house with the hopes that it would bridge the gap to when my dad’s life insurance payment would pay out, but everything was shut down. The money took a whole year to reach our accounts, and by that time, I’d already sold the place to a restaurateur from Toronto who had the cash flow to hold out for things to turn around.
It’s my fuck-up.
My biggest regret, and now I’m stuck in this place, wondering if maybe it’s some kind of penance. A reminder.
Like at any moment, my dad’s going to appear behind me and say—
“You better not be drinking my good Scotch.”
The strange voice startles me so badly that I actually jump.
A woman stands behind me, arms crossed, silver hair pulled into a tight knot on top of her head. She’s rail thin and maybe five feet tall, but I get the distinct impression you’d never want to face her in a bar fight.
“You must be Aunt Sherry.”
She tosses her purse on the bar, then ducks underneath, popping up on the other side. “Have you started drinking already, Fletch? I know you’ve been off gallivanting around the country these last few years, but the rules haven’t changed. No drinking before noon. I’m telling you right now: If you’re going to stay upstairs and not pay rent, you’re sure as heck not spending the day lazing around like an asshole. This place was hanging on by a thread before you went off to find yourself and is still hanging by that same thread now that you’re back. I need help, not a freeloading nephew.”
I hold up my hands, showing her that I’m not hiding a drink, acutely aware of how this scene seems to be eerily similar to four years ago, back home. That makes me want to clarify something right off the bat. “If you’re worried about this place going under, I’m definitely not the guy to save it.”
She pauses for a moment, studying me. “Who said anything about saving it?” She hands me a rag and a spray bottle. “I’m just looking for a body to clean the bathrooms.”
I almost reach for the spray bottle. This is mostly because, despite her stature, Sherry is a very intimidating woman, and also because bathrooms are at least something I know I can handle. But then there’s another creaking sound, and this time it is Brynn, pushing open the front door of the Bronze and then stopping when she sees Sherry and me.
“Let me guess,” Sherry says, addressing Brynn. “You’re looking for Fletcher.”
“Yes,” Brynn says. “Do you mind if I steal him for a little while? I have something important I need him for.” Her tone is unusually sweet.
“What else is new?” Sherry rolls her eyes and grabs the spray bottle from the bar.
“Hey,” I call after her. “I can do that later.”
She keeps walking but turns enough that I can hear her just before she disappears into the bathroom.
“If I wait for you, Fletcher, all I’ll get is older.”