By Isaac Russo
The clock had just struck five, and that meant Jack was on his way to the lounge for a drink. Rain or shine, he always had time for a neat whiskey and some classic tunes from the resident pianist who played Sinatra like he was the latest hit on the radio. It never failed to bring him some peace, regardless of what he was working on at the office, and today he needed it more than ever.
The door swung shut behind him, and Jack was engulfed in cigar smoke and the chatter of a hundred half conversations. It smelled like his grandfather and felt like a warm hug, and there wasn’t a single place on earth he would rather be. Yet as he approached the barstool that had become his through years of patronage and the ancient law of dibs, he noticed a stranger sitting in his seat.
Jack played a brief montage in his head of what a barfight might look like, and decided against it on the grounds that he would hate to ruffle his perfectly pressed suit. Besides, the stranger was slamming vodka shots and clearly working through some things, it just wouldn’t be fair. So Jack sat down in the stool beside the stranger, giving him more than enough space in case the vodka decided to make another appearance, and ordered a whiskey stiffer than the collar of his tailored shirt.
It wasn’t until he had taken the first sip that Jack realized he recognized this cursed stranger who interrupted his daily routine. He recognized himself, and not in some meta you-are-your-own-worst-enemy kind of way, but in flesh and blood. Though he couldn’t believe his eyes, Jack stared at a living, breathing version of himself who couldn’t be older than twenty one. The boy was still drowning his sorrows with eighty proof vodka, not yet learning that a slow trickle of good whiskey is much more effective, but it’s never the rabbit who wins the race.
He must have stared for a little too long though, and the younger version of Jack noticed. “What the hell are you looking at, old man?” He asked through a fog of vodka breath. Jack realized the boy must not recognize him, blinded by the hubris of youth and unable to envision himself any older than that very moment, but he still wanted it noted for the record that he wasn’t a day over forty. Well, forty five.
“I’m enjoying a drink with a friend after a long day,” Jack said with a smile that was not unkind. He had a feeling the boy needed it.
“Great, two more shots!” Younger Jack yelled for the barkeep, who seemed moments away from cutting him off. “They’re on him.” He added with a nod towards his older self, little more than an afterthought.
“No, thank you. I’m not much of a vodka man anymore,” Jack tried to explain before being interrupted.
“These aren’t for you,” Younger Jack said as he took a shot glass in each hand and tossed them back, to the general disgust of everyone around him.
Jack took a sip of his drink and watched his younger self, savoring the burn of the whiskey, and realized this boy had never savored anything. He took big bites out of life like a starving man, hardly chewing what was in front of him before moving on to the next course, and clearly it was taking its toll. The inevitable hangover would be the least of his problems in the morning, and Jack couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.
“Maybe you should pace yourself, get some food and water to go with your liquid Russian cuisine.” It was supposed to be a joke, but by the look on his younger face it had not been funny. “It’s on me, all I ask is no more shots.”
“Are you rich or something? I’ve got nothing for sale.” Younger Jack said, unsure why this stranger had taken such an interest in him.
“Nothing like that. You just remind me of myself, that’s all.” Jack explained, and for the first time there seemed to be a light of recognition in those youthful eyes. The similarities were hard to miss. Dimples had turned to smile lines and the bags under his eyes had become crow’s feet, but it was the same face looking back at each other.
Then the glint of recognition faded, replaced by a spark of curiosity. “Have you ever been in love?” His younger self asked, and Jack realized he was not nearly drunk enough for this conversation.
“Yes, a long time ago.” The words pained him, like a knife to the place where his heart had once been. He couldn’t bring himself to say more, but he didn’t need to.
“There’s this girl . . . Judith.” Younger Jack said.
Oh Judith, Jack thought to himself as memories of summer night heat and heartbreak flooded his mind. How could I ever forget?
“I think I’m in love with her, but I don’t know if I can give her the life that she deserves.” His younger self explained, though there was no need. Jack could feel those same feelings buried just beneath the surface. “She deserves a man who can take care of her, someone with a better job who can afford to buy her a ring. Not a guy who needs a rich weirdo to pay for his drinks at the bar. No offense.”
“None taken,” though he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little offended, this coming from himself and all.
“So, what about you?” His younger self asked, almost incredulously. “Let me guess. You have a gorgeous wife and six kids at home, all of whom swear they love you as they spend your money and bleed you dry. Sounds like the life.”
“Not quite.” Jack said, unsure of the paradox that seemed to be brewing in this bar. “Everyone thinks a better job or a ring will solve their problems. Well, I got that job and I bought that ring, and then I spent too much time at work and not enough with my wife and suddenly she didn’t want it anymore. I guess that’s the price of success.”
Younger Jack leaned forward in the stool and thought for a moment, before saying the second most profound thing Jack had ever heard. “But what is the price of happiness?”
He didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t. His younger self continued anyway. “Are you happy, Jack?”
“I believe so, yes.” Jack said without thinking. Though he did wonder when this boy had learned his name.
His younger self followed that up with the most profound thing Jack had ever heard. “But at what cost?”
The young man then stood up, took the last sip of whiskey out of Jack’s hand and knocked it back, and went to meet the pretty girl waiting by the door. Even through the haze of cigar smoke Jack could tell her smile brightened the room, and the way she looked at his younger self burned like good whiskey. He savored it as he dreamed of days gone by, and nights lit only by waning moonlight and the occasional wandering firefly. Suddenly Jack wanted nothing more than to see that smile again, to hear the laugh that had warmed him in the spring of his life, even as the autumn years grew colder than ever.
Whiskey had been a poor substitute for the love of his life, but in the end they burned the same. Jack savored this new feeling, deeper in his chest than mere alcohol could ever hope to reach, and pulled out his phone. He began scrolling through his contacts, hovering over the same name he had tried to delete a hundred times. Judith.
But this time, he pressed call.
losing our grip on purpose 