SHADOWS DOWN A DARK HALLWAY

“You’re Dr. Evan’s boy, aren’t ya?” Michael was staring at his beer mug and awoke from his coma-like state. He turned to look at the man sitting at the bar beside him. The man wore oil-stained jeans, a brown plaid flannel shirt, and a faded navy blue jacket. The John Deere baseball cap on his head looked like it had been run over by a truck. Michael, not recognizing the stranger sitting next to him, responded, “How did you know I was Dr. Allen’s son?” He replied, “I seen your picture in the paper.” Michael was puzzled and asked, “From my high school football days?” The stranger answered, “Your father took care of my prostate when I got cancer, and I remember seeing your photo in his office. I recognized you in the paper when you played.” Michael chuckled and said, “As I recall, I wasn’t that good of a player, and we had a bad team.” Michael had the skills and the talent to play college football but lacked confidence and doubted himself. He attended Indiana University, and it wasn’t for academic excellence, and it definitely wasn’t for football. He went to IU for only one reason. Michael wanted to party and have a good time. He was tall and athletic, had black hair and blue eyes, and, when not drunk, charming. He was a typical “frat guy.” He loved to drink beer, chase girls, play sports, and hang out with his friends. Somehow, he found time to study and make decent grades. The stranger beside him spoke again but with sincerity, “I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing. He was a kind man and a skilled surgeon. I see you’re in scrubs. Are you a doctor also?” Michael answered, “No, I dropped out of med school and decided to work as an orderly until I get my life in order.” The stranger said, “It would be strange for a doctor to be seen in such a fine establishment as Smithies Bar.” Michael was no stranger to Smithies Bar. He and his friends were buying beers here back in high school without being carded. The bartender/owner was an ex-boxing prodigy with a well-earned beer belly and didn’t really care if the bar got shut down because it was a dump. He could have cared less if the patron was twenty-one or twelve. A buck is a buck. Dimly lit, with two pool tables, neon beer signs, and a sticky floor, Smithies was a typical midwestern bar that smelled of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and a hint of mold. In the corner, a jukebox was playing “Hotel California.” Michael smiled and reshifted on his bar stool, which had been repaired with black duct tape to hide the tears in the vinyl. He looked at the stranger and said, “If I were a doctor, I definitely would not be drinking here. Since I’m not a doctor but a lowly orderly, I like it here. It brings back memories of a better time in my life. A time when I didn’t have a care in the world. My future was planned out, and I had direction. I was focused. I knew what I wanted.” Michael took a drink of his beer. The stranger nodded and said, “Was it your father’s death that made you decide to drop out?” Michael reshifted on his stool, took another drink, and responded, “The med school advised me to take some time off when my father died. I just don’t feel like going back. My heart’s not in it.” The stranger spoke, “I know how you feel. I know what it’s like to lose someone you care about. I lost my daughter in a car crash. She was driving home after volleyball practice, and a drunk driver veered into her lane and hit her head on. She was so beautiful and smart, too. She’s lying in the road with a crushed skull, and the drunk bastard walked away from the accident.” He paused and added, “You never get over it.” Michael responded, “I’m so sorry to hear that. It’s not right, and it’s not fair. It doesn’t make any sense. How did you move on from something like that?” Michael looked back at his beer mug, embarrassed by his stupid question. The stranger answered, “I didn’t.” It took Michael a second to process the stranger’s response. “What do you mean you?” Michael said as he turned to look at the man. The bar stool was empty. Michael slowly stood up and looked around the room. The stranger was gone. Michael squeezed the bridge of his nose, clearing his eyes of any potential sleepers, and mumbled to himself, “I must be losing my mind.” He looked at the stranger’s barstool and the distance to the door. He knew there was no way a person could cover that distance in that amount of time. It wasn’t humanly possible. “Did I imagine the stranger or doze off and daydream?” he thought. Michael scratched an old mosquito bite, took a deep breath, and decided to push the encounter with the stranger out of his mind. He turned to walk out of the bar, reached into his pocket, and popped a breath mint in his mouth to disguise any hint of alcohol on his breath before starting his shift. It was pitch black outside except for the street light with a swarm of bugs flying around it. He had twenty minutes to get to the hospital to start the late shift, the graveyard shift, 11:00 pm to 7:00 am.