Days Gone By Chapter 3—Bygone Days
Novel Excerpt by Abram Dress
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Click here to read Prologue—The Bloody Wake
Norfolk, Virginia
June 15th, 2019, late night
Devin had never been to this tavern. Some part of his brain, the part that was least concussed, remembered seeing it at some point when he drove by on the way to work. Google Maps would have estimated the travel time from his house to the tavern at about fifteen minutes on foot. It was at least an hour from the time he stumbled out of his driveway—meandering through various dark streets and parking lots—until he eventually stopped in front of the alley.
Devin wasn’t sure why he stopped there. Wasn’t sure how he got there in the first place. But there he was. He stared into the shadows at the cracked and chipped wooden sign hanging from a rusty post above a recessed stairway: Bygone Days Tavern.
Devin smelled like hot fish. A po’ boy’s suit of armor forged from fish scales, sweat, and caked brine protected him from the threat of social interaction. Crusted blood on his lip, bruising around his eyes, a noticeable limp, and a cradled left wrist completed the social pariah costume. He winced a bit as the broken ribs called for his attention.
Stop your whining. It’s not like they ever really healed, anyway. Lisa’s voice or his own? He wasn’t sure.
Any sense of self-consciousness that may have remained evaporated as he stepped into the bar. No, not a bar. There was a sense of age and unkemptness here that no bar could claim. As the sign said, this was a tavern. Here, something warmer and more unpleasant replaced the smells of the city. People puked here. Then, an all too-familiar underlying scent; people bled here.
But the coppery bile smell was no worse than the odor wafting off of him, so he let his eyes adjust and then shuffled across the stained concrete floor to the bar. Past a silent ancient jukebox. Past wooden tables covered with a film of spilled beer and regret surrounded by scattered aluminum chairs. Past neon signs that flashed in the corner of his vision. Up to the bar.
The bartender was shorter than Devin, wearing a pale shirt and dark pants that looked like they belonged in an era long ago. Corded muscles on his dark forearms twisted like rebar as he wiped a glistening glass. His thin lips, surrounded by a neatly trimmed black beard, hinted at a smile as he nodded at Devin but said nothing.
“Get me a…” The act of speaking brought attention to his ribs.
Definitely broken.
He grunted in pain as he perused the taps, looking for the old standbys. There were no labels on any of them. Each tap was the same worn wood, polished by years of use. There were none of the familiar beer logos he was used to seeing. He glanced behind the bar where flamboyantly colored liquor bottles would normally reside. He could have sworn they had been there as he walked in, but he saw nothing but dark and dusty alchemical receptacles, unlabeled.
“Sorry, I’m not clear what you guys have.” A jolt of pain from his wrist told him to stop fucking around and get some medicine. His ribs seconded the motion. “Surprise me.”
The bartender nodded again, but said nothing. He grabbed a mug, set it under one of the unlabeled taps, filled it to overflowing, and slid it to Devin without a word.
“Thanks.”
The bartender nodded yet again and turned his back to help his other customers. There were none.
Devin turned to face the rest of the room and took a pull from the beer. He didn’t recognize the brew, but that was no surprise. Devin drank with a purpose, and his purpose was not that of a connoisseur. It was good enough. Thick and hoppy, it filled his mind with images of waves and seabirds and sailing ships and adventure. The rest of the bar was empty. No, not quite. There were a couple of customers seated in the shadows near the fire. A fire? It was sweltering outside, yet the fire felt right. Necessary.
Both patrons stared at Devin as he leaned against the bar, gulping his liquid medication.
One was an old man, bearded, unkempt, clothed as though kidnapped from the pages of The Old Man and the Sea.
The other was a woman, younger but not young, vibrant but not garish. A dark-maned beauty with poise and natural grace that could have turned an average nobody into paparazzi-fodder.
They were on either side of the fire. They weren’t talking, or even looking at each other, but Devin felt they were two sides of a similar story.
A hero and a villain. A lover and a cuckold. A savior and a betrayer.
Devin slammed the rest of his beer and rubbed his throbbing head, shooting a burst of pain up his wrist. Maybe not broken, but might as well be. Jesus Christ, man, you’re losing it. Maybe, just maybe, they could just be a couple of people having drinks in a bar. He slid the mug toward the bartender, who already had a replacement sitting in wait.
Devin glanced back at the patrons. The woman had turned her attention from Devin to a thick book which lay open on the table before her. The old man’s hand rested on a beer mug, but he stared at Devin. A dented aluminum chair sat across the table from the man, pulled out just so, slightly facing Devin. Inviting. The man gestured at the other chair. Devin shook his head. He preferred to drink alone, sipping his own sorrows and losses and tasting no one else’s.
Devin faced the bar, paused, then turned back to the old man. He was still looking at Devin with a face both safe and intriguing.
What the hell else are you going to do? Try something different, maybe get some different results.
Devin shuffled toward the fire and the dirty, stiff-backed, but still welcoming chair. As Devin approached, the man lifted his mug to his mouth. Cracked and sun-scarred skin covered his face and hands. A gray beard stuck out, unruly, from around the upturned mug. He plonked the empty mug on the table and wiped some beer from his beard.
“Buy me a beer, son, and tell me a story.”
Devin’s brow furrowed, pinching a billion headache synapses that fired a barrage of misery into his temples. Who was this weird old man?
“Not today, pal. How about I buy you a beer and you tell me a story?”
The man’s whiskers caterpillared into a grin. “That’s not how sea stories work, son. You tell me a story, then I tell you a story, and we buy drinks all around.”
Devin’s split and blooded lips formed into a smile—when was the last time he had done that? He sat down.
“Sounds like something different. Let’s try it.”
He turned to face the bartender, raising a hand, but the dark-bearded man surprised him, already standing there with a full mug in hand. He set the mug in front of the old man, then sauntered back to the bar.
Devin put out his uninjured hand. “Devin Cole,” he said.
The old man shook hands, then downed a mouthful of beer. “Henry Avery. I would love to hear your story, Mister Cole.”
“So, a story…”
Devin’s smile faded. Stories needed to be fun. To have happy endings. Didn’t they? What good came of airing the filthiest of laundry all over some helpless old man at a nowhere bar? But the man’s eyes stared at Devin with an expectant and irresistible intensity.
“How about I tell you a story about a kid whose parents died before he was really a grown man? And they left him to take care of his little sister while barely getting by with a shitty life insurance policy payout. This kid did the best he could at whatever job he could find.”
Devin’s face was getting hot, his blood pressure rising.
Why was he talking?
“And what about the story where that kid got in with some bad people and… He got in with some bad people because he needed the money to take care of his goddamn kid sister? Not goddamn. I mean, she is great. Was great. And then things went sideways.”
Why the hell was he telling this stranger anything?
“Things went so bad that the one good thing he had in life… they took her and…” Devin leaned forward, cupping his face in his hands. “To hell with this. No.”
He sat up, rubbing at damp eyes. He glanced around. The beautiful woman didn’t seem to pay any attention to Devin’s story. The bartender’s back was to the room as he arranged bottles.
The old man’s smile had faded. He leaned forward and put a hand on Devin’s shoulder. “Stories aren’t always pretty, son. Some of the best ones are hard to tell. Perhaps I can hear the whole story another time. Now, I owe you a beer and a tale.”
Devin nodded, shaking. He felt lightheaded. He took a deep breath, then exhaled. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the burning pain from his broken ribs screamed for his attention, but the call went unheeded. Maybe the alcohol, maybe the adrenaline. Maybe just the hope of something to distract him.
“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like a good deal.”
“A good deal then. I’ve made brash decisions as well, Mister Cole. Dangerous decisions in my desperate search to recover something, someone, I lost.”
The old man’s eyes were focused, but gentle. Understanding. He took a long pull of beer, then leaned back, crossing his leathered fingers across his belly as he swished the brew around in his mouth before swallowing.
“Let me tell you a story that may seem unbelievable. About a ship. A pirate ship. Captained by a proud but damaged man who had made a god-like fortune pilfering other people’s wealth. Let me tell you a story about how that ship became a tool that could travel through time. Through space and dimensions. All in search of something so incredible…”
“Wait, time traveling pirates? I thought we were telling real stories.”
“All stories are real, after a fashion. And you’ll have many more questions by the time I’ve finished my tale. For now, accept my story.” The old man’s face was hard under the electrical glow of a nearby wall lamp. All angles and deep shadows. “Close your talking-lips and listen, lad.”
Devin settled into the chair, closed his talking-lips, and listened.
—CONTINUE READING Chapter 4–Pirate’s Booty
Copyright 2024 Abram Dress