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2
Ethan
I walked into the timeless bar. The smell of varnished wood and beer instantly hit my nostrils. I loved the nostalgia of this old bar. Old Jacks was a bar most of the hospital staff, police force, and fire department frequented. Several times we’d sat to unwind to a tall glass of beer only to be called in to work because of a bad accident. In my line of work, I felt like I was always on call even when I wasn’t.
“Ethan!” Abraham shouted from behind the bar.
I tossed my hand in the air, waving. Several of the oak tables on either side leading deep into the back of the bar were occupied. A couple walked up the black staircase toward the billiards area. Tim, a firefighter, and Dr. Bill Grossman sat at the long bar chatting. I walked over, shrugging my leather jacket from my shoulders, draping it across the back of the bar chair.
I slapped Tim on the back. “Tim, Bill! How are you guys doing tonight?”
“Ethan, this is my weekend off. Feels good to relax. Our four-day shifts at the fire house have been hell lately.” He sipped his beer.
“Ethan, I’m not as lucky as Tim. I have to return to duty at the hospital at 6 a.m. But I needed a drink,” Bill smirked.
“Me, too. I lost a patient tonight.”
Tim’s hand landed on my shoulder. “Sorry to hear, man.”
Bill’s brown bushy eyebrows rose. “Me too, Ethan. We can all speak from experience; it haunts you just a little.”
My eyebrows wrinkled, followed by a frown on my undoubtedly pale face.
Abe sat a frosted glass of beer before me. I smirked. “Thanks, Abe.”
“No problem. You need this.”
I placed the glass against my lips as I scanned the wall behind the bar filled from top to bottom with liquor. A Celtics and a New England Patriots jersey hung from the ceiling at opposite ends of the bar. Three large screen TV’s were placed throughout. I gawked at the TV mounted on the wall over the bar. Football stats appeared on the screen.
“Do you see those stats, Ethan? The Patriots are going to the AFC playoffs!” He adjusted his navy-blue fire fighter baseball cap over his black mane.
“Tim, I definitely hope so.”
Bill shook his head. “No, the Colts are going to the AFC. Screw the Patriots!”
“Bill, you might want to keep it down. All the Patriot fans might begin throwing fries at you.” My Boston accent poured on strong, then I laughed.
Tim snickered, retrieving a fry from his plate, tossing it at Bill.
Abe, Tim, and I burst into laughter.
“Abe, I’d like to order a steak, medium rare, broccoli, and fries.”
He smiled. “Coming right up, Ethan.”
Abe’s black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His tall frame leaned over the computer and he typed in my order.
“Excuse me, sir, can I place an order?”
Abe glanced over his shoulder at the chocolate woman who slipped into a seat at my left.
“Sure thing. One moment.”
The woman's dark eyes were fixated on the TV. I was trying not to stare, but it was next to impossible. Her black coily hair fell below her shoulders. She stood momentarily, removing her pink three-quarter-length pea coat. I should probably say something instead of staring.
“Hi, what are you drinking tonight?”
Blankly, she glared at me. “Hello, I plan to drink a Cosmo. But I can order my own drink. Thanks anyway.” She offered a weak smile.
