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The cop takes an interest and pulls out her pad. “What’s his name?”
“James Winston.”
“Did you see it happen, sir?"
I shake my head. A loud woman behind me speaks up and tells the officer what she witnessed. I barely pay attention to their conversation as I stare at Winston, lifeless on the ground. The paramedics continue to check him for signs of life, but the glassy stare makes it obvious that they’re not going to find a pulse.
Norris opens the bar before noon, and I stay to help with the crowd of witnesses and locals that flood in. He offers water and fresh coffee to the cops and the paramedics and beer on the house to the people who wander inside in shock.
“It was fucked up,” says the guy who owns the corner mart. “They didn’t even bother to stop. The messed up thing is that the light was red. Well, yellow then red. They were trying to beat the light when they ran him down.” The man shakes his head. “People are truly fucked up.”
It’s hours before I get a break as a steady stream of customers and bystanders crowd in. I miss another class and, later, Olivia’s call. She didn’t leave a message, but there’s a text left an hour ago.
Olivia: Ignoring me again?
Me: Something happened.
She doesn’t reply, and I hope she doesn’t suspect I’m over her. We have real issues to discuss and eventually will have to. A ginger boy following her around or my portrait of a girl I went out with once pale to what we have to talk about. I don’t want to talk about what I went through, those years wasted because of an accusation that went too far, but I want her. If I’m going to truly have Olivia, we have to exorcise a hateful past.
Me: When you have a chance, come by the bar. I need to see you.
Around four, Olivia stops by the bar and looks surprised to see the place packed with locals. She walks in slowly past people who display a range of emotions. A few grown people cry, but most look downtrodden, reflecting on the loss of a person who may not have been a friend but was close. I come around the bar and walk her over to an empty stool in the corner closest to me.
“What’s going on?” she asks. “This is a weird gathering.”
“Remember the man you took a picture of?”
She nods. “Winston?”
I’m surprised she remembers his name, but Olivia would. That thought bothers me, but I shake it off and take her hand. “He’s dead. Hit and run.”
She pulls her hand away and covers her mouth. “Oh no. When?”
“This morning. The driver never stopped.”
She’s quiet as she processes what I've said. I place a beer in front of her. “It’s an impromptu wake. I know he frightened you, but he had promised not to do it again. I hope he would have had enough sense not to, but I’d never hurt him. He was troubled but not all bad.”
Olivia stares at the bottles of spirits lining the shelf behind the bar. She hugs herself and rubs her hands along her arms even though she's wearing her coat.
"I printed the photo at school." She pulls a photo out of her bag.
Winston looks noble in the black and white print, as if he wasn’t an addict unable to find his footing again. In Olivia's portrait, he looks like a sage down on his luck. “Do you mind if I show this to Norris?" I ask. "They were friends.”
She nods, and I walk over to Norris who is surrounded by neighbors lamenting Winston’s demise and worried about their own. I say nothing as I hand it to him. His gaze softens as he nods his head.
“That’s really good.” He holds it up to show the others. “I told you he was a talent.”
I smile and look over at Olivia who is lost in thought at the end of the bar. “It’s her photo. She’s very talented.”
Norris holds it up and gets Olivia's attention. “Do you mind if I hang it?”
Olivia smiles softly. “Please, keep it.”
The photo earns the crowd's approval and encourages more stories about Winston, the man he was before he went off to war and the man he became when he came back, a downward spiral that couldn’t be reversed.
“His wife left him,” says one man. “I guess someone should find her and tell her.”
Olivia looks withdrawn as she holds her shoulders and stares at nothing. I hurry back over to her and place my hand on her shoulder giving it a squeeze.
