The Bear by Keith Pearson

It was late in season for the first snow. He sat on his usual stool and watched the fat flakes drift lazily past the dirty glass. The window looked out over the rear parking lot and beyond that the wrecking yard next door. They were removing the older junks and sometimes the crane would lift a real gem, a Studebaker or maybe a Desoto, up high enough above the fence where he could see it before it was dropped into the crusher. It had been a junkyard a long time. The TV was turned up loud and it almost muted the screech and thud of the old cars being flattened but not quite. The bartender was watching a game show and there were people in costumes jumping up and down. It was too early in the day for anyone to play the jukebox, even the old folks who played Sinatra and Dean Martin songs and daydreamed of dancing. He was never much of a dancer. He held his glass up to the dim light. It was half full and held one two three ice cubes. The bar light gave the water the brown look of whiskey. He turned his wrist and the ice twirled in the glass. He liked the motion and the sound the ice made. That was dancing. The bartender saw him hold up the glass and motioned to the tap. He shook his head. He liked to finish a drink, all the way to the bottom. To hear the ice chink together. Outside the crane came to a rest and the crusher ground to a stop. The snow fell heavier now. He drained the last of the water and stared at the ice in the glass a long time. He hated winter, hated the snow. In the distance there was a whirl of machinery and the car crusher came to life. Somewhere in a deep cave a sleeping bear stirred. He motioned to the bartender and pointed with the glass to a bottle behind the bar. He tipped the glass to his mouth, slid the ice between his teeth, began to chew. The bear awoken.

Keith Pearson

I live in southern New Hampshire and works with special ed students at a local high school.