This was because of the friends he had known.
You see, Adrian had become a regular at this one pub upon his twenty-first birthday, such a long, long time ago. In doing so, he joined his good friend Frankie, four years Adrian’s elder, who had already been a regular and of legal drinking age those preceding four years. In that time Frankie had cemented his own standing and befriended a few of the older souls who frequented the joint, Irish in name, run-down in general.
After Adrian’s twenty-first, he became every bit the regular as Frankie was. In those days, the two young men drank there at least four nights per week, sometimes as often as seven. In doing so they made several barroom acquaintances. Chief among these were an older handyman, Wayne, and a waiter, Lionel, more Wayne’s peer than that of Adrian and Frankie. These four men sat shoulder to shoulder for many hours most every evening, several times even closing the place as a quartet at four am.
And now, on the eve of his fifty-third birthday, Adrian Price was the only one of them left. All of the others dead. Each dropping off every so often. All of them at fifty-three.
Most nights, back in those prime years, their four heads just bobbed lower by the hour, eight elbows all that kept their rubber necks propped up, conversation slurred by the tick of the clock. But then there was the occasional outstanding night. A night so different that in later months and years it provided one more round of storytelling for those sinking drunken skulls.
There was the night Shillelagh’s had set up the bouncy boxing distraction prior to a big Holyfield fight, and Adrian and Lionel tapped at each other with the oversized boxing gloves until Adrian decided to impress the girl at the bar—who turned out to be Ida—by throwing all of his weight behind a spear tackle that sent Lionel home with a wrecked back compounded by a chip on his shoulder that remained for several weeks. Ida ignored Adrian that night, but came around soon after.
There was the night Wayne hit at the track and wanted to share the wealth, but only Frankie was around, so the two of them befriended two complete strangers, who they took to calling Adrian and Lionel, since they were already too loaded to remember their real names. Wayne had spent all the winnings on these ungrateful tourists before Adrian even arrived at one am, and Lionel an hour later. Those two didn’t even get to meet their fill-ins, who had departed the moment Wayne’s final winnings were spent.
Another such night was the night of the scratchers.
It began innocent enough when Wayne, the eldest man and a regular dreamer on dollar lottery tickets, smacked his palm over the bar and shouted to the trio, “Five hundred dollars! Round is on me!”
Still mostly sober in this hour slightly after dinner, the four men clinked glasses and joked about what Wayne was to do with the rest of his winnings. Yet before they even finished their complimentary drink, Wayne slammed his palm to the bar again, and this most mature, typically most reserved member of the unofficial group, not ordinarily given to obscenity, shouted, “Holy shit, another thousand dollars!”
“Buy me one, Wayne?” simple Kenny Chazzen, a real doofus, somewhere between Adrian and Frankie back in high school, asked from a few stools down.
“Hell, Billy, buy everyone around the bar one,” Wayne called to the bartender.
“Impossible,” Adrian said. “My mother scratches them things all the time, and I know you don’t get two hits like that all in a row.”
“Check it out,” Wayne said, thrusting the ticket in Adrian’s direction.
Adrian looked the ticket over. He had not seen this particular ticket before among the stacks of his Mom’s losers. It was a Monopoly sponsored ticket, and the one Wayne showed him had three Illinois Avenues scratched off.
“Match three like properties,” Adrian read.
Adrian returned the winner to Wayne, and said, “I’ll be right back.”
He leapt off his barstool and headed for the door.
“Where’d you get those?” Frankie asked.
“Gas station next door,” Wayne said.
Frankie was behind Adrian with a twenty dollar bill at the ready, while Adrian exercised slightly more caution and only spent ten.
By the time Frankie had rejoined them at the bar, Adrian said, “Holy shit, five hundred!”
“Really?” Wayne asked.
“Three Ventnors,” Adrian said.
Lionel was off his barstool and next door without a word.
Over the next forty-five minutes, Wayne had four winning tickets totaling $7,000, Frankie had three winners at $2,500, Adrian three at $2,000, and Lionel, who had spent fifty dollars because the gas station attendant claimed he could not break his bill (most definitely a lie, since Frankie had only just paid with a twenty, and Adrian a tenner), had seven totaling $8,500.
“That’s my rent for like most of the year” Lionel said, “plus miscellaneous drinks.” He downed his beer and ordered another.
That’s when Billy the bartender rained on their parade. Actually, he shit all over their heads.
Billy swept up his tip money, extra generous given the circumstances, and asked to see one of the winning tickets.
“I guess you guys are headed to Mineola to cash out tomorrow, huh?”
Mineola was where the state lottery offices were located. They paid out the big winners, anything from six hundred bucks up to those smiley bastards posing with oversized checks.
“What do you say, fellows? Day trip?” Wayne asked. The others agreed, every one of them happy to bang in sick at work.
“What time you guys coming in tomorrow?” asked Kenny Chazzen, already whoring his pride for free drinks. Fucking Kenny Chazzen.
“I’ll save you the trip,” Billy said. “Like properties. Three like properties.”
“Yep,” said Wayne. “Which one you have there? Oh, see, that’s three Tennessee Avenues at $500.”
“No,” said Billy. The bastard.
“No?” said Wayne.
“Three like properties, in this case, would be Tennessee, along with St. James and New York Avenue.”
“Go on, Billy.”
“I’m serious, Wayne.” Billy grabbed an empty glass and began walking away, singing, “Sorry,” like he was playing that other board game and rubbing in it.
“It’s not true, is it Wayne?” Adrian asked, eight beers adding to his sense of panic.
“I don’t know,” Wayne said, making the rare move of pulling out his readers, sliding them to the tip of his nose, and staring intently at the back of the ticket.
“Well, that does make more sense,” Frankie said.
“Shut up, Frankie,” Adrian said.
“I’m impressed by Billy knowing the Monopoly board so well.”
“Shut. Up. Frankie.”
“He pulled out St. James and New York Ave like he was moving his top hat around the board just a few minutes ago.”
“Shut the fuck up, Frankie!”
“Boys, I think we’re out of luck,” Wayne said. “Three like properties defined as a grouping of traditionally color-matched Monopoly properties. Billy’s right.”
“What about Boardwalk and Park Place?” Adrian asked, somewhat desperately, his beer spilling over the side of his mug as he gesticulated, somewhat wildly, with both hands.
“What about them?” Wayne asked.
“There is no third property,” Adrian said, his glare defiant as he struck this very true point.
“Did you have Boardwalk and Park Place on one of your tickets?” Lionel asked.
“No.”
“Then shut the fuck up, Adrian,” Lionel said. Slammed his drink and left for the night. Super pissed. Lionel was out fifty and fifty further from making the rent that in his mind he had just paid off for months in advance with rounds and rounds of drinks to spare.
That’s pretty much how they all looked at it in the moment. They weren’t out ten or twenty bucks (or in Lionel’s case, fifty); they were out the thousands they had already come to accept as belonging to them. Wayne’s vacation: gone. Frankie’s down payment on that motorcycle: gone. Adrian’s visit to the massage parlor with the bad reputation: Gone. Well, that last one happened soon enough anyway, but the point is, all of the fellows had been dreaming big that night.
The next night Wayne, Frankie, and Adrian were in their usual spots without a mention of what had happened, nor any wonder as to Lionel’s whereabouts. They knew. The guy was pissed and probably pissed at the bunch of them. Lionel rejoined them two nights later after apparently cooling off. Wayne tried to make amends by buying him a couple of rounds. Nobody mentioned lottery tickets. Not for another three months, not until Lionel had caught up on his rent, which was a trouble in any normal month, and the others had relinquished their fortunes from their imaginations. Only then could they all have a true laugh about what had happened.
Something wild like that went down every year or two, scratchers night having been the most notorious since it managed to simultaneously make fools out of all four men.
One day Wayne stopped coming to the bar, and it was Lionel who told Adrian and Frankie that Wayne had died. Just fifty-three he was. Never a word about any illness to the boys, who had just believed Wayne had been eating healthy, drinking a little less, and shedding weight. Hell, Adrian had recently remarked to him about the sudden twinkle in his eye. Apparently, according to his wife, Wayne had known about the colon cancer for awhile, but had refused further medical treatment, perhaps out of stubbornness, perhaps out of fear. At any rate, this was long before the government white coats had lowered the suggested age for colonoscopies from fifty to forty-five, so even if Wayne had been semi-on-the-ball about such things, he probably wouldn’t have caught it in time.
Lionel passed five years later, also at age fifty-three. Of the group he was the one most befitting the drunkard tag, as he always was, to excess, on every evening. Adrian and Frankie assumed his liver had given out, but they later found out it was just a run-of-the-mill, semi-boring given the speculation, heart attack that took Lionel.
Years passed and every so often Adrian and Frankie would speak of Wayne and Lionel.
“So weird that they were both fifty-three when they died,” one would remark to the other.
Yet when Frankie’s diabetes caught up with him, stopping his heart at age fifty-three, Adrian had nobody to confide in over the coincidence. Well, there had been Ida, but such dark talk would have spoiled their main purpose for meet ups. And there were guys like Billy the bartender or fucking Kenny Chazzen, but Adrian didn’t really have reason to speak to them about anything at all anymore. It had been twenty years between Lionel’s death and Frankie’s, add another five for Wayne, and the coincidence of fifty-three was quite enough to cause fear in forty-nine year old Adrian’s heart every morning subsequent to Frankie’s mortal departure.
In fact, after Frankie died, Adrian quit drinking, quit smoking, quit soda, cut back on carbs. He dropped seventy pounds before he was fifty, and another thirty before fifty-one, settling into a svelte one hundred seventy pound frame by age fifty-two. His cough was also gone as the cigarettes were out of his system by that time, and a daily exercise regimen replaced the nightly bar stop, so his muscles toned and tightened. Despite a few nagging reminders of his age, Adrian appeared to be in relatively good shape, though he still dreaded his coming fifty-third.
One the eve of said fifty-third, Adrian took Ida to the best restaurant in town, a German place, and the pair ate in style. Adrian and Ida had been on-again off-again for almost thirty years now, both of them remaining single and stubborn in their ways. They had never made a serious attempt at a relationship because they both knew each other well enough to know it was doomed to failure. If the visitor did not depart the host’s rooms prior to noon the following day, they would be at each other’s throats by the next dinner bell.
But this was nice. Adrian and Ida were both working-class people, but they were both capable of dressing to the nines and doing up the town proper, like respectable adults, as they would still put it well on into their middle age.
“We haven’t done this in so long, Ade, let’s make a real night of it.”
“What do you suggest?” Adrian asked, slightly concerned as he eyed the restaurant’s bill. He’d regret his broiled sole if it hadn’t been so good. And if Ida’s Hungarian goulash, and every other entrée on the menu, hadn’t cost exactly the same.
“Let’s hit up the Shillelagh,” Ida said, the quartet’s old nightly stomping grounds. “Have one in Frankie’s memory.”
Adrian grabbed his water glass is gave it a little shake, side to side, the ice cubes clinking one another.
“I haven’t had one of anything, in a couple years now. Cept coffee and ice water,” he said, taking a big gulp of the latter.
“And I see how fun you’ve become,” Ida said. “C’mon. Get yourself a Coke, and stare at it if you have to. I want something stiff.”
Adrian raised his eyebrows.
“It’s your birthday, Ade. Doesn’t matter if it’s stiff or not, I’ll take care of you.”
“Not that old, Idee. Not that old. Quite yet.”
Adrian didn’t recognize the bartender when they entered Shillelagh’s, which made it feel like four years well spent avoiding the place. If goddamn Billy had still been pouring drinks and shouted, “Hey, Ade, good to see you,” time would have evaporated in an unhealthy way. There’d be a beer on-the-house and clamped between Adrian’s paw before Billy would have even offered a handshake. The less familiar faces the better, Adrian thought, in terms of retaining will power and keeping away after tonight.
And so, he cringed, when a voice from the past called, “Hey, Ade. Ida girl,” as the pair were removing their coats.
Adrian turned as Ida shouted, “Kenny Chazzen,” a bit too happily before running over to give old Kenny, the jerk, a big hug.
“Hey, Kenny,” Adrian said, holding tight to his barstool and managing a half-hearted wave down to him as Ida pecked Kenny’s flabby cheek.
Fat, bald, shabbily dressed, Kenny still at least had all of his teeth (or so it appeared), but this disheveled low acquaintance held Adrian’s eye with a gleam and a glint that Adrian found damn unsettling.
Adrian didn’t want to come off as a total deadbeat by asking the unfamiliar barkeep for an ice water, so he figured he’d live some and ordered himself up that Coke that Ida had mentioned. Then he called down and asked Ida what she was having.
“Whiskey Sour,” Ida said, causing Adrian to shiver as he turned to the barman to make sure he had heard her.
“You should go over and say hi to Kenny,” Ida said, slinging an arm over Adrian and leaning over to sip her drink.
“I thought I already did,” Adrian said.
“You know what I mean,” Ida said, giving his shoulder a shove. But once Ida sat on the stool next to him, Adrian wasn’t moving.
They sat over the bar chatting, oblivious to outsiders, except whenever Ida raised her finger to order another drink. During those moments, as the bartender served her, Adrian would peer down the bar and lose himself in the disturbing shine of Kenny Chazzen’s eyes. He’d swear that every time he did so, Kenny smirked back at him and those eyes actually twinkled. Gave Adrian the shivers, those eyes did.
“So you think you’re going to make it,” Ida said, somewhere along her third drink.
“Me? I’m drinking Coke.” Adrian squeezed her thigh. “It’s been awhile, but worst I’ll get is maybe a sugar high. Question is, are you going to make it?”
“Oh, I’m just getting loosened up, old boy,” Ida said, which Adrian had to admit, sent a little thrill running through him. “But I meant, make it to fifty-three.”
Adrian glanced at the clock. “Already have,” he said, pointing.
“One o’clock, oh boy,” Ida said, throwing both arms around Adrian and slobbering over his mouth.
“Save it for the home front, Idee,” Adrian said.
“Happy birthday, Ade,” she said. “But that’s not what I meant.”
Adrian turned and looked at her. He shrugged his shoulders.
“You know,” she said. “Frankie.” Adrian’s heart dropped, but he didn’t respond. “Lionel. That other old guy.”
“Wayne.”
“Yeah. I barely knew him. But also fifty-three.”
“You know about … fifty-three? I told you I was worried about this?”
“After Frankie’s wake, you did. Of course, you were shit-faced.”
“Christ, that’s the last night I was drinking.”
“Told me the whole story from jump,” Ida continued. “Jesus, Lionel and that Wayne guy too. I still think of them as old men, but here we are now. I hadn’t realized they all checked out at the same age until you told me.”
“Well, then you know what’s on my mind.”
“I tell you, it freaked me out, but shit, Ade, I chalk it all up to coincidence. Look at you.”
“I’ve got sciatica and I’m pre-diabetic,” he said, putting name to those nagging reminders.
“Well, dumb ass, you’re also fifty-three now.”
“Point taken,” Adrian said. He sipped his Coke. “But. So were they. I didn’t realize it till I made it, but fifty-four is the actual win. The challenge none of those boys could meet.”
“You’ll get there, Ade.”
Adrian shrugged. He wasn’t so sure. Who would be?
“Ever tell you about scratchers night with the fellas?”
“Monopoly tickets?”
“Were you there?”
“No.”
“Guess I’ve told that one too then,” Adrian said. “It was Lionel who really cut the matter to the bone. Said, ‘You know, some people never get to be winners. I never even get to pass Go,’ he said. Self-wallowing, but still.”
Ida just looked at him.
“You know, pass Go, collect two hundred dollars,” Adrian said.
“I get it,” she said. “Beats Community Chest, I guess.”
Adrian shrugged.
“I’ve got to go pee,” Ida said. She caressed Adrian’s cheek. “What’s say we split when I get back. See if we can work around that sciatica back at your place?”
“There’s worse ways to go,” Adrian said, happy that she was trying to cheer him up.
Kenny Chazzen wasted no time. The second Ida had passed him, he was off his stool and on his way down to greet Adrian, which he did, his big mitt smacking over Adrian’s shoulder.
“Happy birthday, Adrian,” he said.
“Oh, Ida told you, did she?”
“Fifty-three,” Kenny said. The bar was dark, almost too dark, but Kenny’s eyes lighted up the small area where Adrian sat.
“You think fifty-four is in the cards?” Kenny asked.
“What? Of course,” Adrian said, none too sure.
“I mean, I remember Frankie,” Kenny said. “And I’m old enough to remember Wayne and Lionel as well. Fifty-three, Ade.”
Adrian physically removed Kenny’s hand from his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “How old are you, Kenny?”
“I was fifty-five last month.”
“You see? It can happen.”
Kenny clapped his hand back over Adrian’s shoulder. It hurt. His eyes practically high beams burning their way into Adrian’s mind; his perfect teeth grinding as he spoke: “I can get you over the line, Adrian.”
“Kenny,” Adrian said, prying at the larger man’s hand without success. “You’re hurting me, Kenny.”
“Just let me eat your soul, Adrian.”
“Kenny, get the fuck off me,” Adrian shouted, jumping from his bar stool and shoving the man, practically into Ida, who was returning from the ladies.
“Jeeze, buddy, what’s up your ass?” Kenny asked.
“Ade, what the hell?” Ida said.
“All I did,” Kenny said, suddenly lowering his voice, “was ask birthday boy here if he wanted to do a couple lines, or maybe smoke a bowl.”
“This asshole is over here manhandling me and talking shit,” Adrian said. He tossed a fifty on the bar and downed the rest of his Coke. “C’mon, Ida, let’s go.”
“I’ll meet you outside,” Ida said, glancing at Kenny as she did so.
Adrian paused and added three dollar bills to his tip. A buck for every year of his life. He began to step away before stopping to add another dollar. You never know what might get you over that line to fifty-four. Then Adrian walked towards the door.
“Happy birthday, asshole,” Kenny shouted. Adrian flipped him the double-bird without bothering to turn around as he made his way through the exit.
Once he was safely outside, Adrian rubbed his shoulder, and upon reaching his car he turned on the interior and pulled his shirt down to have a look. Already black and blue, but the bruise, it wasn’t shaped like Kenny’s big ham-hock, it was more of a slim five-fingered talon with five tiny eddies of blood cropping up at the edge where Kenny’s fingernails had bit him.
He covered up as Ida got in and slammed the car door shut.
“Bastard’s got a hell of a grip,” Adrian said. He could barely see her in the dark. Couldn’t read her mood.
Turned out, Ida’s mood was real good. It was a long night. Adrian crawled from bed the next morning, took a piss, and turned on the television when he returned to the bedroom.
The curtains were drawn and the TV provided the only light. The local newscaster talked about the horrific crash that decapitated one Kenneth Chazzen three blocks from the Shillelagh bar early this morning.
“Jesus Christ,” Adrian said, sitting up straight in bed. “Ida, you hear that?”
Ida was quiet.
“Idee, you hear that, I asked? Kenny’s dead.” He turned to look at her.
“I heard you.” Ida said, her voice flat. “And I feel terrible about it.” She rolled over and exhaled deeply.
“I mean, it’s too bad and all,” Adrian said after a moment’s reflection. “A real shock. But c’mon. Kenny Chazzen? Why would you feel especially terrible?”
“My last words to him. I called him a fucking scumbag.”
Adrian looked at her.
“He lifted the singles you left on your tip before the bartender saw them. A shit move, right?”
“Oh well, hopefully he bought me a little time.”
“What’s that, Ade?” Ida asked.
“Nothing, babe.” Adrian sighed. “Twinkle of death in Kenny’s eyes tonight, you notice that?”
END
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Cliff Aliperti is a Long Island-based writer who wrote about classic film for several years at his site Immortal Ephemera. His fiction has appeared in After Dinner Conversation, Fiction on the Web, JAKE, Squawk Back, and elsewhere. You can find more about Cliff at cliffaliperti.com. Twitter/X: @IEphemera.
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