Passage

by Rudi Dornemann

Lanterns on a line, dipping low enough to the water that we have to either hug the warehouse wall (with its windows of deeper night where the moon can’t get) or the crumbled concrete shore of the plaza (with its scorched memorials that remind us of too much). Rena tells me to choose which side tonight.

I can’t decide in time; we wind up in the middle. Rena lifts the electric line with the oar while Powell and I paddle with our hands. Slow passage while heat lightning vibrates behind the clouds. Powell doesn’t look at me. He hasn’t hesitated when he got to choose.

Goosebumps up the back of my arms, a chill like a pinch on the back of my neck: we’re in. We don’t paddle, just let the current tug us on. It might not work, might be another wasted night. Only two nights left of the week we paid Rena for.

She clatters around under the woodslat seat, comes up with a cassette tape, plastic case yellow as antique ivory. Clicks it into the openface player, slaps play. “Bohemian Rhapsody,” echoes tiny off the ranks of basalt going up on either side of the water like steps or arena rows. All the tapes in Rena’s shoebox squeak and warble; all are singers who knew what death would take them. We hope to ride some echo of their courage.

We wait.

We wait.

Scaramouche.

Scaramouche.

And the fog does part, and we do go through, into open water, where the moon is like a low ceiling, its reflection like a shivering floor. Night inverts to day and we’re back where we started, but we’re back years before the end.

We climb up uncrumbled stairs to an unruined plaza. Within six hours, one of us will melt like fog back into our future, our life after all this is gone. The other will just melt to nothing, to nowhere.

I look at the stranger crowd, the stores, the shining cars. It’s been twenty years since ice cream.

Behind me a splash, shouts.

Rena drags herself out of the water. Powell oars away.

“I’ll get the boat back,” she says. “I’ll wait for him. If I’m not here, you wait.”

She pulls a soaked roll of old money from her pocket. “Meanwhile, I’m going shopping. Want anything?”

I try to remember which flavor was my favorite.

Last Call for Alcohol

by Ken Brady

Guy walks into a bar, says to the bartender: “Give me three drinks.”

Bartender says to Guy: “What kind of drinks do you want?”

Guy waves dismissively. “Don’t matter. First drink takes the edge off today, helps me forget. Second drink helps me prepare for what’s next. Third drink opens a portal to a new world, a new life.”

Bartender looks at Guy. Hasn’t seen him in here before, then again he has. There’s always someone they remind you of. Always someone whose words sound like someone else’s. Spend enough time in bars and you know everyone.

Guy sits at the bar but doesn’t remove his coat or hat, just waits patiently for his drinks.

Bartender pours him a beer, says: “It’s almost last call. You gonna drink three drinks before you have to leave?”

Guy smiles. “No problem.”

Bartender looks around the bar. Thursday night, not very crowded, a few tables with some quiet conversation, nothing he has to worry about. He glances back at Guy, who has already downed his beer.

“Where will you go?”

Guy looks up. “Dunno. Somewhere else. I just want to start over.”

Bartender mixes a Long Island and sets it on the bar. “Maybe this’ll help,” he says.

Guy drinks for a bit, then pauses to say: “How about you? Where would you go?”

Bartender shrugs. “Hadn’t thought about it. I’ve never been to Russia.”

Guy finishes his drink, says: “Then give me a shot of your best vodka.”

Bartender pours a shot of Jewel of Russia, and sets it on the bar. He turns away, begins organizing his bottles, prepping for tomorrow. Then he says: “What if you don’t like your next life any more than you like this one? What if you jump from life to life and find that, no matter where you go, no matter what you do, everything in your life is exactly the same? The same problems, the same regrets, the same obstacles keeping you from reaching your ultimate goals. What if it doesn’t matter where you go?

Guy snorts. “Happens to everyone,” he says, as his empty shot glass hits the bar.

Bartender turns around to ask what he means, but Guy is gone, and a confused-looking Russian soldier holding a bottle of Budweiser sits in his place.