The Midnight Conversation

“Dammit, Arthur,” Merle complained, “You ain’t going to see twelve inches. If Ken says you won’t, you won't.”



“We shall see,” I replied, sipping on Sam Adams Winter Ale. “In all likelihood, we will see twelve inches before dawn.”



The door opened and a small mass hobbled in. The lights that still operated in the tavern exposed a silhouette aiming for us. The chilled air rushed past the form, threatened to blow out the flames in the fireplace, and slammed into me minutes before the old man reached the counter. When he arrived, his breathing took time returning to normal.



“Sorry,” Merle said, “we’re closed.”



“My apologies, young man,” he whispered, “but I’m hoping you may indulge me in one drink with you gentlemen this wintry night?”



Merle studied his crinkly face, the dulled hook where his right hand once lived, and out-of-date clothes.



“What'll you have?” he asked.



“Pabst”. He removed his fedora.  "Thank you kindly".



“Allow me to buy the beer, sir”, I added.



“I have money, but thanks.” He extended his only hand. “Name’s Hank.” 



“Arthur Peabody.” 



“Cold tonight.”



“Yes it is". I added, “But Lester's Tavern has a fireplace you can warm up to and spirited debate.”



“Here you go,” Lester said, sliding the mug in front of the new patron. “What're you doing out on a night like this? Never seen you around.”



He slurped the Pabst with a mouth missing several teeth and ignored Merle’s question.



I turned back to Merle to finish our argument. “The Weather Channel says we will get a minimum of twelve inches of powder overnight.”



“They couldn’t predict a tornado in Kansas if an F5 blew up their asses.”



“The Weather Channel isn’t located in Kansas”, I reminded Merle.



“Okay, wiseass.” He yelled back. “I’ll bet you $50 we don’t get twelve goddamn inches of snow in Jug Tavern, Georgia! Ken Cook at FOX 5 says so.”



We shook.



“Haven’t seen snowfall like this since the day I left for ‘Nam,” Hank piped in. “Shipped out at New York.”



“Your hook. Did that happen in Vietnam sir?” I asked.



“Call me Hank". He tapped the hook on the bar. " Blew off when my buddy stepped on a mine ten feet away in’66.”



“Fuck a turd!” Merle yelled.



“Pardon Merle”, I said. “His father owns the Pub, yet somehow allows genius here to run the place.”



“The professor here writes one goddam novel and thinks he’s William Fuller”, Merle shot back, smiling.



“That’s Faulkner, Merle. It’s William Faulkner.” He and I tapped our mugs together and chuckled.



“I always wanted to be in the military”, I said to Hank. “I was too big a weakling to commit to it, so now I teach English Lit at the University.”



“There’s nothing wrong with educating others", he replied.



“I often question if I chose well". A deep chug of Ale warmed my face.



“We all wonder, it's only natural.” Hank replied.



“My father died in Vietnam,” I said to no one in particular.



“What year?" Hank asked.



“’68”.



Hank sipped his Pabst and added, “Tough time to be over there.”



“You never told us what brought you out tonight".



“Looking for someone.”



“Maybe I can help,” I answered. “I’ve lived a block from here for twenty years.”



Instead Hank asked, “When were you born, Arthur?”



“February 8,1968-the same  day my father, Henry Peabody, died."



“Rice queers”, Merle added. I shot him a look.



“You from around here Hank?” I asked as a log crackled violently in the stone fireplace.



“Other side of Pendergrass,” he answered.



Merle slid me a fresh mug and we toasted my birthday; it was an annual tradition.



“Hank,” Merle said, wiping beer from his chin, “we shut down in five minutes. You want to order something to eat, I’ll be happy to make it right quick.”



“I need to be getting’ on anyhow”, he replied. “Thanks all the same.”



Hank stood up. What could only be credited to a change in how the faded lights reflected off his eyes, he looked thirty years younger than when he had walked in. He extended his hand to me.



“Nice to meet you, son.”



“Good to share a drink with you, friend.”



Hank thanked Merle for the fine evening, smiled at me, and walked to the door, his gait much stronger now.



“By the way”, he said, turning around to face me as he grabbed the knob, “I think you chose well.”



His statement soaked in; for the first time in a lifetime, I felt complete.



“You know something Hank?” I replied with confidence, “You did too.” I raised my mug to him. "Will we be seeing you around?"



He tipped his fedora, winked, and strolled into the night.



Merle and I gazed at the oak door as it banged shut.



“Damn”, Merle said. He collected the veteran’s money and discovered a yellowed piece of paper. He opened it and began to read, his face quickly going gray. He put one arm down on the bar to steady himself.



“Merle? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”



He handed me an obituary.



He had.

Henry “Hank” Peabody

DOB: 6/25/1945

Died: 2/8/1968, while bravely serving his country in Vietnam.

Sargent Peabody leaves behind a wife, Julie Peabody, and a newborn son, Arthur

.





The photo accompanying the short eulogy was the younger version of the man who had exited Lester’s two miutes ago.



Dad had found me to say goodbye.



I ran to the door. Outside, I searched the town square for him. The clock tower welcomed midnight. Dad was now at peace.



So was I.