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Cigarette smoke permeates through John’s  teeth with every breathe, his habit or method (depending
on how you see such things) is to inhale ethanol and to exhale ash. He is alone
in the dark restaurant bar, so nobody knows about the second tour he just came
back from. No one knew his job “marginalizing threats” overseas, nor any sort
of history or biography of him at all. The present place and time was all that
was visible, yet it was the last thing on his mind, the only reason why it was
involved in his thoughts at all was that it constantly followed him, and it
gave John no say in the matter at all. Across the bar a business man (or at
least, what he assumed was a business man, the man was wearing a suit which
means he intends to be in business at the moment)  complaining to the bartender about his second
wife while simultaneously inhaling ethanol, as John is. Oak tabletops and
stools are commonplace in this area because for many centuries oak trees were
treated as obstacles to construction projects, the result of which is beautiful
oak furniture that lines every bar, restaurant, hotel, or business within a hundred
miles in every direction of the town. 

“Do you want another son?” A high yet distinctly male voice  woke John up out of his contemplative stateand brought him back to the inescapable present.

“Are you flirting with me?” John mumbles without turning an inch.

“Son, do I look like a queer?” the voice responded, getting even louder and higher .

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen you before, and I’m not even sure what ‘looks like a queer’ means,” John replied. He turned around to see a man in his seventies standing roughly around five feet tall glaring menacingly back at him.

“I saw you earlier at French’s, did you get the job?” the man replies.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” John says. He turned around and ordered another Jack and cola. “You’re mistaking me for someone else.”

The old man stood silently for a few seconds. “You just get out of prison or something?”

Jack rotated himself again and sat silently glaring at the old man for a few seconds. “Yes.”

“I knew it, I could see it in your face. Only one thing gives a man that look, and that’s being locked up in a cage. I should know, I spent twenty years of my life rotting away in a cage myself. How long were you in for?”

“Eight years.” John says.

“Holy shit boy, eight years. When did you get out?”

“About a week ago.”

“Holy son-uv-a-bitch. Charlie!” the old man motions at the bartender. “Bring this man a pitcher of whatever he’s having.”

“He’s drinking Jack and Coke Paulie.”

“Did I ask you what he was drinking? I just said bring him a pitcher of it.” The old man turned back to John. “My god son, how does it feel to be a free man?”

“It doesn’t.” John replies.

“It doesn’t?”

“It doesn’t…feel bad at all.” Jack says.

“Well no kidding. I have to take a piss, don’t go nowhere I want to talk to you.”

The bartender walked over with a pitcher of Jack and Coke down in front of Jack. “I read about you in the paper. You’re that Arabic translator who got kicked out for….”

John’s heart doubled it’s contraction rate and his hand shot up and covered the bartender’s mouth.

“I’m begging you, don’t say a word.” John dropped his hand. “Sorry about that. But this isn’t California you know.”

The bartender smiled. “Don’t worry, I won’t. Enjoy your drink. Just let Paulie talk.”

“Who’s Paulie? The old man you mean?”

“Yes, the old man,” the bartender says smiling. “He can be areal asshole if you interrupt him, but he’s sweet as pie if you just let him tell you stories, so just let him tell you whatever story he wants. By the way,don’t drink all of that.”

“We’ll see,” John replies.

John picked up the pitcher and used
a fifth of it to fill the glass that the bartender gave him. He tilted his head
back and drank it in ten seconds and began to refill it.

“You’re not immortal you know,” the bartender says.

“I never claimed to be,” John says back.

 The bartender chuckles
and walks into a back room.