Not A Bad Day At All

It had been one of those days.

Work had taken its toll on me. With a slew of tasks I had to wrap up on a stringent deadline, fixing issues I wasn’t responsible for, and sitting through hour-long meetings where I sorely wished I was back at my desk actually working, my nerves were frayed, and I’d gone along with my coworkers for the bi-weekly happy hour at one of the local bars, desperately needing some liquid relief.

As the hours passed, they had all left, having kids, significant others and pets to go back home to. And yet, here I remained, sipping on my fifth drink. Or was it the sixth? I wasn’t too sure. I’d stopped caring past the third one, knowing that I would have to leave my car behind and get a ride home.

“Hey, just checking if you wanted any food. The kitchen’s closing soon”, the bartender said. I told her I was fine, thanks, and asked if she could get me another drink instead.

Waiting for my drink, I look around. The bar was relatively empty for a Wednesday night. Must be the rains, I thought. She was back with my drink. I thank her, and let her know I was stepping outside for a smoke.

A few minutes later, I walk back in, and see that the stool next to me is now occupied. It is an older gentleman. Looked to be in his fifties or sixties. He’d just gotten a beer, and it looked untouched when I slide onto my seat.

We exchange heys, the way you do when you’re sitting next to a stranger at a bar. I am in no mood for a conversation, and keep my silence. It is quiet for a few minutes, just two men at a bar, having drinks, when he says this.

“I died last weekend.”

I look at him, not being sure if I had heard him right. And then, I look at my drink. I’d barely gotten started on it, and it would have been a shame to leave good whisky undrunk and beat a hasty exit, so I decide I’d linger for a little while.

“What do you mean?”, I ask, taking a swig. That’s what you do. Be polite and respond, even if the person talking to you is apparently insane.

He ponders for a second before answering.

“Well, I think I died. I was at work, when I felt this pain working up my left side, and before I knew it, wham. I had fallen, and everything had gone dark. I don’t know how much time had passed, before I saw a blinding white light in the darkness. This is it, I thought. This is the end. Next thing I know, I come to, and see a paramedic hunched over me, with one of those shock devices in his hand, looking all concerned.”

“A defibrillator”, I volunteer.

“Yeah”, he says, pausing to sip his beer. “That’s what happened. I think I died, and came back.”

“Good for you, sir”, I say, raising my glass to him.

He doesn’t return the gesture. Instead, he looks at me with his doleful eyes, so weighed down with sorrow and ache, and asks me, “Why did God not want me?”

I almost lose it. I have a very vivid image of me getting off my stool, grabbing him by the collar, and screaming into his face, “THERE IS NO GOD! HE DOES NOT EXIST! AND EVEN IF HE WERE TO EXIST, HE DOES NOT GIVE A FUCK ABOUT OUR INSIGNIFICANT SHITTY LIVES! GET THAT INTO YOUR HEAD, OLD MAN!”

However, reason prevails. This was one of my favorite joints in town, and I did not want to get permanently banned, or have “drunkenly assaulting a senior” go on my record. Or even worse, cause him to get another heart attack. So, I take a deep breath, and decide to try something else.

“Do you have any family?”, I inquire.

He chuckles sadly. “Kinda”, he replies.

“Kinda?”

“My wife died thirty years ago. It was just my daughter and I. It was all good until she left for college. One day, she calls me up and tells me that she’s pregnant, and that she’s keeping the child. I did not approve. I was terribly disappointed in her. Things got heated, we had a falling out. We’ve never spoken since then.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Twelve years.”

“Twelve years, and you’ve never once spoken to her?”

“No. I do keep tabs on her though, through friends. She now lives in Albuquerque, with her son.” He pulls out his phone, and shows me. I see the wallpaper is a photo of a geeky kid, smiling at the camera. “That’s my grandson, Joe. He’s plenty smart, from what I hear”, he says, with tears in his eyes now.

“I think I see now why God did not want you.”

“Because I’ve sinned?”

“No, because you have a chance to set things right. Maybe your daughter needs her dad. Maybe Joe wants to know what it’s like to be spoiled by a grandad.”

He says nothing.

“I guess you’ve been bitter or angry or whatever over all these years, but I really think you should patch things up with her. Not all of us get a second chance. Maybe, that’s why your God did not want you yet.”

He still says nothing. He stares into his drink for a while, and then gets up and leaves, not before thanking me. I wave it off, telling him it’s the least I could do. I do remind him that Albuquerque is not all that far away.

A few minutes later, finishing my drink, I ask the bartender to get me my check. She tells me that it has been taken care off, by the elderly gentleman that I’d been talking to.

I wait on the sidewalk for my cab, pondering over this strange encounter. My ride pulls up, and I get in.

The driver asks me how my day had been. I think for a moment. It had been one of those days, where I was lucky enough to help out a stranger in what little way I could. Although I had no way of knowing if he would set things right with his daughter, I hoped, and believed, that he would.

I reply, “It wasn’t a bad day at all.”

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