Barstool

I was seated on an old barstool.

Calhoun County slept peacefully to the song of crickets.

The hall was empty. I was the last customer; even the barkeep had left. The dimmed wall lights offered a soft glow, too weak to chase the darkness from the room's corners.

In front of me, three empty glasses sat strewn across the rustic oak countertop. A fourth, half full, I caressed with my fingertips.

I did not know why I had been called here. I did not know who had summoned me.

The door behind me swung open. For a few short seconds, I could hear the leaves rushing down the deserted Georgia highway before the room once again fell silent.

A figure covered in a black cloak stepped up to the bar beside me. The hood was pulled low over his face. I did not turn my head and continued to study the shot glass I held.

“You are Death,” I presumed.

Silence ensued - it was not uncomfortable, though. It was a patient silence.

“This is your last glass; then you come with me,” the figure replied. He stood three feet to my right. If I had wanted to describe him, the first word that would have come to mind was respectful. I had not imagined Death being respectful.

“My last glass?” I chuckled, “Surely you know I don’t drink.”

“Right,” the figure responded, “You don’t drink, but tonight, you do.”

“Yes,” I said, “Tonight I do.”

I placed my cowboy hat on the bar to my left and wiped the sweat and dirt off my forehead. This is not how I had imagined going. I had figured I would meet my end in the dust of the arena beneath a bull that I believed I could best. I thought I would feel the hooves through my leather vest, and my last memory would be of the gasping crowd. But no, I was here, and I was alone… almost. I had an audience of one.

“You know, I pray,” I blurted out.

“Yes,” the figure responded, “You do pray, but tonight, you don’t.”

“No, tonight, I don’t.”

“Well then, let’s get on with it, shall we?” I murmured, throwing back my head and washing down what was left of an overpriced whiskey.

Sins have a way of catching up with you. Repentance, I had heard, does not save you from the bitterness of their wrath, but it can free you from the weight of judgment.

I had both wrath and judgment to reckon with.

“Now you are eager to go with me after avoiding me all those years?” the figure inquired. I stood up and gazed at the floor. How do you reply to a question when the answer is already known?

“Everyone tries to avoid death,” I finally said.

“You mistake me because you do not know me. I am not Death but Life,” the figure replied, “Among you who are breathing, there are only those already dead and those who are alive.”

With those words, he walked toward the exit. He opened the door and turned around one more time. A soft breeze pushed his hood back a bit. I could almost make out eyes and a nose. His black cloak swayed in the wind, giving me a glimpse of a white undercoat. “Heed these words,” he said, “Every day is lived as today. Watch yourself - you are breathing but not alive, and I come like a thief in the night.”

The door swung shut, and I was once again alone.

Slowly, chatter began to pick up. I heard pool cues knocking balls in sockets and George Strait singing on the jukebox about making it to Cheyenne. The lights got brighter, and I turned toward the bar. Four empty glasses stared back at me. The bartender asked if I wanted another.

I thought.

“No,” I responded, “I’ve done my drinking for tonight, but I haven’t done my praying.”

I paused for a moment before adding one more line.

“...and every day is lived as today.”