Originally published in Verbicide issue #9

The woman at the end of the bar had been acting strangely all morning and she became progressively more uptight as the afternoon wore on.

We were all on edge and drinking too much. The water in the bar wasn’t very deep, not even up to your ankle, but it was a constant reminder that things were out of whack, unbalanced, weird—and they weren’t getting any better.

You had to hand it to old Joe, the bartender. The world might have been ending—and I stress the word MIGHT—because none of us really knew what the hell was happening or where it might lead, but old Joe wasn’t giving up anything for free. Maybe when he did start letting us drink for free it would be time to start worrying.

As it was, half the city was shut down. No one had collected garbage for two weeks, it lay in heaps all over the streets, water-logged and stinking. Most of the major retail outfits were closed. The hospitals, for the moment, were still operating, as well as the Police and Fire Departments, which was ironic, considering the amount of water that was slowly inundating the city, but everything else was still in limbo. All non-essential services, so to speak, were suspended, which meant that I no longer had to go to work.

So, from morning until night I sat in Joe’s Place. It seemed as sensible a thing to do as anything else.

On this particular day some joker had loaded the jukebox with about a hundred dollars and was playing the same song over and over, REM’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine).” Very funny.

“It don’t make sense,” John was saying, “it defies the laws of physics, of gravity!”

“It’s the Wrath of God,” said Dave.

“I don’t believe in God,” said John.

“Well, if it is God,” I said, draining the last of my beer, “He’s pretty pissed off about something.”

“It has to be global warming,” said John.

“Ah, bullshit,” Dave snorted and jerked his head derisively, “how could that cause my bathroom and kitchen sinks to start overflowing? And my toilet? And my bathtub? They won’t stop!”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “it’s weird, it’s like the water has a mind of its own.”
Joe came by and placed another bottle of beer in front of me.
“This on the house?” I asked.

“Has Hell frozen over?” He smirked at me.

“I don’t know,” I looked around at the crowded bar. “Has anyone got a line on that?”

Two guys sitting at a nearby table who looked like aerospace engineers from around 1962 looked up at me in alarm.

“What was that?” one of them asked, his voice querulous.

“Has Hell frozen over?”

John laughed sharply.

“Hey, maybe it has, and when it started to melt…”

I had to laugh, too.

“Yeah, maybe that’s where all this water is coming from!”

Joe gave me a sour look and said, “That’ll be three ninety-nine.”

I dug some money from my pocket and tossed it at him.

“I remember when beer was a buck-fifty.”

Now Joe laughed.

“You ain’t that old.”

He took my money and walked down towards the skittish woman. She was clutching her purse to her chest like a security blanket and trying her best to ignore the drunken insurance agent-type sitting next to her. I could overhear snatches of his conversation.

“…all I’m saying is I want to have some fun before I go…”

Geez, I thought, not that corny routine: “Hey baby, we better get it on before the whole shithouse goes down the drain.”

“What?” John was looking at me strangely and I realized I had spoken out loud.

“Nothing,” I said. The song on the juke ended, there was a brief moment of silence. All you could hear was the trickle of water underfoot, small plaintive splashes as Joe moved around behind the bar and the pick-up artist’s persistent chatter.

“…I’ve hardly tasted what life has to offer…”

And then REM started up again.

“God,” John groaned, “how many times are we gonna have to hear this damn song?”

“What would you prefer?” I asked.

“‘When the Levee Breaks,’” said Dave.

“Very funny,” said John, then to me, he asked, “Have you heard about the exodus?”

“The what?”

“All the people splitting, heading for the hills. Interstate five is jammed, bumper-to-bumper.”

“Where are they going?”

“The mountains, man! The Cascades, the Olympics! Higher ground!”

“Ah, screw that,” sneered Dave, gesturing for another beer.

John touched my arm.

“How about you, Butch?”

I took a drink of my beer and shook my head.

“Nah, I think I’ll take my chances here.”

“What do you think, Joe?” asked John when Joe put another beer in front of Dave and picked up his money.

“About what?” Joe asked, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. We couldn’t help it, we had to laugh. Joe was a cool customer.

“Man, you’re too much,” I said, then, “Gimme a shot of Yukon Jack.”

Joe got the bottle and filled a shot glass. I tossed it down.

“Two dollars,” said Joe. I tried a new tactic.

“Just put it on my tab,” I said, airily waving my hand.

“Pay me now,” said Joe. Damn. I paid him and counted my remaining funds. I had less than twenty bucks left. I’d have to stop by the bank soon, if there were any left open. But there were still plenty of cash machines. The song ended just then and I heard the pick-up artist ask, “So, how about it, Sweetie?”

I didn’t look over, partly out of courtesy, partly out of disinterest, I mean, what the hell did I care?—so I was mighty surprised when I heard a gunshot and looked over in time to see him topple from his stool and land with a wet smack on the floor. The woman was turned in her seat, a small revolver in her hand. We all stared at her in shock and then that goddamned song started up again and Joe picked up the phone. The woman let out a hysterical cry and jumped off her stool and ran towards the jukebox. Her arm was straight out in front of her, the gun aimed at the shiny glass front. She squeezed the trigger over and over, each shot smashing into the machine, which gave a harsh metallic squawk. The song tried to go on, but then slowed to a painful warble and then stopped.

The woman still pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on empty chambers and made a dry CLICK, CLICK, CLICK. Then she spun around wildly and stared at us. Her eyes were like two holes poked in the snow. The sound of sirens wailed in the distance like abandoned babies.

“Here comes my ride,” she said in a chocked voice, “here comes my ride!”

I decided to drink at home for a few days.