Last Call

Old Man Sullivan reeked of a broken man never far from his last beer. He floundered at the end of a life of hard knocks with alcohol fueling his veins. In order to provide the necessities of life, he continued to work longer than his wrinkled body could cooperate.

Sullivan and I both worked as grungy dishwashers at a busy American fare restaurant in 1980. It was a second job for me, a full time job for Old Man Sullivan. After clocking out for the night at work, we usually sat barside emptying free draft beers until closing time.

Sullivan only saw what was in front of him and I should have kept it that way. For some strange reason one night, I felt compelled to share with him an unusual story. Amidst the suds of another downed beer, my conversation digressed to something abstract. I came to find out that anything not right in front of John he had trouble digesting. My interest in psychic phenomena had no business in his life but I put it right in front of him.

I said, “What do you make of this? Somebody in my family can tell when a person’s time is up on this planet.”

His eyes rolled then his expression tightened. “What the hell do you mean? What are you talking about?”

“They carry an aura, a white light around their heads prior to death.”

“Are you talking about yourself?" asked Sullivan. "This sounds like malarky. Are you the one in your family that can do this crazy sort of thing?”

I tried to relieve his raised fears. “No, I can’t do that. I am more ordinary. Just night dishwashing like you, Sully.”

That night Old Man Sullivan staggered the short distance walk from the restaurant to the seedy motel he called home. Inside the cramped motel room, he found his beloved wife dead in bed. Old Man Sullivan never looked at me square again. He rarely looked at me ever again.