The Last Chance

            Buzzed from whiskey, Eric Johnson stumbled along the sidewalk heading toward the Last Chance Bar. He was a 45 year old fork lift driver for a mattress company. He wore grease stained jeans, a big flannel shirt to hide his swelling stomach and shaggy haired mane that looked more 1970, than 1990. Evening was upon him and it was dark and cold. He was lucky to be in one piece or so one might think after his accident last night. Yet as he crossed into the parking lot of the hockey rink, all he could think was how much his life sucked. He would tie one on tonight, he thought.

            A station wagon pulled into the parking lot, not too far from his slow steps. The bumper sticker read: Have you hugged your hockey player today? He frowned and lit a smoke. Two boys leapt out of the back of the car as their father followed and opened up the back to gather their hockey equipment. The boys were dressed in hockey pants, kneepads, socks and Randolph Squirt jackets and baseball caps. The boys wrestled playfully. The taller one was more of a force, stronger and probably older than his brother, a scrawny but scrappy little guy. Big brother grabbed on to little brother but he slithered out of his grip.

            “Boys boys. That’s not hockey,” said Dad.

            “We’re just kidding around, dad,” said the bigger child.

“Yeah, Dad. You know I’d kill him… hee hee.”

A smirk rose from Eric’s face. Was it that long ago since he played? What 25 years? That was how to play the game, he thought. That’s how he had played. Play tough and stand tall. Rattle the other team.

The brothers watched as Dad pulled out their hockey bags.

“Hope you boys are ready. The Raiders are a good team,” he said.

“We’ll destroy them. We haven’t lost in eight games,” said the bigger child.

“Yeah. Good luck to them.”

Cocky. Eric liked that. He too played with a brash edge. I backed it up. I was a pretty damn good player, he thought.

The family filed by Eric who had stopped walking. The bigger child spied a beer can beneath a tire, corralled it in with his stick and shot it across the parking lot. The smaller child ran for it, flipped it in the air on his blade and as Eric stared, the can seemed to dance flawlessly, pinging and panging on the tape of the stick.

Eric couldn’t remember his last game. His mother had died in the accident by then. After that, his father’s interest in his son’s well being and future waned. The only thing that kept his father’s attention was the TV and alcohol. His world became a prison, eyes glazed over like wet roads.

The smaller child called out to his brother. He pointed at him. His brother crouched into a goaltending position. The smaller child bolted toward him. The can cackled as he stickhandled in; he faked left, caught his brother out of position and cut right, slipping the can by him easily.

“Save that for tonight. You will need it,” said Dad.

“I’ll try, Dad.”

Eric smiled at his own memories of goals scored. The victories. The camaraderie. The pride. Then he remembered his mother’s death. Then, nothing. His wasted mind had been stripped of clearness many moons ago; now it was a logjam, an ooze of fat melted mush.

“Come on boys. Let’s suit up.”

The father’s voice tugged at Eric’s heart. He followed them briefly until they turned left toward the rink door. He stood there a moment and then looked up. The stars looked really bright, he thought. Even the darkness seemed to take on a friendly vibe. In that small moment of clarity, he decided to blow off the Last Chance Bar and catch a hockey game instead.  

 

 

 

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A short story I wrote in most likely my senior year in high school or first year in college. I never turned it in for any grade or anything but it just sort fell into the heap of papers I am now going through.