oom: conversations with dead people 2010
The only sound in the empty space is that of a deck of playing cards being shuffled from one hand to the other; the saloon is deserted, save for the bartender across the room. No noise comes from the dusty street outside, although the distorted shadows of people and horses can be seen through the windowpanes that face the boardwalk.
(He knows he should hear the clip-clop of hooves, the metallic jangle of bits and bridles, the dull thud of boot heels against the pine as life passes outside the dual doors of the Wild Horse Saloon -- but the only thing he can hear is the shuffle of paper as he passes the cards from one hand to the other.)
Doc knows he's waiting for someone -- no idea who, but he knows he's supposed to be meeting someone here, today -- so until that person shows up, he shuffles the cards back and forth, back and forth.
The bartender doesn't speak once during the hour (hours?) that pass before the doors swing open; Doc glances up at the man who enters the saloon, tilting his head slightly to the side in an odd combination of greeting and confusion.
(He figured he'd at least recognize the person he was supposed to meet.)
He's older; patches of salt sprinkled through a neatly trimmed beard, dark hair and dark eyes (shadows) that seem to cut straight through anything they focus on. A purple brocade scarf hangs loosely from his neck, tied in a neat knot at the throat.
"Evenin', son."
Doc studies the man's features closely, in an effort to spur some distant memory that might lend a hand to establishing an identity; even if he doesn't get a name, he at least wants a place or even why--
"Don't remember me, do you."
"No sir," Doc replies, shaking his head. "'I'm afaid I have to admit that I don't."
"Figured you wouldn't," the man shrugs. "It's been an awful long time, after all."
(The Wild Horse Saloon is on the east side of Liberty, Missouri.)
"You sure you don't remember me?"
Doc looks down at the playing cards (there's no scar on your left hand) and then up at the man sitting across from him. There's a faint pull at the back of his mind, a memory trying to pull itself free.
He's seen hundreds of faces in dozens of saloons over the last five or six years.
Why is this one so important?
The man smiles, and extends his hand. "C'mon, let me show you something. It might help."
Doc looks at the outstretched hand warily. Something tells him that he shouldn't trust this man, but given that he doesn't trust anyone these days, it's hard to make sense of what his brain is telling him to do.
(Wild Horse Saloon. Liberty, Missouri.)
"What's your name?"
The man's smile changes, to something cold and hardened and just dangerous enough that it makes Doc's attention shift from the surroundings of the saloon to the weight of his Colt at his hip. The gun is still there, thank God, but the room is suddenly no longer quiet.
"Didn't matter to you back then, why should it matter to you now?"
Doc feels the end of the gun press against his ribs before he even hears the click of the hammer being pulled back and cocked into place.
(Wild Horse Saloon. Liberty, Missouri. Purple brocade scarf.)
"Remember me, yet?"
The man's smile is unflinching -- and unsettling.
Shit.
All of a sudden he's young and green again, scared out of his wits with a gun against his ribs. The gun has a bullet that's just itching to tear free of the barrel and rip its way through his torso, and all Doc can see in that moment is the blood pooling on his hands and on the floor, staining the dark surface of scratched and worn hardwood.
(The bartender never moved, not once, the entire time.)
Was it forty-five seconds or fifty?
"Now you do."
"Not the name," Doc replies. "But I knew your face was familiar."
"What're you going to do about it this time?"
"The same thing I did last time, if I've got any say in the matter."
Don't reckon it matters how long it takes this time.
Abruptly, the room falls silent -- the shadows outside slowing as everything blurs around the edges, the world lit with a rose-colored halo that he can't seem to clear from his vision, no matter how hard he blinks his eyes.
The bartender still doesn't move.
Doc can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he glances down towards his feet, where the gentleman he was supposed to meet has fallen to the floor. His head is twisted in an unnatural manner and his left arm is bent behind his back, pinned to the ground.
(And there's a hole in his gut, leaking blood so dark it's nearly black.)
He remembers.
First man you ever killed.
"You proud of yourself, boy? Look what you've done."
Doc kneels beside the (dying) man, careful to keep his boots out of the mess. "You drew first."
"And you never let that happen again, did you," the man pulls in a wheezing, desperate breath. "Always fast on the draw?"
"Most of the time."
The man smiles. "And when you weren't, you regretted it, didn't you."
(Tunstall is falling from his horse, crumpling to the ground like a child's abandoned doll as he hits the earth.)
"Reckon you could say that," Doc reaches down and unties the scarf from the man's neck, removing the fine silk fabric easily.
"You're smarter, now."
"More experienced. Not sure if you'd say smarter."
The man laughs (blood spotting the pale pink skin of his lips) and reaches up, wrapping his fingers around Doc's forearm in a vice grip. "You're pretty good at what you do now, boy. Killin' folk."
"It's not all I do."
"No, it ain't. But it's what you're best at, and what was it your mama used to tell you? Always do your best work?"
Doc snarls, trying to pull his arm back. "Don't you dare bring my mama into this."
"Into what?"
"Whatever this is, Tolaski." He doesn't know what this is. Doesn't know why he's here, or what he's doing reliving this moment -- unless the last six years have been nothing but a bad dream he can't wake up from.
Maybe it was you that got shot that day.
(He hears the frightened scream of a horse from somewhere out in the street and can't shake the feeling that the sound is out of place for the situation, but it's still familiar in way that sends a chill racing down his spine.)
Maybe you're the one who's bleeding on the floor.
The man tightens his grip on Doc's arm. "You remember me. Good."
"First man I ever shot."
"No," and the smile this time is laced with blood. "The first man you ever killed. But don't worry. I won't be the last."
"You already aren't."
"I know, and you're not done yet. Enjoy it. You're too good at it not to."
Before Doc can speak again (protest) he wakes up in his room at Milliways, light streaming in through the open windows.
Enjoy it.
(He would pass it off as a dream, but he can't this time.)
Enjoy it.
He rolls over and places the purple scarf on his desk, eying it for a moment before rolling back over and pulling the blanket over his head, blocking out the sunlight.
Enjoy it.
(Little does he know now, but he will.)
(He knows he should hear the clip-clop of hooves, the metallic jangle of bits and bridles, the dull thud of boot heels against the pine as life passes outside the dual doors of the Wild Horse Saloon -- but the only thing he can hear is the shuffle of paper as he passes the cards from one hand to the other.)
Doc knows he's waiting for someone -- no idea who, but he knows he's supposed to be meeting someone here, today -- so until that person shows up, he shuffles the cards back and forth, back and forth.
The bartender doesn't speak once during the hour (hours?) that pass before the doors swing open; Doc glances up at the man who enters the saloon, tilting his head slightly to the side in an odd combination of greeting and confusion.
(He figured he'd at least recognize the person he was supposed to meet.)
He's older; patches of salt sprinkled through a neatly trimmed beard, dark hair and dark eyes (shadows) that seem to cut straight through anything they focus on. A purple brocade scarf hangs loosely from his neck, tied in a neat knot at the throat.
"Evenin', son."
Doc studies the man's features closely, in an effort to spur some distant memory that might lend a hand to establishing an identity; even if he doesn't get a name, he at least wants a place or even why--
"Don't remember me, do you."
"No sir," Doc replies, shaking his head. "'I'm afaid I have to admit that I don't."
"Figured you wouldn't," the man shrugs. "It's been an awful long time, after all."
(The Wild Horse Saloon is on the east side of Liberty, Missouri.)
"You sure you don't remember me?"
Doc looks down at the playing cards (there's no scar on your left hand) and then up at the man sitting across from him. There's a faint pull at the back of his mind, a memory trying to pull itself free.
He's seen hundreds of faces in dozens of saloons over the last five or six years.
Why is this one so important?
The man smiles, and extends his hand. "C'mon, let me show you something. It might help."
Doc looks at the outstretched hand warily. Something tells him that he shouldn't trust this man, but given that he doesn't trust anyone these days, it's hard to make sense of what his brain is telling him to do.
(Wild Horse Saloon. Liberty, Missouri.)
"What's your name?"
The man's smile changes, to something cold and hardened and just dangerous enough that it makes Doc's attention shift from the surroundings of the saloon to the weight of his Colt at his hip. The gun is still there, thank God, but the room is suddenly no longer quiet.
"Didn't matter to you back then, why should it matter to you now?"
Doc feels the end of the gun press against his ribs before he even hears the click of the hammer being pulled back and cocked into place.
(Wild Horse Saloon. Liberty, Missouri. Purple brocade scarf.)
"Remember me, yet?"
The man's smile is unflinching -- and unsettling.
Shit.
All of a sudden he's young and green again, scared out of his wits with a gun against his ribs. The gun has a bullet that's just itching to tear free of the barrel and rip its way through his torso, and all Doc can see in that moment is the blood pooling on his hands and on the floor, staining the dark surface of scratched and worn hardwood.
(The bartender never moved, not once, the entire time.)
Was it forty-five seconds or fifty?
"Now you do."
"Not the name," Doc replies. "But I knew your face was familiar."
"What're you going to do about it this time?"
"The same thing I did last time, if I've got any say in the matter."
Don't reckon it matters how long it takes this time.
Abruptly, the room falls silent -- the shadows outside slowing as everything blurs around the edges, the world lit with a rose-colored halo that he can't seem to clear from his vision, no matter how hard he blinks his eyes.
The bartender still doesn't move.
Doc can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he glances down towards his feet, where the gentleman he was supposed to meet has fallen to the floor. His head is twisted in an unnatural manner and his left arm is bent behind his back, pinned to the ground.
(And there's a hole in his gut, leaking blood so dark it's nearly black.)
He remembers.
First man you ever killed.
"You proud of yourself, boy? Look what you've done."
Doc kneels beside the (dying) man, careful to keep his boots out of the mess. "You drew first."
"And you never let that happen again, did you," the man pulls in a wheezing, desperate breath. "Always fast on the draw?"
"Most of the time."
The man smiles. "And when you weren't, you regretted it, didn't you."
(Tunstall is falling from his horse, crumpling to the ground like a child's abandoned doll as he hits the earth.)
"Reckon you could say that," Doc reaches down and unties the scarf from the man's neck, removing the fine silk fabric easily.
"You're smarter, now."
"More experienced. Not sure if you'd say smarter."
The man laughs (blood spotting the pale pink skin of his lips) and reaches up, wrapping his fingers around Doc's forearm in a vice grip. "You're pretty good at what you do now, boy. Killin' folk."
"It's not all I do."
"No, it ain't. But it's what you're best at, and what was it your mama used to tell you? Always do your best work?"
Doc snarls, trying to pull his arm back. "Don't you dare bring my mama into this."
"Into what?"
"Whatever this is, Tolaski." He doesn't know what this is. Doesn't know why he's here, or what he's doing reliving this moment -- unless the last six years have been nothing but a bad dream he can't wake up from.
Maybe it was you that got shot that day.
(He hears the frightened scream of a horse from somewhere out in the street and can't shake the feeling that the sound is out of place for the situation, but it's still familiar in way that sends a chill racing down his spine.)
Maybe you're the one who's bleeding on the floor.
The man tightens his grip on Doc's arm. "You remember me. Good."
"First man I ever shot."
"No," and the smile this time is laced with blood. "The first man you ever killed. But don't worry. I won't be the last."
"You already aren't."
"I know, and you're not done yet. Enjoy it. You're too good at it not to."
Before Doc can speak again (protest) he wakes up in his room at Milliways, light streaming in through the open windows.
Enjoy it.
(He would pass it off as a dream, but he can't this time.)
Enjoy it.
He rolls over and places the purple scarf on his desk, eying it for a moment before rolling back over and pulling the blanket over his head, blocking out the sunlight.
Enjoy it.
(Little does he know now, but he will.)