It's on the house
I looked up from the heavy table to see a man, nearly 30, sauntering into the bar. He was wearing an old coat that still smelled of moth balls, fresh from the local thrift store, and some beat up pants and shoes. his eyes, once focused on his shoes, were now staring at me. his eyes were troubled; i could always tell. he stopped infront of me, across the bar, but miles separated us. he punched the table with a bone shattering crack, and his hand went limp. a shimmer of copper and silver rolled from his palms and onto the floor. "Gimme something worth that much," he said, "it's all I got." I bent down behind the bar to pick up his change, and, out of his view, I emptied my pockets into my hands. "3.67," I said, "that'll get you 3 shots of Evan Williams and one on the house." I looked around and saw no one. The man was gone. The man lunged up from behind the bar "Sounds about right!" he yelled. I poured his first, and he laid down a polaroid. "What's this?" I said. "It's of my old friend, back when we were kids. It always makes me smile." I spun it around to where I could make out the shot; it was a picture of a flower, empty of people, no old friends. Spinning it back around, I managed a "that's nice". When he finished the whiskey, he asked me to pour the next into his own glass. "sure," i said, "why not". He pulled out a small metal thimble, only big enough for a thumb of whiskey. Noticing his affection for the piece, i filled it up. He turned the trincket upside down, slammed it on the bar, and shouted, "hits harder every time". I laughed, and tried to change the subject. "You from around here?" "I'm from everywhere," he said, "I walked on the ground you stand on, before this shack got put up. I've been around" Laughing, I motioned to the thimble with the half-full bottle. He held it out, and i filled it, this time spilling the whiskey on his sleeve. "All good, All good," he said. This time, he sipped the thimble, and when he was done, he placed it upright on the bar, and got up. Once he made it to the door, via the longest route in the bar, he turned and waved. "Later, slick," he managed. "I never caught your name, " i replied. "It's on the house," he yelled, now out the door, "It's on the house."