Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

the bar. “Kyle. The bartender at O’Doh’s. He was actually going to close up shop just so he could come get it, so I offered to drop it by.” Greg steps off the curb toward the bar.

“Well, maybe we should both go?” I suggest, without a moment’s hesitation. All that time convincing myself to go home and be alone for once, gone just like that. “Come on, Chief. Let’s raise a glass to the kid.”

“Hmmm” is Greg’s reply. He might have missed my disappointment at the graveyard when he’d declined the drink, but he’s a sharp cookie and spots it this time. “One can’t hurt, I guess. All right.”

Silvertown’s lone watering hole is called O’Doherty’s, a half-assed attempt at an Irish pub situated directly across the street from the police station. From appearance alone it’s obvious the place has been there forever, and it is about as basic and cliché as you can get. In fact, the only real selling point it offers is its liquor license.

We cross the empty street together. The pub, on the bottom floor of a four-story brick building that has to be a century old, is quiet tonight. That’s not usually the case.

The door creaks as Greg pushes through.

It’s a small place. “Maximum Occupancy 40” is what the sign would read if they had one, I think.

The decor is all hardwood and brass. Everything within has an air of… not neglect, that wouldn’t be fair to the guy who runs the place. He keeps it clean and well maintained, but I doubt anything in the room was purchased new or professionally installed.

The bar’s on the left. Stalls and a few tables line the wall on the right side, except the back corner, where a very small stage struggles to live up to the massive sound system resting atop it.

Pink Floyd spills softly from the huge karaoke machine. The device is a beast, nearly as tall as me, and sports two speakers with cones the size of serving trays. Luckily the volume is turned way down, the music not much more than ambient background noise. A pair of microphones rests atop the black cabinet, gathering dust.

Two locals—the only other customers—are playing pool. The worn old table sits under a single lamp in the center of the room, its green felt surface stained and even sporting a six-inch length of duct tape covering a tear near the center. Hardly regulation.

On the far wall is a faded mural that depicts Silvertown’s surroundings. It’s cheesy and amateurish, yet to me it captures the region with near total perfection: on the right is the old mine, boarded up with a CONDEMNED sign in front of it. On the left is Fort Curtis, the old abandoned army base. Front and center we have the hairy form of Big Foot, striding confidently, posed in homage to that classic faked footage. Behind the notorious monster is Lake Forgotten, and beyond even that, a decent rendition of two rocky peaks officially called Two Sisters, but known to the locals here as Two-Shits, as in “I couldn’t give…”

There’s a banner above the mural, taped to the wall:

OCTOBERFEST BEGINS IN 8 DAYS

The eight is handwritten on a piece of plain paper, thumbtacked in place. Some joker has rotated it ninety degrees, though, implying an infinite wait for the big day.

There’s a sharp crack, loud enough to make me jump.

The pool balls, being broken. A few clunk as they drop into pockets.

“I’m stripes,” the woman says to her companion as she begins to prowl around the edge of the table.

The man leans against the wall, chalking his stick as if it were the most important task ever undertaken. With each grinding twist of the blue chalk cube he whispers, “Stripes. Types. Cripes…” The rhyming words go on like some kind of chant.

I hang my coat on the rack by the door and we take stools at the bar. As we’re sitting down the bartender, Kyle, pushes through from the kitchen area. He has keen brown eyes and a trendy lumberjack beard. Shaggy golden hair pokes out from under a Ford baseball cap. A greasy white apron covers his tartan-patterned shirt.

“Evening, Chief,” he says. Then to me, “Officer.” His eyes flick downward for the briefest of instants, an appraisal of my figure that I can’t quite find fault with, seeing as I’m usually rocking a Kevlar vest under a stiff blue uniform, which is not what you’d call flattering. At least the man is subtle about it. “Hell of a day,” he says to Greg.

“Hell of a day,” the chief agrees. “Here’s your phone.” Greg slides the device across the bar.

Kyle picks it up, studies the screen for a second, then nods to the chief. “Cheers. Thanks for finding it.”

“It was Mary who found it,” Greg says. “You two have met?”

“Once or twice,” Kyle replies. He eyes me. “You’re always in uniform, though.”

“My boss never gives me time off.”

“Not true,” Greg mumbles. He almost laughs, but then the weight of the kid’s funeral seems to settle back on his shoulders. “Hell of a day,” he says again, sighing this time.

I smile, sadly, at the memory of it. For a moment we all just stare at the bar, not talking.

High up on the wall, a flat-screen TV is tuned to the local public access channel. A goofy, awkward commercial is playing, wherein our town’s only doctor, technically a psychiatrist, kindly asks for residents to come see him if they need someone to talk to. It’d be sweet if it weren’t so stilted and poorly made.

Kyle picks up the remote control. With a tap of his finger the TV goes mute.

“Dude,” I say, “I was watching that.”

“Oh shit, sorry.”

As he twists to turn it back on, my sarcastic tone finally registers. With a sheepish grin he puts the remote away. “Good one. Got me.”

I beam. “No one wants to watch that. Do they?”

“It’s the only channel I get. And Doc’s the only one who pays for airtime.”

“You could just turn