The Last Resort
The sign on the door seemed fitting for the last bar in a dying resort town in upstate New York nestled in the Catskill Mountains. In its glory years, the town was filled with glittering hotels where New York City residents came to escape the summer heat. Then cheap airfares offered vacationers more glamorous locales and the tourist dollars dried up along with the town’s prospects. As the last watering hole on the once bustling street downtown, the bar known as “The Last Resort” was the refuge of the dwindling population that had nowhere else to go. The core of the regular inhabitants would drown their sorrows in cheap whiskey and lifelong resident Fred Reed was happy to have one of the few steady jobs left in the town, having been the chief bartender since the joint took over a shuttered barber shop twenty years ago. Fred took pride in his ability to measure out just the right ingredients in a cocktail and know just how much to shake or stir a drink to please the veteran drinkers who were very particular about just how the cocktails were made.
It was an ordinary Wednesday night with the usual regulars scattered about on bar stools at the counter or sitting next to the often-wobbly circular tables in the rectangular area of the bar. The usual barmaid was out today and with no replacement, the patrons had to order at the bar if they were foolish enough to request the burgers or fries that were pre-cooked and warmed up in the rickety hot plate or the microwave that didn’t look like it was cleaned in this decade. At about 10 pm a new face walked in, and everyone looked up at the stranger out of curiosity. The stranger didn’t fit the demographics of the mostly late middle aged to elderly nondescript white men who were the regular patrons. No, this one seemed to have some hope in her step and a glimmer of a smile on her face. She was fashionably dressed in a cream-colored pantsuit, about size twelve, hoop earrings, her hair swept back into a ponytail that ended mid back, alabaster skin, a hint of eye makeup with cherry red lipstick and more than a hint of gloss. She appeared to be 50ish and she sort of sashayed to the counter and pulled a cigarette out of her purse as she ordered a martini. Everyone in the room averted their eyes as she lit up the cigarette, took a puff, and lifted her martini glass. Then she briefly turned around and got a glimpse of a solitary figure in front of the bar near the door, sitting many feet from anyone else. “Who's the guy back there by the door in the trench coat,” she asked Fred. “Name’s Jack,” replied Fred as he topped off another drink and wiped down the counter. “He’s been coming here for about 15 years after his wife died. Lives in a one-bedroom apartment around the corner I heard he had two middle-aged kids, but he doesn’t talk about them much. I’m pretty sure he’s estranged from them. It’s kind of sad really. He must be about 75 and he doesn’t seem to have anyone to talk to. Never says a word to no one. Just shuffles in about 9 pm, always orders the same thing, Johnny Walker red label neat, and sits at the same table until closing time at 2 AM.” “Is he able to speak?” asked the stranger. “I guess so”, said Fred. “He has no trouble ordering the drink. At one time he told me a little about himself after his wife died, but nothing since. Always leaves a nice tip though, so I got nothing bad to say about him. I wish all my customers were like that,” Fred said with a laugh. Sometimes the other ones get rowdy, and we can’t afford a bouncer. I just have to call the cops.”
The stranger looked down at her glass with a bemused half smile. “I don’t know why, but I’m sort of drawn to him. I noticed him as soon as I walked in, and I felt some kind of vibe. It’s crazy, huh? He didn’t say anything and barely looked up, but there was definitely something there. You know, I was just passing through here from Albany on the way to the city and I don’t normally go to bars. But I had a feeling that I’m supposed to be here when I drove past and maybe I have to talk to Jack to find out why” she said as she flicked the ashes of her cigarette in the tray. Fred just shrugged his shoulders as she got up and walked towards Jack.
“May I sit here?” the stranger asked Jack. Jack stared ahead, eyes slightly glazed over, and with a slight nod of his head said, “Suit yourself.” “My name is Carole,” she said. “What’s yours?” “You don’t need to know that,” he grumbled, as he picked up his glass and took a gulp. Carole studied his face until a glimmer of recognition overcame her. “Wait a minute,” she exclaimed, “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?” Jack briefly looked up and after a long pause said, “Lady, I never seen you before.” “But I think you did,” she continued. “It was when I was a child, maybe 5 or 6 years old. My mom brought you into my room and said you were Uncle Jack visiting from somewhere in upstate NY. I never saw you again, but I never forget a face. You had the same bump on your nose and that little mole on your left cheek. Even the sound of your voice sounds the same. I remember you gave me a shiny one-dollar coin and patted me on the head. After you left my room, I heard you fighting with my mom. I didn’t hear what you were fighting about but it got pretty heated. Something about you not keeping your promise. I never saw mom so angry. I just remembered something else. She didn’t call you jack. She called you Johnny Mack.” With that, Jack’s face reddened as he seemed to wince in pain. “I think you ought to find somewhere else to sit. I don’t want to talk to you,” he replied. He gulped down the last ounce of whisky and signaled Fred for another. Mike, a man about the same age as Jack, at a nearby table overheard the conversation and walked by. He slapped Jack on the back and said, “Johnny Mack! I ain’t heard that name in a long time. Isn’t that what you used to call yourself back in high school? It sounded way cooler than John Mcgillicuddy, right?” Jack stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed and glazed over, partly in fear and partly from the drunken stupor he was in. “Listen, you guys. I gotta go now. It’s getting late,” Jack said. He threw a $50 bill on the table and stood up.
Jack strode toward the door, but found his path blocked by Mike. “I think you oughta sit down and listen to the lady,” said Mike. “She does seem to know your name.” “Lots of people in this town know my name,” groused Jack. “But I’m not from this town,” replied Carole. “Sit down. I want to show you a picture.” Jack reluctantly turned back to the table and sat down while Carole fumbled through her purse. Finaly, she handed over a picture. “This look familiar?” she asked. “That’s my mom, Francine Fitterman of 137 Stanton Street and me when I was about 5 years old.” Jack carefully studied the picture as his eyes seemed to fill with tears. “How is Francine?” he asked after what seemed like several minutes of silence. Carole looked down and seemed to struggle to find the words. “Mom died of cancer in 2018,” she said. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Jack replied as he reached out and touched the back of Carole’s hand. “She was a wonderful woman. But you have to understand that your mom and me had a complicated relationship,” he exclaimed. “Why don’t you tell me about it?” Carole replied. “I have nothing but time.” “The first thing I want you to know is that Francine and me had an agreement,” he continued. “She wanted to raise you by herself. I wasn’t supposed to be involved in your life at all. But when you were 5 or 6, I tracked you down and just showed up at the door. Your mom would only let me in that one time if I pretended I was your uncle.”
“What was this agreement?” Carole asked.
“Francine was then a free spirit with an independent streak and wasn’t the type to settle down and become a dutiful wife,” continued Jack. “Remember this was the 1970’s and things were a little more conservative back then. Nevertheless, Francine wanted a baby even though she had no intention of getting married. We were really only friends from the time we were classmates in high school. She wanted me to be the father and planned to move to the city to raise her baby. The agreement was that she wouldn’t ask for support from me, but I was to let her raise the baby alone. I kept to that agreement until you were five.”
“And you got married and had two kids of your own afterwards?”
“I did. My wife died 15 years ago. We had a boy and a girl. They both live far away, have busy lives, and don’t have time for me. But that’s another story.”
“Why don’t you come down to the city and meet our family?’ Carole asked. “I have a 24-year-old daughter that is your granddaughter.”
Jack shook his head. “No, it’s nice of you to offer, but I’d rather stay here for what’s left of my life. I just want to be left in peace.”
“Let’s keep in touch. Give me your address and phone number and we’ll talk. Maybe you’ll change your mind,” said Carole and she slipped Jack a business card and a pen.
Carole and Jack began to have regular phone conversations after that, and after several months he agreed to let Carole pick him up and take him to visit her home in the city. On the appointed day, Carole parked in front of a modest apartment building, entered the lobby, and rang the bell next to “3E” on the directory. She rang several times and after getting no response, tried calling him on her cell phone, but only got the voice mail. Carole put the phone back in her pocketbook and walked around the corner to “The Last Resort” and found Fred behind the counter. “I don’t know if you remember me from a few months ago,” Carole inquired, “but I’m looking one of your regulars named Jack.” “I was supposed to meet him now, but he’s not answering his bell. Have you seen him lately?” “Sure, I remember you,” replied Fred. “I ain’t seen Jack in here since you came. He hardly missed a day for 15 years and he’s suddenly gone. Then I saw him walking by the bar a few days ago with a smile on his face saying he’s not drinking anymore. He’s like a different person now.” Carole walked out of the “The Last Resort” for the last time. It felt like she left her past behind and was walking to a brighter future. She smiled as she spotted Jack standing outside his apartment building holding a beautiful bouquet of roses. Just at that moment the clouds departed, and the sun shined for the first time that day.
It was an ordinary Wednesday night with the usual regulars scattered about on bar stools at the counter or sitting next to the often-wobbly circular tables in the rectangular area of the bar. The usual barmaid was out today and with no replacement, the patrons had to order at the bar if they were foolish enough to request the burgers or fries that were pre-cooked and warmed up in the rickety hot plate or the microwave that didn’t look like it was cleaned in this decade. At about 10 pm a new face walked in, and everyone looked up at the stranger out of curiosity. The stranger didn’t fit the demographics of the mostly late middle aged to elderly nondescript white men who were the regular patrons. No, this one seemed to have some hope in her step and a glimmer of a smile on her face. She was fashionably dressed in a cream-colored pantsuit, about size twelve, hoop earrings, her hair swept back into a ponytail that ended mid back, alabaster skin, a hint of eye makeup with cherry red lipstick and more than a hint of gloss. She appeared to be 50ish and she sort of sashayed to the counter and pulled a cigarette out of her purse as she ordered a martini. Everyone in the room averted their eyes as she lit up the cigarette, took a puff, and lifted her martini glass. Then she briefly turned around and got a glimpse of a solitary figure in front of the bar near the door, sitting many feet from anyone else. “Who's the guy back there by the door in the trench coat,” she asked Fred. “Name’s Jack,” replied Fred as he topped off another drink and wiped down the counter. “He’s been coming here for about 15 years after his wife died. Lives in a one-bedroom apartment around the corner I heard he had two middle-aged kids, but he doesn’t talk about them much. I’m pretty sure he’s estranged from them. It’s kind of sad really. He must be about 75 and he doesn’t seem to have anyone to talk to. Never says a word to no one. Just shuffles in about 9 pm, always orders the same thing, Johnny Walker red label neat, and sits at the same table until closing time at 2 AM.” “Is he able to speak?” asked the stranger. “I guess so”, said Fred. “He has no trouble ordering the drink. At one time he told me a little about himself after his wife died, but nothing since. Always leaves a nice tip though, so I got nothing bad to say about him. I wish all my customers were like that,” Fred said with a laugh. Sometimes the other ones get rowdy, and we can’t afford a bouncer. I just have to call the cops.”
The stranger looked down at her glass with a bemused half smile. “I don’t know why, but I’m sort of drawn to him. I noticed him as soon as I walked in, and I felt some kind of vibe. It’s crazy, huh? He didn’t say anything and barely looked up, but there was definitely something there. You know, I was just passing through here from Albany on the way to the city and I don’t normally go to bars. But I had a feeling that I’m supposed to be here when I drove past and maybe I have to talk to Jack to find out why” she said as she flicked the ashes of her cigarette in the tray. Fred just shrugged his shoulders as she got up and walked towards Jack.
“May I sit here?” the stranger asked Jack. Jack stared ahead, eyes slightly glazed over, and with a slight nod of his head said, “Suit yourself.” “My name is Carole,” she said. “What’s yours?” “You don’t need to know that,” he grumbled, as he picked up his glass and took a gulp. Carole studied his face until a glimmer of recognition overcame her. “Wait a minute,” she exclaimed, “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?” Jack briefly looked up and after a long pause said, “Lady, I never seen you before.” “But I think you did,” she continued. “It was when I was a child, maybe 5 or 6 years old. My mom brought you into my room and said you were Uncle Jack visiting from somewhere in upstate NY. I never saw you again, but I never forget a face. You had the same bump on your nose and that little mole on your left cheek. Even the sound of your voice sounds the same. I remember you gave me a shiny one-dollar coin and patted me on the head. After you left my room, I heard you fighting with my mom. I didn’t hear what you were fighting about but it got pretty heated. Something about you not keeping your promise. I never saw mom so angry. I just remembered something else. She didn’t call you jack. She called you Johnny Mack.” With that, Jack’s face reddened as he seemed to wince in pain. “I think you ought to find somewhere else to sit. I don’t want to talk to you,” he replied. He gulped down the last ounce of whisky and signaled Fred for another. Mike, a man about the same age as Jack, at a nearby table overheard the conversation and walked by. He slapped Jack on the back and said, “Johnny Mack! I ain’t heard that name in a long time. Isn’t that what you used to call yourself back in high school? It sounded way cooler than John Mcgillicuddy, right?” Jack stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed and glazed over, partly in fear and partly from the drunken stupor he was in. “Listen, you guys. I gotta go now. It’s getting late,” Jack said. He threw a $50 bill on the table and stood up.
Jack strode toward the door, but found his path blocked by Mike. “I think you oughta sit down and listen to the lady,” said Mike. “She does seem to know your name.” “Lots of people in this town know my name,” groused Jack. “But I’m not from this town,” replied Carole. “Sit down. I want to show you a picture.” Jack reluctantly turned back to the table and sat down while Carole fumbled through her purse. Finaly, she handed over a picture. “This look familiar?” she asked. “That’s my mom, Francine Fitterman of 137 Stanton Street and me when I was about 5 years old.” Jack carefully studied the picture as his eyes seemed to fill with tears. “How is Francine?” he asked after what seemed like several minutes of silence. Carole looked down and seemed to struggle to find the words. “Mom died of cancer in 2018,” she said. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Jack replied as he reached out and touched the back of Carole’s hand. “She was a wonderful woman. But you have to understand that your mom and me had a complicated relationship,” he exclaimed. “Why don’t you tell me about it?” Carole replied. “I have nothing but time.” “The first thing I want you to know is that Francine and me had an agreement,” he continued. “She wanted to raise you by herself. I wasn’t supposed to be involved in your life at all. But when you were 5 or 6, I tracked you down and just showed up at the door. Your mom would only let me in that one time if I pretended I was your uncle.”
“What was this agreement?” Carole asked.
“Francine was then a free spirit with an independent streak and wasn’t the type to settle down and become a dutiful wife,” continued Jack. “Remember this was the 1970’s and things were a little more conservative back then. Nevertheless, Francine wanted a baby even though she had no intention of getting married. We were really only friends from the time we were classmates in high school. She wanted me to be the father and planned to move to the city to raise her baby. The agreement was that she wouldn’t ask for support from me, but I was to let her raise the baby alone. I kept to that agreement until you were five.”
“And you got married and had two kids of your own afterwards?”
“I did. My wife died 15 years ago. We had a boy and a girl. They both live far away, have busy lives, and don’t have time for me. But that’s another story.”
“Why don’t you come down to the city and meet our family?’ Carole asked. “I have a 24-year-old daughter that is your granddaughter.”
Jack shook his head. “No, it’s nice of you to offer, but I’d rather stay here for what’s left of my life. I just want to be left in peace.”
“Let’s keep in touch. Give me your address and phone number and we’ll talk. Maybe you’ll change your mind,” said Carole and she slipped Jack a business card and a pen.
Carole and Jack began to have regular phone conversations after that, and after several months he agreed to let Carole pick him up and take him to visit her home in the city. On the appointed day, Carole parked in front of a modest apartment building, entered the lobby, and rang the bell next to “3E” on the directory. She rang several times and after getting no response, tried calling him on her cell phone, but only got the voice mail. Carole put the phone back in her pocketbook and walked around the corner to “The Last Resort” and found Fred behind the counter. “I don’t know if you remember me from a few months ago,” Carole inquired, “but I’m looking one of your regulars named Jack.” “I was supposed to meet him now, but he’s not answering his bell. Have you seen him lately?” “Sure, I remember you,” replied Fred. “I ain’t seen Jack in here since you came. He hardly missed a day for 15 years and he’s suddenly gone. Then I saw him walking by the bar a few days ago with a smile on his face saying he’s not drinking anymore. He’s like a different person now.” Carole walked out of the “The Last Resort” for the last time. It felt like she left her past behind and was walking to a brighter future. She smiled as she spotted Jack standing outside his apartment building holding a beautiful bouquet of roses. Just at that moment the clouds departed, and the sun shined for the first time that day.
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