mercoledì 4 aprile 2012

Detroit, Highland Park

“Where were you? I’ve been searching for you all over the place.”
“I was here, Inspector. I’ve been here all along.”
“Good. Then you too must have noticed that the bartender waters down the whiskey with some damn tap water. Is nothing sacred in America?”
“I suppose some people like it that way, actually… if I may…”
“What? What is it, Mr. Wischmann?”
“Well, I must confess that I’m one of those people who waters down whiskey.”
“And why would you ever do something so stupid?”
“Because whiskey is too strong for me; it burns my mouth.”
“Bah! Young people nowadays—no spine, nobody has it anymore. When I was young, my buddies and I would swig two or three shots at once and hit the streets to catch some evil son of a bitch. Do you have children, Mr. Wischmann?”
“One. He turns 30 today.”
“Oh, right, I remember now: little Tommy! They grow up so damn fast, huh? And what does your son do for a living? I hope he hasn’t become a cop like us!”
“My son… he suffers from a serious mental disorder. He hasn’t been the same since Lisa died… He’s at a mental clinic in Sugar Hill. It’s been several years already. I wonder if they have birthday parties in a place like that?”
“Damn it, Wischmann, I had no idea.”

The two men fall silent for a few minutes. Then the Inspector offers him a glass filled with pure whiskey, memories, and tears. Wischmann grabs it and swigs it in one go, searching for that burning feeling—something to make him feel alive after all these years.

“What time is it, Wischmann?”
“My watch says it’s three o’clock. If I’m correct, you died exactly 28 years ago, Inspector.”

Wischmann leaves a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and stands up from the stool, walking toward the exit of the squalid bar where, many years before, an honest man was murdered amid everyone’s indifference. To hell with the bartender who looks at him funny, to hell with the asshole who shoulders him aside.

The door opens, and he’s met with the freezing wind of Detroit. It’s night, and despite everything, that’s called living.



by Jason R. Forbus

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