Present: The Bird Bar in London
T he Pillar sat drinking tea in a bar. It wasn’t exactly a bar, but what was left of it. People had robbed it yesterday. The bartender, a woman in her fifties, had no other means for income, so she still served drinks in a semi-destroyed place. All she had to offer now was tea.
“Do you have sugar?” the Pillar asked.
The woman chuckled. “No. It’s the end of the world, remember? It’s supposed to be bitter.”
The Pillar smirked. He liked this woman, trying to make ends meet. “Normally I drink whiskey or smoke a hookah. They’re bitter too.”
“Does it help?”
“Help with what?” He burped and stretched his stiffened arms. Those 14 lives he had weren’t exactly fun. Every time he resurfaced, he felt weaker.
“Does the hookah help you forget, darling?” She said in her exquisite cockney ascent.
“It helps me remember.” He pushed the tea away.
“That’s odd.”
“It reminds of a man who used to smoke hookah on top of a mushroom.”
She began cleaning one of the glasses on the bar. “Good memories?”
“Terrible.”
“Why remember terrible things?”
“Terrible things help to keep you on your path.”
She rolled her eyes. “Philosopher much?”
“I lost my muchness long ago.”
”I don’t think you need a drink, mate. You’re already drunk.”
He said nothing, but he liked her even more. He’d always been infatuated with people who still take it easy as the world around them goes to hell.
“Do you have children?” The Pillar asked out of nowhere.
“Why do you ask?”
“Then you have,” he said. “How old?”
“Nine and twelve,” she dared his eyes, ever so protective. “Boy and girl.”
“Is that why you still work in the bar? To provide for them.”
She nodded. Said nothing. She was resisting moist eyes or an uncontrollable tear.
“It’s to raise kids in normal circumstances,” he commented, sound sincere. “Let alone the end of the world.”
“Do you have kids?” She asked.
“Never will.”
“May I ask why?”
“I am a terrible, terrible man,” he said with a smile that she could not quite fathom. “I’ll give the world, terrible, terrible, kids.”
She put the glass aside, rested both hands on the table, and leaned forward. “So where is this conversation going, mister?”
The Pillar leaned closer. “Do you want to have enough money for your kids after you die?”
She shrugged. The corner of her eyes darted toward the opening of the bar, a hole in the war.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said. “I will give you money, in exchange for a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“A phone call.”
“Just that?” She was skeptical. She looked at him from head to chest. He looked awful. She didn’t trust him. “How much money are we talking about?”
“How much do you want?”
“A lot.”
“A million and one pounds,” he said. “Good?”
She chuckled again. “Why a million and one?”
“Why not?” he smiled. “A million pounds is so cliche.”
“You don’t look like a man who has this much money.”
Abruptly, the Pillar pulled out a cheque from his pocket and lay it on the table. She picked it up slowly, eyes on him most of the time, then gave herself a chance to glance at the amount. She shrieked.
“Enough to raise two kids?” the Pillar said.
“If it doesn’t bounce.” She shook her shoulders.
“I wouldn’t worry about bouncing. I’d worry if you’d find a working bank in all this mess. You could have robbed a bank yourself, but I know you’re not that kind of the woman.”
As if awoken from a daydream, she put her hands on her chubby waist and said, “What kind of joke is this, mister? What phone call do you want me to do?”
“Here is the number,” he slid a piece of paper toward her. A note. A yellow one.