THE BAR

Then trust me there’s nothing like drinking,

So pleasant on this side of the grave:

It keeps the unhappy from thinking,

And makes e’en the valiant more brave.

—Charles Dibdin

It’s strange how time can take something familiar and make it foreign again. When I was a kid, I loved to explore Grandaddy’s land. Once, I found an abandoned sawmill just past the northern edge of his property. The earth had reclaimed much of it by that point, but some of the infrastructure and equipment was still intact. It’s hard to explain, but the quiet desolation of that place seemed wholly natural, peaceful, as if things were decaying back to their proper function in the world. Entire days were wasted away on those hallowed grounds, mornings spent in contemplation and afternoons squandered in lazy bliss. I soon found myself bringing Sam with me, and I think she enjoyed it even more than I did. We’d pretend we were the rulers of a medieval village, me sitting on an old yellow planar as my throne, and Sam standing atop a broken carriage issuing proclamations to the many citizens of rusted-out iron and rotten wooden planks strewn across the grounds below.

Years later when I was close to graduating high school, I went through a photography phase and wanted to take pictures of everything I possibly could. My thoughts returned to the old sawmill, certain that it would make the perfect subject, and so one Saturday I set out to find it. Except, I couldn’t. Time had clouded my memory of the route through the farm that would bring me there. After two days of searching, I eventually lost interest and gave up. To this day I have no idea if someone tore it down or if I just lost my way. Sam claimed that she didn’t remember ever going there in the first place. Maybe she was right. It’s not like I can prove otherwise.

When I arrived in Terrance that night, the same sense of confusion settled in. I knew this city like the back of my hand, I’d visited it dozens, maybe hundreds of times when I was younger. Yet, when I began driving up and down the narrow streets, it felt like wading through the cotton bolls all over again, desperately searching for the lost remnants of our forgotten kingdom.

Moonlight blanketed the city, each building slicing out a black shadow across the road before me. I found myself again passing the Church. The cratered moon took refuge behind the towering structure, surrounding me in darkness. I sped up, immediately eager to flee the giant and leave its dark secrets behind. Other than the church, every building seemed either abandoned completely or in some state of slow disrepair. Grass sprouted up in patches through large cracks in the sidewalk. The neon signs that still worked hung crookedly or were missing letters. Paint faded and peeled off of every surface, aggregating the many different colors and shapes into a single, unvarying monument to decay. It felt like a ghost town.

It was no small feat to drive these streets aimlessly for an hour. Most people could see the entire city (and then some) in half that time. Some reiteration was necessary. This was also the first time I had actively searched for a bar there, so I had no clue what I was even looking for. As I passed the same street signs and landmarks for the second and third time, it began to feel as if the town itself was growing around me and I was trapped inside, forever damned to wander its collapsing ruins. I’d almost given up hope when I noticed colored light spilling out of the basement windows of the Hog-Wash market. A few vehicles were parked crookedly out front and I pulled up beside one of them. There was an entrance in the side alley between the Hog-Wash and the feed store next to it. A single word was printed above the door in large blue letters:

ELI’S.

It was worth a shot. I got out of my car, walked over to it, and entered.

As soon as the sweet yet rotten smell of fermentation hit my sinuses, I knew I was at least on the right track. I descended the narrow, dimly lit staircase into a small coat room. There was no one there watching the door, so I went ahead into the much larger room beyond. It was definitely a bar, but not like any I’d ever been to. Everything looked black and greasy, and smoke hung in the air. Not the normal kind of cigarette smoke one finds in most bars. It smelled sweet and thick, like vaporized molasses. Worst of all, everyone seemed to be old. The youngest looking man there couldn’t have been a day under 60. In fact, now that I thought about it, I hadn’t seen anyone even close to my age other than Sam and Winston since I’d arrived there the day before.

I approached the bar and took a seat on one of the wobbly wooden stools.

“Evening, son,” the old bartender said, his loose jowls flapping with every word. “What’ll it be?”

“It’ll be whiskey,” I said. “On ice, I don’t care what kind.”

“Oh, we only got two kinds here. The cheap stuff, and the real cheap stuff.” The bartender smiled, his eyes twinkling the same way Grandaddy’s used to. “I’ll do you a favor and get ya’ the cheap stuff.” I nodded my thanks, and the bartender shakily filled a short glass with ice and poured in the amber liquid before setting it in front of me. I drank it without hesitation, relishing the intense burn in the back of my throat, and asked for another. Drinking myself under the table sounded like a pretty damn good idea.

In the back corner, underneath a sickly fluorescent light, two men played live music on a worn down baby grand piano and an upright base. Both of them had dark, weathered skin and white hair. I thought they might have been brothers. The one on the piano sang a low, haunting folk tune while playing.

They’ll hang me, they’ll hang me,

An’ I’ll be dead an’ gone.

I wouldn’t mind the hangin’

But it’s bein’ gone so long.

Ohhh, it’s lyin’ in that cold, cold grave!

In the dark, an’ the wet, an’ the chill

That comes from bein’ hanged so high

On the top of Hangin’ Hill.

“Jesus Christ,” I mumbled under my breath, then slammed back the rest of my current drink.

“You say something?” the man on the stool next to me asked, and I turned in surprise. He was short and stout, with white hair and a full, bushy beard. Round-rimmed glasses masked his brown eyes. He reminded me of Charlie Daniels, come to sing The Devil Went Down to Georgia as an encore. I looked down briefly, almost expecting to see a fiddle hanging off of his belt, but only saw a cased utility knife instead.

“Uh, nothing, I was…nothing. Sorry.” I avoided making eye contact.

“Aww, don’t get your balls in a knot, son, you’ll have to do a lot worse than that to piss me off.” He slurred his words together, the alcohol strong on his breath. In my periphery I noticed him squinting, studying my face. “Now, that’s a Comeaux chin if I ever saw one. You’re Sidwin’s grandson, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “Adem. He raised us, my sister Sam and me.” I held my hand out, which he grasped tightly and shook while patting me on the back.

“I’m sorry about your Grandfather, Adem. He was a good man, and a good friend. Name’s Lanston Conroy.” The man finally let go of my hand but kept his shoulders and head turned toward me. “I have to say, you are a sight. Sid talked about you all the time, like the sun rose and set on your shoulders alone. Never thought I’d ever meet you, though.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Conroy,” I said, “that actually means a great deal to me to hear you say that.”

“‘Mr. Conroy’ he says!” He slapped the bar with an open palm. “You can take a shit on ‘Mr. Conroy,’ son! Call me Lanston.”

I laughed. “Okay Lanston. Shit on Mr. Conroy, got it.” The bartender turned and frowned, glancing quickly in Lanston’s direction and then back at me with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t worry about him,” Lanston said, “he’s an old fart that couldn’t take a joke if it bit him in the ass. Come on, let’s grab a table over there where this god damned music isn’t so loud.” He walked to a small round table in the back corner of the bar and took a seat, and I followed. No one spoke to us or acknowledged that we were even there. Everyone else in the bar seemed transfixed on the music playing in the background. “So, I guess you’ve been gone a while, is that right?” Lanston’s eyes wandered around the room as he talked, as if he were looking for something but didn’t know what.

“I guess I have,” I said. “This is my first time back in Terrance in almost ten years.”

“And is it still the same shithole that you left behind?”

“Worse,” I answered, and we both laughed. A few of the other old men in the bar turned and looked at us, then immediately returned their attention to the live music.

“In that case, maybe ten years from now you can try again. If there is any justice in this world, I’ll be long dead by then and you can drink in peace.” We both tipped our glasses back, and then Lanston set his down on the table. He finally looked straight at me. “Sid missed you something awful those years you were gone. Every time I saw him he’d have some new story to tell me about you.”

“I’m sorry Lanston, but how did you know Grandaddy again? No offense, but you don’t seem like the kind of person he typically befriended.”

“No offense taken, son. Like I said, my skin is thicker than that. I actually met Sid about, oh, four years ago. He came to see me. It was while I was still teaching at LSU, before I retired.”

“You were a professor?”

“I am a professor, always will be. I just don’t have anybody to profess to anymore.” Lanston winked. “Does that surprise you?”

“Honestly? A little, yes.”

“I like it that you’re honest with me, Adem, it’s good to know I can shoot straight with you. Hell, maybe I was a little surprised too when I first realized it. My daddy sure was, and none too happy about it either. Following your own path can be a tough pill to swallow for some people. But you know all about that, don’t you?”

I didn’t say anything.

Lanston went on. “Yes, sir, I was a professor of History and Religious Studies. It’s amazing how those two go together, isn’t it? From the dawn of time, religion has shaped history and history has shaped religion, their duality indiscriminately carving through the centuries, leaving only death in their wake.”

“Why did Grandaddy visit you?” I interrupted. “Did you know each other before then?”

“Nope,” Lanston said, shaking his head. “The day I met him, I was sitting in my office after a lecture. He was quiet as a mouse, scared the hell out of me when I looked up and saw him standing there in the doorway. Sid is…was, a big man, and he was dressed all in black. I thought at first that he was the reaper finally come to claim me.”

I smiled. “He had that effect on people sometimes.”

“Once I regained control of my senses—and my bowels—he came in and we had a long discussion. Fascinating man, Sidwin was. We’d get together for lunch every once in a while after that, and I grew to admire him in a way I never thought possible. My dream was to eventually open a bookstore when I retired. Sid helped me get it off the ground.”

“You have a bookstore, here? In Terrance?”

“Sure,” he said. He fumbled in his pocket before drawing out a yellow business card and handed it to me. “Here you go, Harmony Books down on Uvalde. Pay me a visit before you leave again, maybe I’ll have some gems for you.” I took the card and stuffed it into my pants pocket without looking at it. It was good to know that Grandaddy had moved on, that he wasn’t dwelling on my absence too much. That he’d made a friend. Still, something bothered me about this man. There was something he wasn’t telling me.

“You said he came to visit you at the university. Why?” Lanston lifted his head up to the small window near the top of the wall. The moon pushed higher into the sky, fighting for every extra inch in that dark tapestry. Its light shone down through the window into our corner of the bar, bathing us in a pale, cold glow. Lanston looked down at the table and the empty glass sitting in front of him.

“Sometimes,” he said, “it’s better to let the past stay in the past.”

“You’re a history professor. How can you of all people say that?”

He sighed and looked down. “Adem, if this is something you feel like you have to know, then I’ll tell you. I have no reason to hide the truth from you, son. But I’m warning you right now, you won’t like the answer.”

I pulled my chair up to the table and leaned over, waiting for his eyes to meet mine. When they finally did, I said, “Tell me.” For a long time he said nothing. Then, he spoke.

“Do you believe in demons?”

“No,” I answered without hesitation.

“Well, your Grandaddy did. He didn’t just believe in them in the general sense, that they’re out there somewhere making people do bad things and generally stirring up trouble. No, Sid believed in them on a very personal level. Sid saw the earth-demon with his own eyes.’

I stood up to leave. “If you’re going to spit out a bunch of bullshit, that’s fine, but you’ll have to spit it in someone else’s face. Thanks for the drinks, Professor.”

“Have you heard it yet?” Lanston asked. “The song?”

I stopped. “What song?”

“I think you know what song, Adem. Come on, sit back down.” I hesitated, then sat and waited for him to continue. “It rises from the earth, calling the demon to its prey, leading the martyr to his doom.”

“What the hell are you talking about, professor?” My head was spinning, trying to make sense of what he was telling me. The alcohol didn’t help.

“Let me tell you a story to help explain. The Comeaux family’s legacy is a long and sad one, I’m afraid. Sid’s grandfather Wesley, which would make him your great-great-grandfather, he was a poor man. Poor in earthly possessions and poor in moral character. If there was a con, bribe, or gambit he could work himself into, he was there.”

“Watch it, that’s family you’re talking about.”

“I’m just telling you what Sid told me. Anyway, Wesley Comeaux was a bastard, if you want the long-and-short of it. Luckily for society, none of his plots ever succeeded in earning him a dollar more than he started out with. He finally decided that it was time to make an honest living, but back then, any man who wanted to do so needed land. Wesley had none. So, being the kind of man he was, his only option was to make a deal with someone unsavory, someone Faustian, someone positively oozing with the pure essence of evil.”

“Are you going to tell me that my great-great-grandfather made a deal with the devil?”

“The devil? Hell no son, he made a deal with the church!” Lanston chuckled, obviously pleased with himself. “The church owned a significant piece of land on the outskirts of town that nobody else wanted, including them. This land had a dark history, shrouded in paganism, voodoo lore, satanic cults, all the evils of this world. The church was simply the latest in a long line of despicable owners. Their only requirement was for Wesley Comeaux to donate fifteen-percent of his earnings to the church for the next ten years, and the land was his. He obliged.”

“Why are you telling me this, professor? What does it have to do with anything?”

Lanston took a deep breath, now looking deadly serious. “It is everything, Adem. Wesley Comeaux didn’t know it, but when he took possession of that land, he cursed your family. Do you know what happened to the Church the day after they signed the contract with Wesley?”

I shook my head. I was beginning to think I didn’t want to know.

“The papers coined it ‘The Terrance Tragedy.’ The Pastor, church staff, board of deacons, and all of their families were holding a business meeting in the church sanctuary when a boiler in the cellar below them over-pressurized and blew. The explosion killed all thirty-eight men, women, and children, and the resulting fire burned the church down to cinders. It’s in the library archives, you can go look it up.”

“That’s horrible,” I said, “but I still don’t understand—”

“I’m getting there, son. You see, this land that Wesley purchased, it came with a big qualifier. I asked you earlier if you believed in demons, and you said no. Well, neither did Wesley Comeaux before he owned that land, and neither did Sid until he saw it for himself. When the demon came to him, the earth would sing.”