[Wesley]

Synopsis: This is a short story that is part of a larger one I've been working on for some time. The entire thing is based on Edward Hopper's painting "Nighthawks". The time line is somewhere between World War Two and 1961.



It happened in a bar outside of John's patrol route. It was always better to drink outside your district in hopes you wouldn't be recognized.

Several patrons were talking loudly in the corner, and, for the most part, they were unintelligible.

John sat at a small round table drawing on a napkin, and there were a lot of men in pinstriped suits to his right talking with an Asian fellow. The lights were lower than when he had first come in, and John checked his watch. Sure enough he had been on duty for almost three hours. He had already eaten two turkey sandwiches at the start of his shift, so getting drunk might be a little bit more difficult. Maybe he would get fired today.

'It's getting hot in here,' John thought. He wanted to remove his jacket and considered staying longer. No, his gun would show, and who knew what kind of people were in here?

There was another man seated at the table next to John. He was thirty, and looked irritated. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair, along with a red tie that was obviously old. The table was full of messy napkins, and Betsy had now picked up five or six of their cheapest beer bottles. His name was Dennis, but no one in this place knew that. It didn't matter though; he had only been here once, and now had ordered a second shot of spirits to really do him in.

The tall girl with "Betsy" on her name tag placed another coffee on his table as John looked toward her, and her messy blonde hair.

"Not drinkin' this evenin'?" John shook his head "No."

She smiled as she walked away; then John looked smug as he spiked his coffee and slid the flask back into his coat pocket.

The radio was playing loudly, so, of course, some drunk fools and their ladies got up to mingle, then danced, and there was not much room for dancing.

It was time to leave. John stood with his right hand flat on the table, "Easy," he said in a long sigh. With an hour of drinking behind him and seven more of mindlessly driving around town to look forward to, John stuffed is hat down on his head and tried to straighten his tie.

The Vietnamese man cupped his hand to his mouth and without regard to his thick accent hollered across the room to a fat man passing out sandwiches, "Hey Mac! Another round!" He nudged a younger man with curly red hair and the two continued laughing.

Dennis hadn't noticed the Asian amidst all the pinstriped suits. He turned his whole body with one finger pointing toward them. Dennis looked around the room, confused, as no one here seemed bothered to have a foreigner in here. He shifted around and pulled John lighlty by the coat, "You see that? Some gook barking orders at a white American!"

John swallowed the dryness in his mouth, "Unbelievable." He didn't care. He picked his cigarrettes from the table.

A fat man was laughing loudly at everything the smaller Vietnamese man said. Although he could hardly understand his English, the man brought a new business venture that promised a huge amount of income for all the men in pin stripe suits.

"Got a smoke, do ya?" Dennis wanted one.

John sighed and obliged. They lit them one after the other

"Got a minute?"

'No,' John thought. "What?" He said.

"You a cop?" Dennis motioned his chin to John's .45 under his left shoulder, "Your coats open, pal."

John cursed himself and pulled his jacket, "Yeah, I gotta go."

Dennis pulled on him again, "Wait up, pal. You can kick that gook outta here, right?"

"If he commits a crime, call the cops," John couldn't find enough change in his pockets to pay his tab. Now he was drunk and angry. He yanked his wallet out of his back pocket.

"Watch this, pal." Dennis smiled like a school child and mischief shone in his eyes.

John wasn't paying attention. He had found money for his tab and he was leaving this trouble magnet.

"Go back to China, you buck tooth gook!" Dennis stood from his chair and looked back at John, "You watchin', pal?"

John's stomach churned.

The man was Vietnamese. Dennis and he stared at each other, and Dennis yelled that the bar doesn't serve rice and that America has plenty of railroads.

"What you think this is in this box? Party toys?!" His broken English was understandable enough and the man pointed angrily at his breifcase as he held it. Dennis didn't mind the yelling and laughed, "You hear that voice, pal?"

John stood there, cigarette drooping from his mouth. 'Leave!' His mind was screaming. 'Why did I come here?' His eyes were shifting between the loud mouth and the Asian man as everything was silent now except for the very loud music.

Dennis slapped his table several times and threw out some inane sentences as the little man stood up. Dennis was really pleased with himself. Some of the men in pinstriped suits were standing up from their seats, and Dennis yelled, "Nobody wants you here, Ghengis Kahn! Go back to gook-land!"

John Malone wasn't going to arrest anyone; he was drinking on the job. In a flash, thoughts raced into his head and he realized that he didn't actually want to get fired; he needed this job. John was now in a situation he could not have foreseen, next to a drunk loud- mouth jerk in a town in which he had no excusable reason to be with zero authority, on duty, and higher than a kite.

When reality sat in it was too late. Dennis had provoked the man enough and they targeted each other. The Vietnamese man in the pin stripe suit pulled a pistol from his belt and fired several shots into Dennis' general direction. A couple rounds hit their mark and poor, foolish Dennis crashed to the floor.

Being shot felt like a explosion just above Johns hip as he ran for the door with five or six others. He couldn't believe he had been hit but his right leg wouldn't respond, and a pain like a hot iron ran up his side. Shotgun blasts shook the room from behind the bar and John went deaf, his head spinning. Dennis' brains along with his own blood were all over the front of his suit as he fell into some broken glass inches from the door and a man jumped over his head to escape. John crawled through the double doors and onto the cold, wet sidewalk.

Another shot from inside then two more. Screams came from inside the windows but Johns couldn't hear them. He couldn't let those people die. Or could he? He could run. He could get away.

Some of the men in pinstriped suits had been shot, and some pulled their pistols but they were all crouched behind their tables with at least one hand over an ear. It was so loud.

John pulled himself up onto the wall and a window next to him cracked as another few shots were fired. He couldn't tell who was shooting at whom now. He was very dizzy and heaved all of his dinner onto the broken glass and side walk.

His leg was stiff. 'Run, John. Run.' John pulled the .45 from his shoulder and switched the safety off. His right side hurt so bad, and he couldn't really bring his arm too far from his side. He gripped the pistol with his left hand and leaned on the wall under the window.

John couldn't see much, and the bar was filled with smoke. The men in pinstripes were walking carefully toward the bar like timid dogs. Carefully, the Asian man peered and pointed his pistol over the counter top. He fired once, then dropped the clip and dug another from his pocket, racked a round and fired several more times this time with more confidence.

John had never killed anyone before. His instincts were begging him to turn and flee. He was sweaty, it was cold. Blood stuck his pant leg to his skin and he felt stiff. The Vietnamese man was still on his toes looking and pointing his pistol over the counter when John laid his shoulder into the door and it swung open.

John didn't wait or think when he put his front sight on the Asian man's silhouette and pulled the trigger three times. The Vietnamese man dropped like a rag doll upon itself as he immediately began thinking about his family in Vietnam and the country he left. The events that led him to sell his uncle's opium, and the reasons he had come to America in the first place. He died after a hard few minutes staring up at the ceiling.

In what was a blur to John, he put down the other two gunmen with three well-placed rounds, and a stray fourth that knocked a light out of the wall. None of them had expected him, and had felt sure the threat had been extinguished. The slide was back on John's .45 when it dropped on the floor. On his left side, sunk into the tile floor, he struggled to be pain free. John's blood was warm on his stomach and his suit was twisted firmly in a wad around the neck. He could smell bile and burnt food. His mouth tasted rotten as more of his stomach came up.

John lay there cold, and like a child until an ambulance unit came to him. His hat blew a long way down the sidewalk.

[Ambrose]

This is a good story Wesley. I like the main character, and how resigned to everything he is, just drinking to kill the time and to hell if he loses his job. The turmoil in the bar was unexpected and I feel like I needed to have read the rest of the story to understand what was going on. Still, you handle your characters like a seasoned writer. Some good, solid descriptions kept me reading right to the end. I want to know what happened to John, both after the bar and much much before it. What was his life like? What led him to that fateful night?

I can't believe this hasn't been commented on yet. This is a great piece of fiction. I hope you choose to submit more.

[Vorcla]

Nicely done. Very gritty and realistic. How about Part 2?

[WorldWarCheese]

I have to say I didn't like it. Many times I got confused as to who was who, why the Viet shot anybody, why he shot the bartender, John and others and why he completely executed the bar-tender. I couldn't tell if this was about racism, or just a random gun-story. I mean, who the fuck flies off the handle like that and just assassinates EVERYONE??
Here's some excerpts and stuff:

and Betsy had now picked

Who's Betsy?

five or six of their cheapest beer bottles.

Who's "they" and why the cheapest? Are there more expensive ones? "est" denotes comparison to something, doesn't it?

His name was Dennis

It seemed a bit removed from the initial introduction.

he had only been here once

John or Dennis? And why does this matter?

second shot of spirits to really do him in.

Light drinker, eh? Not really a critique, just a curiosity.

"Not drinkin' this evenin'?" John shook his head "No."

He's in a bar. Why the deception?

without regard to his thick accen

Seriously, this bugged me a little. Why would he not holler to the fat man just because of his accent? The only answer I can see is he might not be understood the first time and would have to repeat himself, which I hardly see as a reason not to call out asa result of an accent.

Although he could hardly understand his English, the man brought a new business venture that promised a huge amount of income for all the men in pin stripe suits.

I don't understand what this sentence says.

The man was Vietnamese

Why re-iterate this? Gook means Vietnamese anyways. The term for Chinese is "chink"

higher than a kite.

You mean drunk? High is generally used for ganja or shrooms or something, not booze.

The Vietnamese man in the pin stripe suit pulled a pistol from his belt and fired several shots into Dennis' general direction. A couple rounds hit their mark and poor, foolish Dennis crashed to the floor.

My thoughts as this happened: WHAT THE FUCK???? Well that was abrupt.

Some of the men in pinstriped suits had been shot, and some pulled their pistols but they were all crouched behind their tables with at least one hand over an ear. It was so loud.

Wtf? He shot the men he was laughing with earlier? Wtf? They have guns? Wtf is going on, really. And this John guy wants to go in and "save" these armed men in pinstripes???

fired several more times this time with more confidence.

He seemed pretty confidant on pulling his piece in the first place.

The Vietnamese man dropped like a rag doll upon itself as he immediately began thinking about his family in Vietnam and the country he left.

Why do I care what the Asian thinks? Why does he regret firing wildly in a bar?

The events that led him to sell his uncle's opium, and the reasons he had come to America in the first place.

A little late for a life story, isn't it?

like a child

What does this mean?

It seems like an attempt at a Die Hard type gritty cop shootout, but it could use some real work IMO. Keep trying, I'll try and keep up with your other works.

[Wesley]

Hey fellas, thanks for the feedback it is very much appreciated!

I agree with you Cheese, it is in fact very choppy and perhaps a little confusing. I think that has a lot to to with the character/environmental exploration I was doing during composition.

Quickly for clarity: Given the time line the "slang" fits accordingly (high, adjective, -er, -est, adverb, -er, -est, noun intoxicated or euphoric under the influence of alcohol or narcotics.) and (1.Gook, n. [1920s+] (orig. US military.) a derogatory term for foreigners, especially south-east Asians, e.g. (in chronological order of use) Filipinos, Japanese, Koreans, and Vietnamese.)

I'm working on communicating tensions and problems such as racism or emotional disorders with out having to spell it out. I think allowing the reader to come to their own conclusion is a very interesting way to mold a story, but the process can be troublesome.

I have also found that some people tend to respond better to the very descriptive and linear while others can follow the less complex with more mental visualization.

I find short scenes like this harder than full chapters.

Thanks y'all.

[WorldWarCheese]

high, adjective, -er, -est, adverb, -er, -est, noun intoxicated or euphoric under the influence of alcohol or narcotics.

What does -er, -est, etc etc etc mean? The description of what you are doing seems to have confused me more than the initial story itself.

(1.Gook, n. [1920s+] (orig. US military.) a derogatory term for foreigners, especially south-east Asians, e.g. (in chronological order of use) Filipinos, Japanese, Koreans, and Vietnamese.)

Yeah, I know. That's the reason I was so confused. You kept on writing he was Vietnamese and then the guy keeps calling him a gook and then says "Go back to China" and you then re-state as a narrator that the guy is Vietnamese. I see why maybe China, just to increase the ignorance level, but you've already established the guy's not Chinese so having to say it all over in a tiny mini-sentence just seems unnecessarily choppy and not conducive to the flow of the story.

I'm working on communicating tensions and problems such as racism or emotional disorders with out having to spell it out. I think allowing the reader to come to their own conclusion is a very interesting way to mold a story, but the process can be troublesome.

I think that those two issues came across loud and clear, it's just the way that they are introduced, and in the end concluded with a wild shootout that came completely out of the blue is what is a little off for me. I see a little Vietnamese businessman get a little loud from alcohol, a white drunk guy sling racist stuff then what seems to be completely out of character the Viet guy just opens up a clinic on removing one's colon with a .9 mm (or whatever).

Do you have a full chapter work you'd like me to read in comparison to this shorter story?

[Wesley]

Cheese,

I don't have a full chapter for this particular scene, sorry. I have an entirely unrelated chapter but it is most likely not what you are looking for.

the -er -est etc etc is like this: High, higher, highest. So it adds the er and est to the word.

Ok, thanks for all the feedback!

[WorldWarCheese]

No prob. This place is to make you a better writer, not tell you you're amazing when we/I find flaws.

And no, any writing is fine. PM me the link, I'd like to read it. You said you write better with longer stuff so I'd like to read some piece you consider better or something to compare, it might help it might not. Either way, I do a lot of story reading on this board regardless.