The title is taken from a song by country artist Florida Georgia Line.
Jeff has worked at the joint for… well, for a very long time. Longer than most of the youngsters who come in to eat and drink and laugh have been living. He pours from the tap, exchanges glib jokes with the patrons, and keeps an eye on that pool table in the corner (it can get a little rowdy as the night progresses). But in all those years, only two customers have really stood out to him, and surprisingly enough, they pop in within a year of each other... under three months apart to be exact.
The first strides through the door in late November, acting as if he owns the place, all cockiness and leather jackets and gold rings, rumbling up to the curb outside with the purring motor of a old muscle car – a Chevrolet Impala from the late 60s, if he isn't mistaken – and for a moment Jeff is pulled into a well of half-forgotten memories from that classic era.
"You a local?" he asks, pouring a neat glass of bourbon.
The young man, who despite his brash attitude and womanizing smirk (which seems a little too brittle, as if it's missing something, but Jeff shakes off the feeling... it's ridiculous after all) is one of the most polite and well brought-up kids he's ever met, shakes his head.
"No, sir. Just passing through town. I'm visiting..." the moment of hesitation is so brief that Jeff barely catches it, "family."
He hands over the whiskey and the man chugs it down as if it isn't one of the hardest liquors in the house. Jeff finds himself wondering whether the aforementioned relatives are the cause for the drinking, or if he's just one of those guys.
"Family, huh?" he asks, genuinely curious.
The green eyes beam and the man leans forward, all hesitation gone.
"It's my little nerd brother. He got into Stanford."
Jeff visualizes a scrawny kid with cropped hair of the same tow color as his brother's and thick-rimmed round glasses. He chides himself mentally for the stereotype. "Smart kid."
"Yeah," the man replies proudly, motioning for a refill. "He always was a real smart cookie. Top of the class, teacher's pet." He laughs, and rubs his eyes (they look almost misty), nodding his head in thanks as Jeff pours a liberal amount of whiskey into his glass. "'Course, that might've been because of his puppy eyes... because they were deadly, man. Just... whew."
From the rueful look on his face, Jeff suspects that he's been on the receiving end of The Eyes all too many times throughout their childhood. The young man grins fondly, sort of reminiscently.
"Yeah," he says again, softly, as if he's speaking to himself now. "The little bitch."
Spoken by anyone else, the word would have been an insult, but coming from this brother, this big brother, it holds overwhelming affection.
"He's lucky to have a brother like you. Must have been glad to see you," Jeff comments. He isn't prepared for the hurt that flashes across the man's face. It is quickly buried, however, and when he looks up again from his glass, his expression is blank.
"Oh, I don't know."
The answer is carefully ambiguous, and Jeff can't help but feel that the conversation has been abruptly terminated. The man gulps down the rest of his drink and places it on the counter along with a folded bill.
"Thanks," he says, and Jeff can hear real gratitude in his voice.
"No problem."
The man stares at the empty glass for a moment, and then nods and turns to leave.
"What's his name?" Jeff calls after him.
He pauses, hand on the door handle.
"Sam. His name was Sammy."
The use of past tense isn't lost on him, and with that odd air of finality, the man disappears into the night. Jeff thoughtfully clears the empty glass and starts to wipe off the tables, and he wonders.
The second boy – man, after Jeff takes a second look at him and sees the weight bending his posture, the weary expression in his eyes – at first can barely be distinguished from the droves of college students that have passed through, faces ever changing as the years go by, but every one the same. He is tall, lanky, messy-haired, with clear hazel eyes. His books are second-hand (Jeff's developed an eye for that sort of thing) and his jacket has obviously seen better days, but he pulls off his hood as he enters, bringing with him a gust of chill winter air and a whirling cluster of shriveled leaves, and addresses Jeff respectfully as "sir."
It isn't even his politeness that makes him memorable, although goodness knows that well-mannered young men and women are hard to find these days (except for Leather Jacket, and he finds himself wondering suddenly if he'll ever see him again). Jeff dutifully pours him a glass of beer.
The man – boy, because suddenly the loneliness, the lostness, the uncertainty in his eyes makes him look about five years old instead of fifty – reaches out and takes the glass that Jeff slides towards him, and just stares at the amber liquid. Because there are only a couple other customers (it's a weekday near the end of January, after all, not the best time to party, and late to boot), Jeff hangs nearby. There's something about the kid that pulls him in.
"Could I have one more, please?"
The words are quiet but measured. Jeff doesn't see anyone else following him in, nor does the boy give any indication or movement that suggests a future companion, but it isn't his place to question the request so he simply nods and passes him another frothy glass.
Then a small group of warmly bundled students hurries inside, their voices rising high above the former stillness, and he is occupied for several minutes. When his attention is finally drawn back to the boy, he sees the second glass placed deliberately at the place beside him. The boy… man… he still isn't quite sure which, so the kid… is hunched over his beer, as small as he can scrunch his tall (six foot four, six foot five?) frame. He looks halved in a way that Jeff can't quite explain to himself.
"You okay, son?"
He blurts out the words without thinking, forgetting momentarily that he shouldn't involve himself in others' troubles. A tremor runs through the gangling, overgrown body – is it in reaction to his use of "son"? – and the big hazel eyes continue to gaze into the quivering liquid before them (only the top has disappeared). Then they lift slowly, meeting his with solemnity and a hint of sadness.
"I'm fine, thank you."
It's clearly a lie, and Jeff, who is the most staunchly honest person he knows, fixes a stern eye on the kid, who caves immediately.
"It's just… it's just, I don't know what I'm doing," he confides, his voice breaking a little. He sniffles and rubs the sleeve of his faded green jacket across his nose. "I feel like I made a shitty decision that I can't fix… not ever. And I don't want it to cost me something I… I never thought I would lose."
His tone conveys the seriousness of the situation. This isn't the aftermath of a nasty break-up or failed examination; this is different, and must be handled accordingly. Of course, the vague allusions don't make it very easy. Jeff squats on a stool on the other side of the counter.
"You ain't never really lost something until you convince yourself you have, kid," he says, gently.
"You don't know my family, sir."
Ah. So, family troubles. Those are always the worst. Leather Jacket and the kid act about as different as people could possibly get, but it appears they're cut from the same cloth. Guess he should have learned by now not to judge a book by its cover.
"Family, huh?"
This is absurdly déjà vu, but he can't leave the kid to mope.
"Yessir."
He mournfully swirls his beer and sneaks a glance at the full glass beside him. Then he sighs, a little wearily, and pushes it towards Jeff.
"You might as well drink it. It was stupid of me..."
Without meeting Jeff's eyes, he trails off and purses his lips tightly. They sit in silence for a while as the other customers slowly trickle out, Jeff sipping the second beer and the kid staring at his own.
"What if..." Jeff starts at the sudden words. "What if there was a kid, you know, who owed someone practically everything... and then he walked out? Just... just left and never looked back. How do you think that person would feel?"
Jeff tries to think of an answer that will be truthful and yet not condemning. He has a sneaking suspicion about who the "kid" is.
"Honestly, I don't know," he admitts finally. "If I was that person, I guess I'd feel pretty crappy all around. But it depends on the kid's reasons, you know?"
"They were good," the kid insists eagerly, and frowns. "I think they were. But I don't know if that makes up for anything."
"It counts for some."
"I hope so."
He sniffs again and digs around in his pocket for a bit to retrieve a crumpled, dirty bill. It tugs on Jeff's heartstrings (damned sentimental old age) and he waves it away.
"It's on the house, son."
"I couldn't, sir..."
"No," says Jeff firmly, stuffing it back into his fist. "Keep it and scram. And my name's Jeff."
He's treated to a warm and utterly disarming smile.
"Thanks, Jeff."
Leather Jacket shows up again around May. He hasn't changed a bit, and seems to remember Jeff from the last time.
"Bourbon."
"Visiting family again?" Jeff asks while preparing the order.
"Yep."
The p is pronounced with a hard, close-lipped pop. Jeff shoves the glass to the man, wiping his hands on his apron and wincing as his achy knuckles protest.
"Birthday," explains the man after taking his first sip, evidently regretting his curtness.
"That so? Yeah, you need family to celebrate things like that. The profs sure don't."
"Huh," the man scoffs. "I don't know about celebrations. Just sort of... acknowledging its existence." He has an odd look on his face, and bolts the rest of his drink down without a word. "One more, please."
Two is apparently the reigning number around here. Jeff indulges him.
"You've got a beautiful car," he says as he watches the golden liquid slither out of the bottle and twist through the air. Family and birthdays seem to be sore points for the guy, and he can't say that he doesn't get it. "Had one of those myself back in '59. Of course it was turquoise with mile-long fins, but that was the epitome of coolness then."
"Back and then being the key words, old man," the man teases, a twinkle in his eye. But he is noticeably more cheerful. "It was my dad's."
"He has good taste."
"That he does."
"Your mom get any say in the decision?"
Jeff means it as a joke, for him to grin in that conspiring way all children, no matter how old, get while talking about their mothers, but instead the twinkle fades and the cheery atmosphere with it. The man visibly struggles to return to his former joviality.
"Not much," he mumbles, abandoning the effort, and he finishes his whiskey in silence. Jeff withdraws, some intuition telling him that this is none of his business. He has already stuck his oar in two times too many. By the time he comes around to clean up, the man is gone.
"Hi, Jeff."
The day suddenly seems to brighten, and he looks up into friendly hazel eyes. They are lighter and happier than last time, although just as serious.
"Hey." He realizes with pleasant surprise that the kid knows his name. It sends a ridiculously warm and fuzzy feeling trickling through him, and he clears his throat gruffly, scratching his stubbly beard to hide the grin that's threatening to surface.
Puppy eyes fairly beam as the kid turns to a pretty blonde girl.
"This is Jess," he says, with equal parts admiration and shyness in his tone. Jess smiles warmly and squeezes his hand, and Jeff can't keep the ends of his mouth from quirking up. "We'll have... uh... two beers, please."
Jess wanders off to sit down. The kid's hands are shaking lightly as Jeff passes him the two frosted beer bottles.
"Calm down, kid," he murmurs encouragingly. "You're doing fine."
"Yeah. I'm calm." He nods vigorously. "I'm... great. I mean, I can't believe she actually said she'd..." his ramblings grow fainter as he pushes past the other customers, white knuckles clenched around the necks of the bottles. Jeff smiles. The kid needs a family. Maybe this golden-haired girl will help him build one.
It's routine now. The man comes in, always wearing his worn leather jacket, always rumbling up in his old Chevy Impala, he orders a drink, and they exchange a few words. He asks for a second drink, and then he leaves (sometimes after cheating some poor suckers out of fifty or so dollars at the pool table). There's some significance to the number two, and Jeff suspects it has something to do with the little brother named Sammy. He doesn't pry, though, and Sammy's brother seems to appreciate that. Around the third or fourth visit, he finds out that the guy's name is Winchester.
"It's only fair for me to tell you," Winchester says gruffly, putting down his second empty glass. "Till next time, Jeff."
"Next time" is almost guaranteed to be either November or May, with a few random visits sprinkled throughout the year. He knows May is the birthday month, but he isn't quite sure what November is. He doesn't ask.
The kid comes with Jess a few times a month, and upon further observation Jeff notices that he's a star pool player. Eventually Jess suggests he start a sort of pool club, so on Tuesday nights the bar is considerably more rowdy. He manages to keep his friends in line, however, and always makes them clean up after themselves. Sometimes it's more neat after they leave than before.
Admiration turns to awe and shyness to devotion.
"What would I do without you?" Jeff hears him say, his hazel eyes far happier than they have ever been before.
Jess laughs and kisses him. "Oh, crash and burn."
About four years after Winchester and the kid waltz into his life, Jeff takes out the morning paper and his eyes are met with the horrific image of a burned building, its ceiling caved in and its walls charred black. With a vague sense of sympathy for its inhabitants, he begins to read the article.
Students' Apartment Burns Down; One Dead
A few minutes after midnight, a neighborhood near the outer edges of Stanford University's campus was roused by wailing sirens as firemen rushed to put out the flames gutting the home of undergraduates Jessica Moore and Sam Winchester. They were tragically unable to rescue Ms. Moore, Mr. Winchester's girlfriend of more than a year. Mr. Winchester is unavailable for comments, but we hope that he is assured of the support and sympathy of the community as he deals with his loss.
Jeff almost drops the paper. His stomach rolls as he rereads the article.
Jessica Moore. Jess. Oh, crash and burn.
Sam Winchester. The kid. Sam. His name was Sammy.
Leather Jacket. What if there was a kid, who owed someone practically everything... and then he walked out?
It's my little nerd brother. He got into Stanford.
You don't know my family, sir.
The words cloud on the page as Jeff continues to stare at it in shock. In a fit of anger, he swipes the newspaper off the table. It crumples on the floor with a heavy smack. They deserved better, both of them. A family, happiness.
He never sees either of them again.
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