A cluster of neon signs hang on the window next to the bartender, illuminating his chiseled face in the softly-illuminated room. "Hit me." Begins Bob, shifting another empty shot glass to the side. "Sir, I really think you've had enough." Denied the bartender, gathering the pile of abandoned shot glasses in one hand. The Sunday crowd has cleared out, leaving the bar silent, with the exception of eighties pop music gently playing in the background. Two stationary lamps hang over Bob's head, his bright yellow hard-hat brightly shining under them. "I don't think you understand." Argues Bob, peering from underneath the brim of his helmet. "I need this." He continues, shifting his glance to the bartender's face.
With an understanding look in his eyes, the bartender returns the glance to Bob. His face, sunken, and unshaven. He begins to fill another glass.
"What are you doing with your life, sir?" Questions a man sitting a few stools down from Bob.
He takes a long drag on his cigarette, and flicks his ashes into an untouched glass of Bourbon. Unfitting to the situation, an upbeat 80's song lingers quietly in the background. "I plan on existing until I cease to." Bob retorts in a self-justified tone, irritated to the unexpected, and personal question.
The mysterious man watches the ashes slowly sink to the bottom of his perfectly-ruined beverage. "You're living a miserable life, aren't you?" Observes the stranger, he retrieves a stick of gum from his pocket. "I'd be damned as to why you want to know. I've found my place in the world. I have my privilege to waste away in it. "
There's a long pause between them. The strange man opens the stick of gum and places it in his mouth.
"I want you to get excited about your life." The stranger insists, the cigarette smoke slowly curdling in the air, and rising to the ceiling. Before Bob could open his mouth to reply, the man walks from his seat. He takes a final drag from his cigarette, wrapping it in the foil from the stick of gum. He crinkles it his fist, and discards it on the bar floor. The welcome bell chimes from the mysterious man's near departure. "What a nutcase." Bob murmurs to himself, turning to witness the man taking his leave. A note falls from the man's pocket. "Hey! You dropped something!" Called Bob, hesitant to even assist the man. "It might be important." Bob explains to the bartender, rushing to pick up the piece of paper. Bob stumbles out the door, and the welcome bell chimes from behind him. "Hey!" Bob attempts to gain the stranger's attention.
The man lowers his helmet's visor and revs up his ruby-red motorcycle.
"Sir! You dropped-" Bob's attempted alert was cut off by the strange man speeding down the road. His music echoes down the vacant street as he drives away.
"Wonder what this could be?" Bob questions himself, while unfolding the small piece of paper.
The note says nothing but "The Doctor" followed by a seven-digit number.