3. Hawaiian Shirts and Liquid Gold
Bill adjusted the heavy bag of supplies across his shoulder as a familiar weariness creeped into his body. The fifteen-mile journey back from Boston had taken more than its usual toll. He was cold, hungry, and ready to sleep the night in his own bed.
He stepped onto main road that led into the center of town. Darkness had settled in quickly after the sunset, and he hurried past the familiar outlines of cars that littered the street. The night was quiet except for the crunching of his boots on the new layer of fallen snow.
He rounded the corner, but froze before he took another step. Bill blinked in surprise, momentarily convinced that he was witnessing a mirage. A flood of light flickered behind the wooden boards that covered the windows of the diner. He had never seen the place so brightly lit before. The flames from within propelled him into a run.
. . .
"Frank?" Bill yelled as he pushed open the door. He looked around wildly. Dozens of candles decorated the interior of the diner. They flickered with his movement, but none were in danger of setting the place on fire. He breathed an audible sigh of relief.
"Frank?" he tried again.
"Coming!" Frank replied from the kitchen. He emerged with a silver tray in hand. "You're back early."
"I didn't want to get stuck in the…what the hell is going on here?" Bill finally asked, looking around the room. "The place looked like it was on fire from outside. You fixin' to talk to some dead relatives?"
Frank laughed. "Afraid not, but good guess."
"And what the hell are you wearin'?" Bill asked.
Frank looked down at the repeating pattern of white palm trees against his crimson red shirt. "It's Hawaiian. You don't like it?"
Bill raised his eyebrows. "I go to Boston for three days and you've completely lost your marbles."
"We're having a party," said Frank, as if the explanation was obvious.
"Oh good," said Bill. "And here I thought you were burnin' down every candle we own for some unjustified reason."
"Appetizer?" Frank asked, offering him the tray that contained two rows of saltine crackers topped with canned salmon.
Bill frowned at the other man, but reached for a cracker.
"Smoked salmon crostini," said Frank.
Despite his exhaustion, Bill couldn't help the upward twitch at the corner of his lips. He certainly hadn't expected coming home to this tonight.
"So what's the occasion?" he asked, playing along.
"Our one year anniversary."
Bill almost choked on the cracker. "Come again?"
"One year, well, roughly in the same month at least, since you saved my sorry ass from being eaten alive. I'd say that's a good call for celebration, wouldn't you?"
"Huh. One year." He paused. "It doesn't seem like it."
"I'll take that as a compliment," said Frank. "Wait here. You won't believe what I found inside the same suitcase this shirt was in."
Bill shrugged off the last of his gear and took a seat on one of the barstools. The booths along the wall had been transformed by Frank's candlelight vigil. Along with the fire pits at both ends of the room, it was downright toasty in the diner.
His eyes lit up when Frank returned with a bottle and two old fashioned glasses.
"Is that what I think it is?"
Frank turned the bottle, smiling mischievously as he presented the label. Johnnie Walker Gold.
Bill whistled in appreciation. "Where'd you find that?"
"Third floor, at the bottom of a closet in 315."
"Next to that critter nest I cleaned out last month?" Bill asked.
"Who knew there was a pot of gold underneath all that rat shit, huh?"
Bill laughed at the image. He felt the tiredness leave his body. "Well don't just stand there. Let's get her open."
Frank set the glassware down and poured a healthy serving into each. He raised his glass in a toast. "To being alive."
Bill returned the salute. "Better than the alternative."
"And to good friends," said Frank, looking Bill in the eyes. "Hard to come by, but worth everything in the end."
Bill hesitated, before echoing the toast. "To good friends."
The two men downed their drinks and grinned at each other.
"That was the best fuckin' thing I've tasted in a decade," said Bill.
"Me too," Frank agreed.
They both looked at the bottle.
"We should probably save it," said Frank. "You know, have a little at a time."
Bill considered the proposition, before placing his glass down on the table with an audible thud. "Fuck it. It's a party, right?"
"Okay," Frank conceded, "but before we get too carried away, I have something I want to give you."
Bill was already pouring the next round. He looked up at Frank. "What, like a present?"
"Exactly," said Frank. He disappeared into the adjacent room and emerged with an item wrapped in thick layers of cloth.
Bill gave him a puzzled look. He lifted the heavy object onto the bar top and began to unravel the multiple layers.
"It's my old machete," he finally said, slightly dumbfounded.
"Wait a minute—" Bill picked up the weapon and studied it in the light. "The blade's different." He ran a finger along the edge of the knife, but instinctively pulled it back.
"Son of a—" the sharp pain of sliced skin took him by surprise as blood started to ooze from the wound. "Jesus this thing's sharp."
"Let me see," Frank said with concern. The cut was surprisingly deep; a testament to the sharpness of the blade. He grabbed the nearest towel and wrapped it firmly around Bill's thumb.
"That thing was rusted to hell and duller than a block of wood," said Bill. "You sharpened it?"
Frank nodded, concentrating on the blood that was seeping through the thin towel.
"Must've taken you a long time." Bill sounded impressed.
"I found it when you left a couple of days ago," Frank replied. "Didn't think I'd have it ready in time, but here it is. And hold still," he added, applying more pressure to the wound.
"I can take care of it myself…" Bill's voice trailed off as he watched the other man's movements.
Frank had already started to wrap a piece of electrical tape across the thumb, lining up the edges of the cut to help the wound close properly. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he worked. Bill felt their warmth against his calloused skin, and relaxed into their hold.
After a final examination of the area, Frank placed Bill's hand carefully down on the bar top. "There," he said softly. "That should hold it in place. I don't think it'll need stitches."
Bill blinked as they severed contact. He automatically reached toward Frank, but caught himself in the act. Instead, he rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks and cleared his throat. "Thanks, I…"
"Don't mention it," said Frank. "Now, where were we with the scotch?"