#49 – Dark

Wednesdays are always slow at my bar, and this was no exception. I was glad, too; CNN was running some crazy story about an interstellar battle above Earth. Apparently, we'd been being infiltrated by brain-stealing slugs from space, and we'd somehow figured this out and stopped them. That's the government for you – they don't tell you jack shit until it's already over. Just like Iraq, but with aliens.

I still wasn't convinced that this wasn't some new age War of the Worlds style prank…but that didn't really hold water, considering the same story was on all of the major news networks. The bar was empty, but the horn-honking in the street in front of the building was almost enough to drive me insane. I swear I even heard someone firing a gun into the air; whether the bozo was shooting at aliens or just popping off because he was excited, who knows?

The mahogany doors at the front of my place creaked open, and a tired-looking kid made his way inside. He didn't even glance at me, just made a bee-line for my bar. "Uh, bathroom's around the side," I pointed, sure this kid wasn't going to actually try to get a drink from me.

"I'm not here for that," he said, taking a stool. "I want a drink."

"Wish in one hand, shit in the other," I told him. "You ain't old enough to have a driver's license, let alone a drink."

His weary eyes flicked to the TV screen, then to me. His face might have been all of sixteen, but those eyes…I saw those eyes every Saturday from two o'clock to five o'clock, for the Veterans of Foreign Wars Happy Hour my boss thought up. His eyes had the same glassy, not-quite-there look that the Vietnam Vets got when they were telling their war stories. "You don't know who I am?" he asked.

"Besides too young to be sitting there?" I countered, and he smiled.

"Tell you what – I'll turn into a cobra if you'll fill me a glass," he offered, no hint of joking present in his voice.

"Oh," I said, finally getting it and surreptitiously flipping open my cell to call the cops if the kid freaked out on me. "You're crazy, aren't you?"

He laughed bitterly. "Hell yeah I am. You would be, too, if you were me." He said it in a way that didn't sound crazy at all. He looked around. "Look, man, there's no one here. I can either morph the cobra now or I can do it later. Your call, but you're not going to get in trouble for slinging me a drink. I can double-damn-guarantee you that."

I made a decision. He was right, there was no one there. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a cop in my bar. "If you stop with the bullshit about turning into a snake and tell me why you need it so bad, I'll pour you one."

He sighed heavily, then laughed. "Man, you're going to be telling people about having me in your bar for years," he said, and gestured at the TV. There was a kid his age (though a lot bigger,) standing in front of about sixty microphones and wincing against flashbulbs. He was speaking, but the volume was muted and the closed captioning was about five minutes behind the program. "See that guy? That's Jake Berenson. That's my best friend."

I was starting to wonder if the kid was crazy, or I was, because I was starting to believe him. "Who is he?" I asked.

"That's the guy that saved Earth," the kid said. I poured a double shot of Bushmills into a highball and set it down in front of him, all without taking my eyes off of the TV. About twenty seconds after he told me the TV-kid's name, the name "Jake Berenson" appeared underneath the shot of the press conference.

"What's your name?" I asked as the kid picked up the glass, rolled it between his palms, and then tossed it back. He coughed and winced, showing his stripes as an inexperienced drinker, and croaked, "Marco. Can I get another one?"

I filled him up without thinking about it and said, "So he saved Earth, huh? What did you do?"

Marco stared into the glass dully and said, "I helped." He took half of it down this time, saving the other half.

"So why are you here instead of up there?" I asked, gesturing to the press conference on my flat screen. I found myself believing him, even though I thought I knew I was being deceived. It was like that suspension of reality thing they talk about in plays and movies – I was allowing myself to be deceived for the sake of entertainment.

Like I said, it was a dead day at the bar.

Marco never took his eyes off of the glass. "Oh, there'll be plenty of time for me to be there," he said. "It's never going to stop. I'm in a dark place right now, and I want to stay here for little while. You don't understand, dude. We've spent the last three years in an undercover, secret war. I've murdered people. I've seen the most horrible things imaginable. I have lied to everybody I've ever known and loved hundreds of times. I don't even know who the fuck I am anymore." He tossed back the rest of his drink, and I refilled it before he could ask. "Right now, I just want to get tore up. Just a little. I want to escape. I want to be drunk and tucked away in this little bar for a few hours, where no one knows where I am. Nobody but you, pal."

"Tom," I supplied my name, astounded at myself for believing – actually believing – every word that came out of the kid's mouth, now.

"Tom, then." Marco reached out his hand, and I shook it. He seemed to realize something. "I don't have any money, by the way. But I will," he promised. He sounded both positive of that fact, and completely unimpressed by it. "Keep a tab for me, and I'll swing by in a few days and pay you, plus interest."

"If you are who you say you are – and I believe that you are – this is on me, my boy," I told him earnestly.

He smiled. "Can't let you do that, man. You hooked me up with some sauce before you even knew who I was. In my book, that makes you the president of the fucking world." He looked around again and still saw no one – there was no one to see – and said, "I can go morph into an adult, if you really think you'll get in trouble for serving me. I think the police are busy with other things right now, though."

"Yeah, yeah, hell with the cops," I said distractedly. "You came in here talking about turning into a snake, and now you're talking about changing into another person? Are you an alien?"

"Nah. That's called morphing, and it's how we beat the aliens. Me and my friends." He smiled a little sadly, and it faded almost instantly. "One of my friends died yesterday," he said matter-of-factly. "Rachel. She was…" he seemed at a loss for words how to describe her. He sighed sadly, took another shot of whiskey, and said, "She was amazing, man. You wouldn't believe half of the things she's done if I told you."

My eyes wandered to the TV, and I jumped. A blue centaur with extra eyes was standing at the podium next to the Jake guy. "Yah!" I yelled, unable to help myself. It was just so surreal, that official CNN press conference setting…and something out of a Spielberg movie standing beside a high school kid.

"That's just Ax," Marco said mildly.

"Another friend of yours?" I asked, trying to slow my heart rate.

"Yeah," Marco said. He seemed to realize something. "Jake's brother was named Tom, too. He was a controller." I had no idea what a controller was, but I didn't interrupt. "Rachel killed him, just before she died. Rachel was Jake's cousin." Without warning, he slammed the glass down on the bartop hard enough to crack it. "Don't you understand that?" he yelled, but he wasn't even looking at me. "He ordered his cousin to kill his brother and got her killed in the deal!"

"Calm down, Marco," I tried to soothe him, and to my relief, he did relax.

"Sorry. Sorry. Its…just…I don't understand how he's doing it," Marco pointed an accusing finger at the TV. "I'll take over for him. Soon. I know that. But how is he doing it right now, while I'm here?"

"I don't know, bud, but I'd have to say that if what you're telling me is true, you deserve a little "you" time. Have another one, and I'll put you in a cab and send you home in a little while. My dime," I reminded him.

He smiled morosely. "I'll fly home. How many of your customers can say that? Screw the cab, I'll just turn into an osprey and fly home?"

"That's a first," I said, and he laughed.

He looked down at the drink in his hand, and seemed to realize where he was and what he was doing, like a man waking from a dream. He even said it. "What the hell am I doing?"

"Drinking," I told him, all of a sudden feeling guilty for helping him along in his behavior.

"Yeah. Yeah." His eyes wandered to the screen again. "Where is that press conference?" he asked me.

"San Luis Obispo," I told him, remembering what the TV had said a moment before Marco had walked in.

"That's, what, thirty minutes away?"

"With the traffic? An hour."

He smiled. "I'm flying, remember? Don't freak out when I morph, and open the door for me when I'm done. I'll be by with your money soon. Thanks for everything, Tom." He stood up and took a step back from the bar.

And I'll be damned if he didn't start to change.