The Small Hours
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I used to go into this bar; it was called MacKeever’s. I’d stop by two or three times a week when my work was done. I’d drink pints of Guinness, shots of whiskey, and I’d throw darts. It was a neighborhood bar, and I always felt comfortable there. The owner, Tim MacKeever, inherited it from his dad, and before that, well, who knows. Sometimes I’d throw darts with Tim, he was a ringer, he was the best dart player I’d ever seen. Tim only had one arm, and he liked to tell people different stories. "Oh-yeah, it was the war, I lost it in Vietnam," or "shark attack in the South Pacific," or "I was mauled by a lion in Africa." Nobody really knew. I heard it was an elevator accident that went bad. Whatever the truth was, I didn’t know. Tim was the only one who knew for sure. I’d been coming into the bar for a long time. I knew all the regulars, except the blind man that always sat alone at the end of the bar. He was there every time I had been in. I asked Tim about him. He told me the man came in every day when they opened, and left just before closing. The man would mumble to himself, but never talked to anyone. Tim said the man had been coming into the bar as far back as he could remember. The old man wore dark sunglasses and a wrinkled suit. He had a white cane leaning against the bar, and he was nursing a draft beer. I was curious. I asked Tim for another pint of Guinness and a draft for the old man. I took the beers to the other end of the bar, and sat the draft in front of the old man. "Mind if I sit next to you?" I asked. "It’s a free world," he mumbled. I sat down and took a sip of my beer. The man reached out and touched the full mug that I had set in front of him. "Why did you buy me this beer?" he asked sharply. "What do you want?" "Nothing," I said. "You looked like you needed a refill, and I hate to drink alone." "I prefer my solitude." I started to get up, and then he reached out and touched my arm "No you can stay," he said. "Thanks." We sat together in silence for a while, drinking. Finally I said, "My name’s Frank." He thought for a moment, "My name is Christian, Christian Moreland. Nice to meet you Frank." He stuck out his hand. I shook it. I could feel him trembling. He was old, but it was hard to tell just how old. I looked into his wrinkled face. He looked ancient. I asked him if he wanted another beer. "You rich or something?" "No, just got paid" I said. "What do you do?" "I’m a boilermaker, I work down in the shipyards." Our beers came and he raised his glass in a silent toast. It was quiet for a long time. We drank our beers for a while, and then he finally said, "I’ve done some boiler work. I was in the Navy during the big war." "What war was that?" I asked. "World war two," he said. "Then when the war ended, I was a Merchant Marine for fifteen years, till I went blind." I hesitated for a moment, "An accident on board?" "No, I went blind in a dream." Now I was confused, "What do you mean?" Christian took a sip of his beer, and cleared his throat. "I was living in a basement apartment," he began, "waiting on a ship. One night I had a dream I was in a fog. The fog was so thick; I couldn’t see my hands in front of me. I heard the sound of a train. It was getting closer. The whistle blasted in my ears. I kept turning and looking, but all I could see was the fog. The train roared, it seemed to be right on top of me. Then a bright light burned through the fog. It was right in front of me. I stood there frozen, staring into the bright light. The whistle blasted again, and I woke up." Christian paused for a moment, and took a sip of his beer. "What happened then?" I asked. He cleared his throat again and said, "It was winter and very cold. When I woke up, I was wrapped in my blanket, my cocoon. I felt warm and safe, but I had to piss. I didn’t want to leave the bed, but the urge was too great. It was black, black as night, it always was in that basement apartment. There were no windows, so unless a light was on, you couldn’t see anything, not even a shadow. It didn’t matter though, I knew my way around in the dark. My bare feet touched the cold floor, and it sent a shiver down my back. I walked to the bathroom in the dark, like I had a hundred times before. I flipped on the light switch. Nothing happened. ----, I thought, the bulb burned out. I reached under the sink; I had some spares on a shelf there. I found the box and took out a new one. I was amazed how well I was doing in the dark. I reached up to remove the old bulb and burned my hand when I touched it. I realized at that moment, the light was on, and I could see nothing. I WAS BLIND! And I’ve been blind ever since." There was a long pause. "No ----?" I asked. "No ----," he said. "You ever been to a doctor?" "Sure, but they’re all quacks." We finished our beers, and I said, "So long." I saw Christian again many times after that night, always at the end of the bar, in the same seat, and always alone. When he’d hear my voice, he’d greet me. I always bought him a couple of beers, and we would talk. Time passed. One day I came into the bar, and he wasn’t there. I asked Tim if he’d seen him. "Not for a couple of days," he told me. "Do you know where he lives?" I asked. Tim wasn’t sure, but he thought he lived in one of the boarding houses at the end of the block. I walked along the street and looked at the run-down buildings. I came to an old hotel, the sign on the window read ‘Rooms for Rent.’ I walked in and asked the guy at the desk if Christian Moreland lived here. "You a cop?" he asked. "No, just a friend." A woman sitting in the lobby said, "That blind old fool didn’t have any friends." "You know him?" I asked. "They took him out of here this morning." "Who took him?" "Ambulance took him to County Hospital this morning." "Thanks," I said. I walked back to MacKeever’s, got on my motorcycle and went down to County Hospital. After getting the run around for a while, I found him in a hallway, lying on a gurney with other charity cases. Discarded like human waste. I put my hand on his forehead and said, "Christian, it’s me, Frank." He smiled and took my hand. "What’s wrong with you?" I asked. "Old," he said. "I sure could use a beer though." Formats Book Details Frank Childs short stories are not pretty. They're not meant to be. What is beautiful, however, is their sheer brutal honesty. The stories he writes are full of craziness, whisky soaked dreams, despair, pain, and ultimately, the Gods honest truth. These slice-of-life narratives speak plainly, but they also speak from the heart. Scratch the surface of Frank's stories and you'll also see hope, beauty, empathy, and most of all, love. Read this book yourself so you can experience their sublime ugly honesty. Long after the words fade you'll still sharply remember the emotions those words evoked. To go forward, I’ll have to go backward a little ways. Writing, for me, has always been something I just do. It’s never been about writing a bestseller, or winning a prize, or making a lot of money. I just like to write my thoughts down on paper. I got into the habit several years ago when my daughter Alaina was little. She lived near one ocean and I lived near another. So for years I had the world’s largest telephone bills. I would make up stories to tell her. Always about the good and evil between squirrels, cats, dogs, spiders, dragons, plaid sheep, people, and various other creatures that walk under our yellow sun. As the stories went to paper, people took notice, thinking only that I was a writer of children’s stories. Little did they know that I had another side to my storytelling. It has always been there. I just don’t share it with anyone. I keep it locked in away a little world that is my own. Late, after midnight when the world is asleep and my imagination and memories are clipping along at a good pace, I like to put my thoughts down on paper. It’s a time I call The Small Hours...
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