Inspired by the painting 'Nighthawks' by Edward Hopper.
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My suit jacket is too small. It grips my shoulders so tightly that I feel like I can’t breathe. When I rest my elbows on the glossy cherry wood counter, the sleeves ride up, baring my wrists. But the constricting jacket keeps the dark contained inside of me. I feel like I’m going to burst, that the blackness is going to spill out of me.
I feel like I need more coffee.
I ask the soda jerk for more, the knotted, quiet words fall from my mouth. He’s young, blond, a good-looking kid. I feel a little sorry for him that he’s working so late, serving a hung-over mess like me.
I know he pities me even more. I can see it in his wide eyes as he pours me another cup. The steam rises up from the mug and climbs in front of my eyes like a shroud. Like a curtain closing in on the finale. No cream, no sugar. I drink it black. I can see a twisted face in the coffee, I see my reflection as if I’m gazing into an ebony mirror.
On the other side of the counter in the obnoxiously lit diner, a couple is sitting together. What a handsome pair. The chap is wearing a suit similar to mine, but it’s clean. His redheaded girl with her wine-colored dress is perched up on that stool like a cardinal. I hear them whispering and I shift the brim of my hat to hide my eyes so they don’t know that I’m watching them.
I wonder if they’re talking about me.
“You said it’d be too late to get a coffee,” the man chuckles, a cigarette sticking out of the side of his lips. Despite his gray hat streaking shadows over his face, his wild green eyes are still bright.
The woman brushes a copper curl from her shoulder and grins slightly. Every inch of her face is sparkling. “Midnight is an impractical time to get coffee. That’s all I said.” She eyes a packet of sugar in her slender fingers before she tears it open and puts the contents into her cup.
The man adjusts his tie and flattens his crisp sapphire shirt beneath his jacket, “Phillies is always open. Ain’t that right, son?” The soda jerk is startled and lifts his eyes to the man, nods once and then continues wiping down the counter.
I lower my face to my mug, no longer interested in their petty conversation. I let the sound of a radio in the kitchen smother their words. The way the bloke looks at the woman, the way he touches her reminds me that I’m alone. I don’t have any girl on my arm, any rare beauty to call my own. I sleep down in the subway every night. I’m a nobody, a wanderer, a drinking man wearing a jacket that’s a size too small.
The darkness stretches inside of me. I feel it circling in my throat. It’s thirsty. But not for coffee. I pull a silver flask out from my jacket pocket and splash a generous dose of rum into my cup. The blond soda jerk sees this and he approaches me. “I’m sorry sir, alcohol isn’t allowed at Phillies. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”
I stare at him, then drink the contents of my mug. The rum burns as it claws down my throat. I nod to him, slap some quarters onto the counter from my pocket, and tumble off the stool. I turn to look at the young lad before I go. His white outfit is glowing in the florescent lights of the diner. He looks like an angel. I think this is going to be the last time I ever see him.
The darkness inside my throat tells me it is.
I am saddened, but I know it’s just being honest. The dark is always honest.
The couple glances over at me, concerned. I remove my hat and attempt to bow for them, but as soon as my hat leaves my head and brown strands of hair fall over my eyes, I forget why I want to bow in the first place.
I can’t remember how to bow. And the curtain is closing in.
Then, I’m stumbling across the sidewalk; the light of the diner casts long, fearsome shadows in front of me. The city is empty and cold, there’s no life left, it seems. I stop for a moment, dizzy, and then I’m violently sick on the street. I don’t have a girl, a nice suit, a home, a bed. All I have is this flask of rum, a glowing café at my back, and the dark inside me.
The darkness tells me I’m alone.
The honesty stings.
I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. My legs feel like lead as I drag myself toward a bridge up the path. The bridge looks mighty beautiful. It’s my salvation.
When I reach the middle of the crossing, I look down at the black torrent of water rushing below the bridge. Black life coffee. I see my reflection in it; the current distorts my face so that I look sinister. I see hell inside of me.
I see the darkness. The dark has many names: alcoholism, depression, paranoia, dementia. I don’t like those words, though. They’re too cold. Too cold for my old friend.
I take one last swig of rum and then throw the flask into the ebony river. The rum tastes like metal on my tongue, like silver in my lungs.
The devil in me tells me that I’m all alone. He tells me to jump.
I do.
I plummet through emptiness, through the darkness and air. Then I hit the water. Its iciness feels like razors. The violent waters drag me under and I see the black waves at last closing around my eyes, like sweeping curtains falling down on me.
As the darkness roars out of my mouth, hands, and eyes, it possesses the waters. It urges me to sleep. But I know I will not be sleeping—I don’t understand why my friend is lying. I can’t breathe, but it has nothing to do with my jacket that’s too small. The shadows and water have taken away my shoes now, my socks. They have torn my jacket from my arms and shredded my shirt so that I am naked.
I don’t feel anything anymore.
I see now what it looks like when the curtains are finally closed.
It looks like oblivion.
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