TOPS BAR

Greeting Hairballers,

A short fiction offering from WiskeySteps this week.  Enjoy.

TOPS BAR©

WhiskySteps

He went that day, away from the harvest that took all his time.

Looking for a spot to rest, the work had taken its toll.

He was a kind man, who sang at Tops bar every Saturday night. The crowd was overflowing on this eve, not a single soul wanted to leave. Some think he walked away that night after singing at Tops, some folks think he drifted off through time, others knew better, he just wasn't that way.

Twenty years, give or take have passed. People still mention him from time-to-time, just a passing thought, a distant memory.

Tops bar closed with little fan fare, business was slow, but the sign remains, hanging askew over the entrance to the empty building.

Not many people in town anymore, the factory and farms have all shut down. Most who remain are on welfare, nobody cares. Despair has settled in, only memories linger of that life that had been so abundant.

Then one night the light at Tops went on--the tattered wires no longer dead. On this night that dingy sign, that hung loose for as long as folks could remember, came to life and brought a few to tears. Music could be heard softly escaping from time’s tomb, as if the clock turned back to those prosperous years. His voice could be faintly heard crawling up the deserted streets; a curious scent of hot dogs and sauerkraut, Tops favorite fare, was in the air.

People came out of their homes to gaze up and down the street. Were those long forgotten days about to repeat? As quick as it happened that's how fast it did end, the lights flickered out, the music drifted away to the midnight sky and around the bend.

Some said he came back, to offer one last memory of how things used to be.

Hairballs to all,

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