A Grief That Never Ends
By: Timothy O'Neill
Tags: Grief, Short Fiction, Short Story, Fiction, Dogs

A Grief That Never Ends

Image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay

Atlas had been dead for ten minutes, but Roman couldn’t let go of the husky Rottweiler. Eventually his mother stepped in the room and gently pried his arms free and led him away.

“He wouldn’t want to see you like this, Roman.”

“They can’t have him. He’s too good for them.”

“Who is ‘they’?”

“Fate, the angels, God, whoever. He’s too good for the whole mess of them.”

“Did you have to come here after you’d been drinking?”

“You prefer I not come at all?”

“You know it hurts me to see you like this.”

“And it doesn’t hurt me?”

Roman tore his mask off and stormed out of the animal hospital and took off into the night. He walked down the edge of the highway until he came to a shopping plaza. Eventually he found a restaurant that was still open. They were only serving patrons who were willing to brave the cold. Roman was willing. Nothing mattered to him now, he said to himself. A life without Atlas was no life. Atlas had seen the best in him and forgiven the worst. When he was walking Atlas drunk he had slipped and fallen. Atlas had walked back to the house to get help. There would never be another Atlas. There shouldn’t be a single Roman.

“Jack and Coke, please,” he said to the waitress sweetly.

“Do you have ID on you?”

He pulled out his wallet and handed her his license.

“Thank you, sir. And just so you know, we’re requiring all customers to order food with their drinks. It can be anything. Could even be a dessert.”

Roman scanned the menu.

“I’ll have the buffalo fingers.”

“Alright I’ll have those out to you in a few minutes.”

If there had been wind it would have been intolerable. They had brought out heaters, but they barely took the edge off. If he wasn’t drunk he would have already left.

He looked around. He was the only one out. Why didn’t they just close up shop for the night? Strange.

“You’re wondering why we’re still open?” One of the hostesses asked him.

“Yeah.”

“For one customer. Comes every Thursday at eight. Tips thousands of dollars.”

“What does he order?”

“Salmon salad with a double gin and tonic. Every time.”

“That’s crazy.”

“That’s the restaurant business.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Roman put his head in his hands and thought about Atlas. Atlas had gone blind in the final year of his life, but this didn’t stop him from being the best creature that Roman had ever known. When Roman came down with a bad case of strep throat and was laid up on the couch, Atlas lied down on the rug below him and growled whenever anyone got too close. Roman would have to tell Atlas their name, and they would have to pass the smell test. Then they were allowed free passage. Then there was the time when he took Atlas swimming in late October. They went to the river and Atlas went fetching for the stick that Roman hurled out into the frigid waters.

A woman had stepped up and accosted him.

“The water is too cold. That’s abuse!”

“Move along, lady.”

“I’m reporting you.”

Atlas swam for another half an hour and received a heaping bowl full of kibble, rice and chicken when he got home, plus a dab of whip cream for dessert.

“My boy. My sweet boy.”

“Here you are, sir. Your buffalo fingers and your drink.”

“I don’t want to finish this glass.”

“Are you driving?”

“No, I’m walking.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He poked at the fingers, but he wasn’t hungry. He finished the Jack and Coke in two deep swallows, then checked the time. It was 7:55. All of a sudden there was a flurry of activity. Apparently everyone knew the drill.

“He only talks to one person each night,” the same hostess mentioned to him.

“How does he choose?”

“No one knows.”

“Are you going to make him sit outside?”

“He knows the rules.”

Interesting. Who was this mystery man? He supposed he would soon find out. Just then a black limo pulled up outside of the restaurant and a heavy set man in a white suit stepped out. He waved to the driver and walked up to the front door.

You could hear a pin drop.

“Hello there, Mr. Weave!”

No response.

Two waitresses led him out onto the patio.

“We have blankets,” one waitress said.

He waved her off.

“I’ll get your salad ready for you.”

“And I’ll get your drink.”

They looked at each other and shrugged. Apparently he still hadn’t made up his mind.

Mr. Weave locked eyes with Roman. His face was exceptionally round. And tan. He looked like he might be Italian. But Weave wasn’t Italian. He was stout but not fat. He moved with a stiff grace. Out from under his bushy black eyebrows peered the brightest set of green eyes Roman had ever seen.

“It’s you,” Mr. Weave announced in a booming voice that took Roman by surprise. If he wasn’t hammered he would’ve jumped out of his seat.

“Me?”

Weave strode over to his table and took the seat across from him.

“You need money?”

“No. Thanks though.”

“Excellent. So what do you need, my friend? And you can call me Elias. Your name is…?”

“Roman. I don’t need anything.”

“Nothing in the whole wide world? Would you say you are richer today than you were yesterday?”

“No. I’m much poorer.”

“And why is this?”

“My best friend died tonight. My dog, Atlas.”

“Had you known each other long?”

“Thirteen years.”

Weave cackled.

“Oh, ah, ah, oh, ah. Thirteen years he says. You are a funny one, my friend.”

Roman’s blood was up.

“That’s more than half my life.”

Weave looked at him seriously.

“You truly don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“You knew that dog for 46 million years at least. The truth is buried within you and it haunts your soul.”

The waitresses came out with the salad and the gin and tonic. Roman’s waitress shot him a look while she handed him another drink. He gave her a surreptitious nod.

“Ah gin. Hard to go wrong with gin.”

He sipped it slowly, then began picking at his salad.

“The finest salmon in fifty miles.”

“What are you talking about, 46 million years?”

“That was my mistake. I thought you were here because you knew. I was in error. Your grief is your grief and nothing I say or do will change what is in your heart.”

“I need to know.”

“Will it kill you not to know?”

“It just might.”

“A feisty one. I like this.”

“Please explain.”

Weave took another sip of his gin and tonic and sat back in his chair. Roman noticed their interaction was being watched by the entire staff.

“You are a child, yes?”

“I’m relatively young.”

“You say this because you see a young man in the mirror, but this is not indicative of the state of your soul. Your soul is ancient. You are caught in a time loop. We all are.”

“A time loop? Like Groundhog’s Day?”

“More or less. But without being able to remember the events of the previous days, so we cannot learn or grow from our experience. We are but frames being projected onto a screen and we are given the appearance of tangibility. However,” suddenly Weave sprang at him and poked him in the arm with his fork. Roman nearly fell out of his seat.

“What the hell?”

“However, we are not really where we think we are and we are not really doing what we think we are doing. We all go about doing our activities of daily living rarely, if ever, realizing that our souls are in distress, because they have been doing this for millions of years. This isn’t a planet, it’s an asylum.”

“I just want Atlas back.”

“And you shall have him back! Just be patient.”

“That’s a cruel thing to say.”

“This is why you never see me on the nightly news. Because even lonely drunks don’t buy what I’m selling.”

The waitress stopped by to see if they needed anything. Weave pointed at the empty glasses. She picked them up and tromped back inside.

“They think you’re ruining their night.”

“Am I?”

“Not at all.”

“Where’d you get all your money?”

“Wise investments. Where’d you get your morose attitude?”

“From my father.”

Weave laughed.

“Very good.”

Roman stood up.

“You’re leaving?”

“I’m stretching. It’s cold out here.”

“Your body is telling you it’s cold. But are you cold?”

“What’s the difference?”

Roman sat back down with a sigh.

“We receive an inconceivable amount of sensory input every second of the day and night. It is all processed and filtered in a way that gives us the best chance at surviving in our environments. But if you are confident the cold is not a threat to you, you can filter out those messages. I do not feel cold.”

The waitress was back with their drinks.

Weave took out his wallet and handed her five hundred dollars.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Weave. You just made my night. With all the shutdowns my husband hasn’t been-”

Weave, rather callously Roman thought, waved her off and she disappeared back into the restaurant.

“She was trying to express her gratitude.”

“She was trying to make her case to herself as to why she deserved it. Everyone is struggling.”

“I think you are pretty cold.”

Weave clapped his hands like a child about to receive a lollipop.

“Oh, wordplay! What a joy!”

“Could I sober up if I wanted it badly enough?”

“You could sprout wings and fly away if you wanted it badly enough.”

“And yet here you sit.”

“I’m an earthbound spirit. 1000 years ago I was cursed by a witch to live forever. Little did I know that forever inside of forever is a very long time indeed.”

“So how do we escape?”

Weave shrugged.

“I never escape.”

“And me?”

“If I remember correctly it’s your grief over this ‘Atlas’ that kills you. You take a mix of pills and walk out into a blizzard to find a good place to die. You slip into a coma and you never wake up.”

“Holy shit.”

“It’s a sad story. But aren’t they all?”

“There is a snowstorm moving up the coast. Should hit us by Thursday.”

“I think that’s the one.”

“That’s how I die?”

“Yes.”

“But now I can change it, right?”

“You’ve asked me that 3096 times and every time it ends the same way.”

“But you haven’t seen me in awhile it sounds like.”

Weave nodded.

“That’s true.”

“So this could be the time everything changes. For both of us.”

“Hope springs eternal. I knew you looked familiar. What have you been doing with yourself for the last 5 thousand spins?”

“Living and dying, I guess.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps.”

The waitress came over to them again and asked if she could get them anything else. Roman ordered the tiramisu while Weave handed her another wad of hundreds. She nearly skipped back inside. Roman saw her hug the other waitress.

“What do you mean, perhaps?”

“Strange things happen to you when you get close to an exit point. Like this, for example. They’re meant to give you one more chance at righting the ship before you go down.”

“An exit point?”

“Before incarnation each soul agrees upon certain exit points along its journey should life on Earth ever prove too traumatic for it to endure.”

“I don’t want to die. I just want my fucking dog back.”

He started to cry.

“Don’t be so glum, chum. You’ll get to know the infinite peace and ecstatic bliss of the Creator before the next lap.”

Roman picked up his glass and hurled it at the brick wall of the restaurant. It shattered on impact and the manager came rushing out.

“I’m calling the cops.”

“Two thousand dollars for another gin and tonic.”

The manager shook his head.

“Keep him under control, Mr. Weave.”

“You have my word. Sit down, Roman.”

Roman, huffing and puffing like he had just run a marathon, sat back in his seat.

“Sadness and anger and booze. A lethal cocktail.”

“Fuck it.”

“You’ll be taking your exit, I suppose? What would Atlas want?”

“Atlas would want me alive,” Roman said between gritted teeth.

“And there you go. Let his memory motivate you to chase the good things in life. To die now would be such a waste.”

With that Elias Weave stood up and stuck his hand out. Roman took it and they shook.

“Until next time, Roman.”

“Until next time.”