Pants Half Full

Pants Half Full

Hank pushed open the door to the bar and a wave of small sounds and large smells rolled out past him. He took a lanky step over the threshold, trying to ignore the squish of the carpet beneath his nicest pair of boots. Silly to wear them out to this shithole, to catch-up with this lazy sack of fatty tissue. Hank caught a hint of motion, a pudgy hand waved him down from a small table in the middle of the bar. Bart held up an empty beer bottle, pointed to it and held up two fingers.

“Next rounds on me, I guess,” Hank murmured good naturedly. 

He bought the beers and sat down across from Bart. They chatted for a while, friends from driving school catching up after a few months in their new gigs. Endless construction on I-20, broken axles and blown tires, cold fronts and storm fronts, all the usual road warrior bull.

Bart seemed a bit jumpy, like he had something to spill, but needed the right moment. Hank did his best to ignore it and kept joshing around. He laid out a little yarn about a time when he’d counted on a rest station at 4am and found it closed. How he’d surprised himself with a little squeaker of a fart that turned into a seat full of crap. Bart cackled pretty hard at that one and Hank chuckled along with him.

“Oh yeah,” Hank giggled, stretching his long legs and crossing one boot over the other, careful not to scratch them. “Had to pull over and sort myself out. Cab reeked of chili dog runoff. Used up a whole box of wet wipes. Probably wear a diaper next time I make that run...” He trailed off, smiling. Then asked, “How ‘bout you, Bart, ever shit your pants?”

Bart didn’t respond for a moment, the levity had fallen from his face and his eyes had gone out in the distance. He faced the door of the bar, but seemed to stare past it.

“Bart?” Hank persisted. Bart shook himself. He looked at Hank across the wobbly table, looked down at his mostly empty beer, then muttered to himself, “Aw what the hell, ain’t like you’re gonna believe me anyway.”

Hank’s brow furrowed.

“ ‘Course I’ll believe ya. I mean we’ve all done it,” he chuckled. “Nothing to be ashamed of, we’re all just big animals.”

Bart grinned at that, but it felt cold to Hank. Too forced. The big man nodded and leaned forward. 

“A’right, Hank,” he said, “A’right, let’s see… If anyone would believe me… maybe it’s you…” Bart slid his beer bottle to the side and began to act out his story.

“Different bar, but same…” He looked around everything. “Shitty ol’ carpet. Shitty ol’ tables and chairs. Dive bar. Right?”

“Of course,” Hank said. “Where else can a fella drink an honest beer?”

Bart just nodded and plowed on. 

“Friday, early afternoon, still a thin crowd, like this ‘un, but good energy in the place. Not too dark. I grabbed a beer from the bartender and sat at a little table by myself, tapping my foot to the music and waiting on a friend to show up. Jeb, outta Saratoga, you know Jeb?”

“Outta ‘toga? Don’t think so, you don’t mean the Jeb with that bright purple P.O.S. outta Jacksonville?” asked Hank.

“Nahhhh, nah, different Jeb. Drives that big red Mac, has those chrome vampire teeth on the grill?”

Hank shook his head, “Never met him.” Bart shrugged, finishing his beer and pushing it to the side. 

“Doesn’t matter. Anyways, I was sitting there waitin’ on Jeb, wonderin’ how late he’d be. 15 minutes go by, I was ‘bout halfway through that first cold one, the door creaks open behind me, right? I raised my bottle for a swig as I turnt to look, thinking it might be Jeb…” He shook his head and steeled himself. “I saw… I shit you not… I saw myself walk into the bar. I froze up, bottle on my lips watching me walking into the bar.” Hank felt his face draw down, clouding with questions and doubt. “Don’t gimme that look, yet, lemme finish.” Bart said, brandishing a short, fat finger under Hank’s crooked nose. Hank coached his face back to normalcy.

“You can give me that look when I’m done, and you will. Where was I?”

“You saw you walk into the bar,” Hank said, “Cuz you were stone drunk on a bad batch of beer.”

“No no no, first beer. I’d had maybe half of one. Right. So, I watch me walk into the bar. Except,” he tapped the table with a finger. “I had this uniform on though, right? All gray. Looked formal, like a suit, but a full body suit. Like a Star Trek outfit, kinda, you know Star Trek?”

“Bart… where the hell is this going? You found your long lost twin?”

“No… hell I wish,” Bart stared off. “Now hush a minute and lemme finish… Where’s I? Ok, so I saw me, grayish Star Trek uniform. He walked up to me, furtive and quiet like, and sat down across the table… He was trimmer than me and a little older, with a scar across one cheek. Weird. I started to ask what the hell he’s playing at, but before I can speak he holds up a hand.

‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he said, ‘and what I’m not about to tell you will have dire ramifications.’

I know, Hank. I know. That’s exactly how I looked at him. And I said… 

‘I’m about to ramificate one of these beer bottles through your earhole unless you start talking sense.’”

Hank snorted, Bart half-smiled back.

“But he just, well, grinned at me. Then he… shook me up. He said… Uhm…

‘No you won’t’ he said. All calm and cool. He said, ‘You talk bad. But you ain’t harmed a soul in twenty years. Not since Ridley.’”

Bart paused for a moment.

“Who’s Ridley?”

“Dog we had growing up. Cute little thing, loved playing with him when I was a kid. But the little bastard used to yip an’ yip all the time. Used to drive me up the wall. I… I got fed up one day, he just wouldn’t stop… I got mad an’ I… well, I just hit on him for a while.”

Hank stared at Bart for a minute.

“Welllll…” he said, “sometimes a dog’s gotta learn the hard way… you didn’t kill him did ya?”

“Nahhhh,” Bart said, eyes staring a hole in the table. “I shouldn’t ‘a done it. Not like that. Dog never trusted me again, wouldn’t let me near him. But!” Bart rolled his shoulders. 

“I never hit another soul. Hadn’t even killed a spider since then. Never told anyone about that though. Not a soul.”

“Well,” interjected Hank, tipping the beer at Bart, “you just told me… so…”

“No one else,” Bart said, “drunk or sober. Too ashamed. But this asshole, me, knows all about it. Told me so. Made me sick. Then he got to the point. 

‘I’m from the future,’ he said. ‘24 years in the future. I have to go back soon…’ Then he kind of looked around, with this deep, deep sadness in his eyes. ‘It’s an ugly world, where I’m from, but you’re more important than you know. More than this.’ And he gave me this sad little disappointed look. And he said, ‘One day, you’re gonna have to make a difficult choice, and I want to make sure you choose differently than I did. Or thousands of people will die.’ ”

Bart stared at Hank, daring him to challenge it. Hank took a swig of beer and found just the dregs. He sighed and put the bottle down, glancing at it before looking back to Bart. The large man missed the hint, either absorbed in his own cockamamie story or just intentionally obtuse. Hank couldn’t tell, to give Bart some credit. 

“Ok,” Hank said, leaning back in his chair and kicking one boot over the other. “I’ll bite. What’s the choice?”

“Never found out,” Bart said. 

Hank waited. Bart went on. 

“The man…” He paused, hesitant. “Future-me, opened his mouth to tell me what the choice would be and– Bang! Someone kicked open the door behind me and future-me went all white. The color just drained right out of him, right? I turn around and it’s another god-forsaken version of me and this one looks like absolute hell.” Bart shook his head and looked down to the table. “Half his face had got burned off somehow and his arm was gone on this side.” He massaged his left arm, as if missing it already. Hank’s eyes narrowed. “And the limp sleeve had all these stripes and stars on it. Looked like a decent rank.” He shook his head in wonder and disbelief. “He walked up to us, grabbed a chair from another table. I looked at the first version of me, in that crisp uniform, and he looks like he could just keel over any second.” Bart stopped rubbing his arm and leaned over the table, smiling at Hank. “Well I couldn’t help myself, could I? I leaned in and I said,

‘Yeah, it’s a real bitch seeing a future version of yourself, isn’t it? Weird, huh?’

And I laughed!” He paused and his face drew down again. “But only for a second. ‘Cuz I looked at that other version of me… whew. I haven’t been glared at like that… I didn’t even know I could look that mean.”

He sighed and drifted off for a minute, staring at the table. Hank stared at him, empty beers forgotten. Bart shook himself.

“Anyway,” Bart continued, “the third version of me, the wartorn sumbitch, he reaches out with his one arm and grabs the other guy by the chest panel and growls. 

‘It gets worse. So. Much. Worse. You made the right call. Don’t do this.’ And they glare at each other for a moment and then the younger one grabs the hand of the older one and I see… I dunno… I noticed that they both have these little black rings on, see? The older one looks back at me and just says, ‘Pathetic, Bart. Pathetic. You’ll do better. And worse.’ And then he thumbs the ring, I hear this high-pitched whine, the younger one screams, ‘No! No! No! They’ll all die!’ The other one shouts back, ‘It has to happen.’ And then there’s a loud bang and they disappear. No cloud of smoke, no bright lights, just gone.”

Hank’s face had clouded over. 

“So…” he said, grabbing his empty beer bottle and milking the last drop out of it. “That’s it?”

“What the hell do you mean ‘that’s it?’ I saw two versions of my future self who told me I’m going to orchestrate a goddamn massacre, Hank.”

“Right,” Hank said. “O’ course, that’s… plenty strange. But what I mean is…” He let the smile creep across his face. “Well, when did you shit your pants?”

Bart didn’t return smile.

“At the bang,” he said. “When they disappeared. I jumped up and my heart damn near stopped and a little turd dropped right down my pant leg onto the floor.” 

He said it fast, with a tight, straight face. Hank kept smiling 

“That’s one helluva story, Barty,” he said. “Some story.”

“Ain’t no story,” Bart grumbled, leaning back in his chair, clearly put out. He must have hoped Hank would take him at his word. He mumbled on for a few moments, his eyes rolling a little bit and going distant. “ ‘s the truth. Dmanit. Happened. It happened. They were here… I was here…” He ruffled his thin hair and shook his head. “Hell. You don’ have to belie’ me. No one else does. I know it happened. I know it did.”

Hank stared at the hulky drunk giant for another long moment, wondering if he should report him. Seemed like Bart might have been coming apart at the seams. Probably not to safe for him to be driving a rig… or drinking… or doing anything much other than maybe bouncing off the walls of a padded room. But hell. Who didn’t have their demons?

“Sure it did, boss,” Hank said. “Sure it did.” He put his hands down on the table (they stuck, he regretted it) and stood up. “I’m getting one more. Grab you one?” 

“Course,” Bart grumbled. Hank turned to the bar shaking his head.

As he did, the bar doors smashed open. Hank whipped back around to find an older, fitter version of Bart in a sleek gray uniform stormed into the bar. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair horribly disheveled. He stood in the doorway for a moment eyes probing the dim bar. 

“Hank!” Bart shouted.

“I see him!” Hank shouted back. Then started muttering to himself,  “Jesus Mary Mother of God… what in the name of–”

Hank’s eyes whipped back to his friend, Bart looked white as a sheet in his chair. He leaned back as far he could, gripping the table with both hands. The wood of the chair groaned.

“Bart Hanfield!” Future-Bart shouted. He pointed at Bart and took two brisk steps towards him. “Hear me now!” The door started to swing shut behind him. 

“Jesus H. Christ,” Hank said. 

The door slammed open again and an even older version of Bart charged through the door, bellowing. Hank just had time to see that he wore a black tactical suit with one sleeve sewed shut. The middle version spun on the spot and had time to curse once before the oldest version caught him in the gut with his armless shoulder and lifted him high in the air. Middle-Bart coughed out a scream as the breath whooshed from his body. 

BANG. Every bottle in the bar rattled and the two men disappeared. Which left one horribly rattled Bart sitting in his chair, chest heaving. His eyes had opened to show their yellowing whites and he turned to look at Hank. Every other sodden drinker in the bar stared at Hank and Bart for a moment… then collectively shrugged and sank back into their own drinks and talks.

“What do I do?” Bart whispered. 

Hank shook. Every part of him. His feet shook in his boots and his chest shook to bounce the buttons on his shirt. He stared at the doors.

“Hank…” Bart whispered.

Hank looked down at him and his heart twisted. I mean, the pure haplessness of the man. His formless girth still pinned back in the chair by his white-knuckle grip on the table. Hank sighed. And he sat down.

“Shit, Bart,” he said. "Shit… Way I figure it… Well. Hell. First off,” He shot Bart a look. “Did you crap your pants this time?”

“No,” Bart said with a shake of his head, burgeoning jowls rolled atop his neck. He relaxed a hair and leaned forward. Hank nodded encouragingly.

“Good, see, you’re getting better at this,” Hank said. “Whatever this is. Any journey starts with a step. If you’re going to become…” Hank brushed a hand out toward the door. “Whatever they are… there’s your first step.”

“But I don’t want to– I don’t want…” Bart trailed off. 

“Exactly,” Hank said. “You don’t know what you want or what you don’t. You never did, did you?”

Bart shifted in his seat and stared at the table. 

“Listen, Bart… sometimes life throws us some weird shit. We gotta accept the obvious, undeniable truths and… deal with them.” He glanced at the door, “however bizarre they might seem. After that… well… hell. None of us knows the future, not really. Just because you got some hints doesn’t change much of anything, way I see it. Gotta make the best choice you can in every moment, like the rest of us.” 

He paused and stared down at the table for a moment. In a quieter voice he went on, “What can little ants like us do besides let the godforsaken spacetime continuum sort out its own bullshit and handle ourselves best we can?” He looked up at Bart and found those yellow, watery eyes staring back at him. He sighed, then patted the table. Then reached out and patted his friend's forearm. Bart winced. Hank looked down a realized it was the one he was going to lose. “Uhm… You still want that beer?”

Bart opened his mouth to answer, then paused. They both heard it. Sirens from outside, distant sirens. Air sirens.

“Sounds like I better not,” said Bart, pushing himself up. He looked down at Hank and held out his hand to shake. Hank met his gaze and caught a hint of… if not steel then at least some really high-quality plastic. It’d have to do. “Good to see you, Hank.”

“You too, Bart,” Hank said, shaking the man’s doughy hand. “Good luck out there.”

Bart nodded, then tottered out of the bar. Hank watched him go, brows furrowing. Then he glanced at an empty barstool, then back to the door. 

“Hell… I gotta see how he’s gonna fit into that uniform, don’t I?” Hank muttered under his breath. 

He closed his tab and left the bar at a jog.