The man with the peculiar tattoo on his forehead lies unconscious in a pool of vomit. His head is contorted awkwardly, his eyes dim and barely open. An empty flask is held tightly against his chest, rhythmically rising and falling with his breath.

From my vantage point, the tattoo is unmistakable. It reads “G O D” in bold letters. I’ve never been this close before, and I am captivated by its intricate design. The letters seem to hover in a grayish mist, with the center of the ‘O’ glowing a striking white, creating an unsettling three-dimensional effect. It’s strange—not just because of its ridiculous placement—but because I feel as though I could reach out and touch the light within.

I have a fondness for tattoos; they remind me of a distant time when I could escape my worries—when my biggest concerns were sand in my swimsuit and the heat of friendly arguments. Life has shifted dramatically since then. Somewhere along the way, my blissful ignorance was traded for harsh realities and the obligations of a just cause.

I lean my bike against a rusty railing and take a few cautious steps toward the still figure. I’ve encountered him several times before; he always seems amiable, yet one can never be too sure. I inch closer, contemplating a touch.

Suddenly, he blinks awake. “Go to Heaven!” he proclaims with a thick Spanish accent.

Startled, I jump back to my bike, feigning to retrieve something I’ve dropped. To mask my embarrassment, I turn my back to him, fiddling absentmindedly with the saddle. He remains silent, and I certainly don’t wish to engage him further. I glance sideways, catching sight of him in my peripheral vision—still no movement.

“Go to heaven,” he said. What could that possibly mean? An insult? A kind gesture? A prediction? Perhaps he intended to say ‘Go to hell,’ but his intoxication muddled his words. Under different circumstances, I might have stopped to assist this unfortunate fellow, but I have no time to play therapist. I need to make one final delivery and figure out how to reclaim my own life.

I weave the lock through my bike frame and front wheel, securing it to the railing. It’s an old Specialized I purchased for $300 last year—an average hybrid to seasoned riders, but to me, it’s my most prized possession. Regrettably, it appears to be the most valuable item in this area too. Nonetheless, my sturdy lock should suffice for the short time I plan to be here. There's no guarantee the rusted railing will hold, but the chain and lock should keep it secure. Besides, I have my Spanish friend standing guard—or rather, lying guard, I chuckle, feeling a twinge of guilt as I glance back at him.

He looks peaceful now, as he always does. Occasionally, when I ride through this neighborhood, I spot him in the park sharing a paper bag with friends or huddled over a cardboard box with a tattered blanket, leaning against a crumbling wall. He is never anxious or distressed—always calm and composed. If only I could muster the strength to be like him. What a liberation it would be to escape reality and responsibilities, to live on the fringes. I could revel in freedom with no ties, no rent, no family, no haunting past—just a perpetual search for another drink. A simple existence. A lovely daydream. A new world.

Shaking myself from this reverie, I remind myself that today is not the day to join the ranks of the homeless. Perhaps later, but there are more pressing matters at hand, like finding a safe spot to hide. While it’s unlikely anyone important will find me here in this dingy nook, it’s unwise to take risks. Recent events have not been kind to my friends, and honestly, this part of town unnerves me.

With my breath held, I carefully step over the unpleasant figure and pause at the top of the concrete stairs. I can still hear his heavy breathing behind me. It’s in my nature to reach out to those in pain, but today, I need to keep moving. I can’t afford to let my guard down. “Go to heaven,” I whisper softly and begin my descent.

If Gary is on shift this afternoon, I’ll mention the poor guy at the top of the stairs and suggest he move him along and clean the steps. We can’t have patrons stepping over a drunken man as they come down to drink. I chuckle wryly at the irony of that thought.

I’ve visited Joey’s Bar and Grill a few times, and it feels refreshing to lose myself in its anonymity. Here, I can simply sit at the bar and chat with Gary, who seems to be working regardless of when I arrive—his face always brightens at the sight of me.

The ambiance is perpetually dreary. Today feels worse than usual, but perhaps it’s just my nerves. I’m here earlier than necessary, waiting to meet a contact who will provide me with a special package for a final delivery.

As my eyes adjust, the setting sun casts an eerie two-dimensional glow over the room. It resembles a scene painted by an impressionist with a limited palette of dark gray and dingy metallic yellow.

I step inside, standing in my dark shoes upon the yellow trapezoid that the aged linoleum floor reflects. Grease and glitter shimmer off the worn faux leather booths and chairs. Above the low railing, two overhead fluorescent lights cast a dusty illumination over the bar area, where two middle-aged patrons stare blankly at their tumblers of amber liquid. Neon signs flanking the grand oak bar display unfamiliar beer brands, one of which flickers intermittently, buzzing like the zapper my mother hung on our deck.

The air is thick with the pungent blend of whiskey and beer, tinged with a hint of pine cleaner. It’s more pleasant than the scent of the man outside, but it still leaves much to be desired. The lingering cigarette smoke clings stubbornly, a remnant of years past when indoor smoking was allowed—a law embraced by the more affluent on Broadway, but largely ignored in this neighborhood.

My destination is the rear dining area—the last booth on the left, adjacent to the unisex bathroom. It’s dim, but I can tell no one is waiting for me. If this transaction unfolds like the previous ones, I’ll be in and out in no time: a quick pickup, a swift ride, and a handoff to a contact I’ll learn about soon.

Dressed in black bike shorts, bare legs, and a flimsy yellow cycling jersey, I embody the look of a bike messenger—hardly offering many fashion choices while on duty.

Uncomfortable lingering at the entrance, I head toward the bar area. As I approach, the mirror presents a dusty self-portrait. My hair is a total mess. Although I wash it nightly after work, it always becomes matted from the bike helmet and sweat throughout the day. I give it a vigorous rub with my fingertips, which helps somewhat. Not that it really matters.

I can envision how great it looks when I take the time to style it: shiny, black, and full. I used to keep it well-groomed, but that feels like a distant memory—more akin to a dream. Nowadays, I find little motivation for that. My hair is short—not boyish—boasting thick bangs that reach the tip of my nose.

Regaining some confidence, I sweep my bangs aside and examine my reflection. With no makeup on, my dark brown eyes stand out against my light complexion. I gently press my cheeks with both hands. My teeth are straight, but the gap in my front teeth—known as a diastema—makes me self-conscious. My nose is short and straight, complemented by a jawline that curves just a bit too much beneath my ears, giving my face a sharp, triangular appearance. I think it’s a decent look, though. Some say I’m attractive. Honestly, I’m indifferent to the opinions of others. The man I once loved called me the most beautiful girl in the world, but that no longer holds significance.

“Hey, Jinks!” Gary calls out. Startled, I jump and turn to face him, caught off guard by his sudden appearance. “Good to see you again. You look great as always. Are you planning to stick around, or are you rushing off to save the world again?”

“Uh, what?” I stammer, still recovering from the shock. I smooth my jersey as if adjusting it for comfort. “Oh… uh, I can’t stay long. I just popped in to chat with a friend for a few minutes. Thanks, though.” He nods knowingly.

Regaining my composure, I approach the counter and add quietly, “Oh, and just so you know—there’s a guy snoozing in a puddle of vomit at the top of your stairs. You might want to address that before the dinner rush.” I shift into my sarcastic mode.

I notice one of the two patrons at the bar turn his head toward us, only to quickly avert his gaze when I meet his eyes.

“Shit! Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll take care of it. We have a big group of Wall Street executives coming for French wine and cheese this afternoon.” He grins.

Gary offers me a knowing look, scans the room to ensure no one is too close, and leans over the bar. “So, who are you meeting today? The usual?”

“Excuse me!” I retort, my tone sharp. Gary knows that I frequent this bar to meet a man who requires special deliveries. This is not a topic meant for discussion. “I’m meeting a friend of Aggie’s today. A new guy. We’re going to discuss some investments.” I fabricate the details. “You got any cash to invest?” I deflect.

Gary and I crossed paths a few months ago when I first started coming here for meetings. It seemed like the ideal spot—off the main streets, hidden below street level, a true dive where no one cared about anyone else. It was a place where we could exist in a state of temporary invisibility—a perfect environment for both young idealists and seasoned strategists.

On those days, I would often leave work early to arrive in my cycling gear and settle on the stool at the bar’s far end. Occasionally, I would arrive earlier than necessary, though I’m not quite sure why. Initially, I was standoffish, but Gary was easygoing and friendly, never pushy. We chatted about bikes, bartending, films, and dream vacations, trying to find common ground. I like him, but not in the way he desires.

The issue lies with me. Life has been challenging, and the situation worsened when I lost my one true love—my soulmate. The worst part is that he didn’t simply break up with me; he died. That I cannot cope with.

“Sure, I’ve got a few million stuffed in my mattress. Why don’t you see if he has any hot stock tips for me?” I joke.

“If you did, you wouldn’t be here,” I reply, moving toward the end of the bar.

“True. So, want a drink? Maybe a Fruit Bat?”

Gary makes an exceptional cocktail he dubs the ‘Bombay Fruit Bat.’ I had one once, but it was potent, and I’m not much of a drinker. If anything, I prefer light beers. Technically, I’m not even supposed to drink—I’m only 19. “No, thanks. How about a Coke?”

I toss a couple of bills onto the bar as Gary fills a glass. “We could hang out later,” he suggests casually, still avoiding direct eye contact. “I finish at 10:00.”

“Maybe another time,” I respond, handing him the drink. “I need to see my mother tonight.” It’s a common excuse, but mostly true. My mother has terminal cancer and requires my assistance increasingly. Doctors estimate her lifespan in months unless some miracle occurs. I’m certain no divine intervention will save her, but if I can scrape together a few more dollars, we might secure some treatment that could help. That’s why I’m here.

I glance to my right, noticing one of the two men at the bar turn away. He’s the same one who glanced at us earlier. One should expect that in a bar, especially someone like me, dressed oddly and appearing suspiciously young. Yet, I must remain vigilant for my safety, so I take my usual stool where I can keep an eye on them while surveying the rest of the room without appearing too conspicuous.

The man who’s been sneaking glances is the larger of the two and likely suffered from significant acne in his youth. I’d estimate he’s in his late 40s, though the lighting makes it difficult to tell. His companion tilts his head slightly to the right, exposing only his left ear to my view, adorned with a large diamond stud—most likely fake.

I look back toward the booth where I’m scheduled to meet this new contact—Terry, as I’ve been informed. Naturally, no one ever uses their real name. The booth remains empty for now. Gary is busy helping two women split their tab with small bills and a pile of coins, and I suspect he won’t be getting rich off this tip. The rest of the bar is relatively quiet. The iced Coke is refreshing, but my anxiety mounts, making me wonder if a beer would have been a better choice.

The front door swings open, and I turn to see a small, greasy-haired man with a worn plaid satchel enter. ‘That must be him,’ I think to myself. I discreetly follow his movements until he settles at a table near the entrance—too small for two people, but the wrong spot. Unsure what to do, I wait and ponder. The deal is meant to unfold in the back booth; it has always been there. Now is not the time to change things. I scan the room and see the two men at the bar whispering to one another. Gary is ringing up the old ladies’ purchase, and I notice him surreptitiously slipping a few bills into his pocket.

Satisfied that the greasy man is not my contact, I resume my watch, expecting to see the empty booth in the back once more. Instead, casually sitting there is a striking woman with long blonde hair. Her heavily shadowed eyes lock onto mine, exuding confidence and warmth. She smiles. Terry is a girl’s name—Terri. Duh.

I glance at Gary, confusion and suspicion crossing my face, and he responds with a playful grin, nodding toward her. I steal another glance, surveying the bar again—everything appears in order.

Thus begins my odyssey. One foot in front of the other, I remind myself as I approach the back.

This is the first chapter of an unfinished novel. Copyright belongs to Brian Feutz. All rights reserved.