Free Zero-G by Alton Gansky Page A

“Listen, you go back to bed. I’m going to get a glass of milk and watch some television. It’s going to take me a few minutes to shake this.”
    â€œIt’s amazing how real dreams can be.” She paused. “I’ll stay up with you. I’ll make cocoa. It won’t take long.”
    Before he could answer, Myra was off the bed and making her way through the dark room like a cat. He looked at the clock on his nightstand. Blue numbers shone 1:03. A lousy time to be awake.

    â€œLast call, folks.” The bartender’s voice rolled through the dingy bar, falling on the ears of the last hangers-on. Most had been in Chucky’s Bar since early evening. All had entered chattering and telling jokes, but hours of drinking had left the remainders a maudlin bunch gazing into their drinks like a fortune-teller hovering over a crystal ball. But where the psychic boasted of seeing the future, these men saw only the past.
    Ronny Mason knew this because he had been one of the dopes who spent their evenings seeking the company of people worse off than they. After losing his truck-driving job because of back problems, Ronny had begun a consistent regimen of self-medication in the form of shots of whiskey. Ronny’s change came in the form of an ultimatum from a wife he loved more than life. “Get over your problems, get a new job, or get a new wife.”
    The prospect of returning home to an empty house frightened him. It was one thing to lose a job, but to lose a woman like Betsy was nothing short of criminal.
    Ronny’s solution: buy the bar. Chucky’s became his two years ago, and he had been sober each day of those two years. His back still hurt and he needed help lifting cartons, but he got by.
    â€œDid everyone hear? Last call.” He rubbed his ample belly then began the final cleanup behind the long wooden bar. When everyone was out, he’d lock the door and spend the next hour sweeping the floor, wiping tables, and closing out the register. Then it was home to a warm bed and the smell of his wife.
    â€œAw, come on, Ronaniro, don’t nobody care if you close late.”
    â€œState of California does, Mikey. If they closed me down, then where would you go every evening?”
    â€œUm, the place down the street.”
    â€œYou know they don’t let the likes of you in their place. They cater to a better class of losers.”
    â€œAin’t no better class, Ronjamite. We is the best lot of losers ever knocked back a beer.”
    â€œTrue.” Ronny gave a little laugh. Some of these men he considered family. “And I love you all like brothers. Now finish your drinks and get out. Any of you need a ride, best let me know now. I know you do, Mikey.”
    â€œNot me, pal. I’m sober as a judge on Sunday.”
    â€œRight. I think you had better hand them keys over now. I’ll call you a cab.”
    â€œHey, everyone, the Ronster thinks I’m a cab.”
    No one laughed. The joke had been played too many times.
    Ronny moved down the bar, wiping up spills, salt crystals from pretzels, and shells from peanuts. He stopped when he reached a young man with thick brown hair, bloodshot eyes, and a puffy, awkward-looking ear.
    â€œHow about you, young man? You need a cab?”
    â€œNah, I’m fine, and I’m not that young. I’m almost thirty.”
    â€œAlmost thirty, eh? Well, when you’ve got fifty-five in your rearview mirror, then almost-thirty is young.” Ronny paused and studied the man. This was his first night in the bar, and he stuck out like a palm tree on a glacier. “You okay?”
    â€œNever better, old man. Why?”
    â€œâ€™Cuz you been tossing shots of Wild Turkey like Kool-Aid.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œNuthin’. Just that most people who hit the juice that heavy have just lost a job or someone’s died.”
    â€œWell, you’re wrong about me. And I don’t appreciate