Night in the Daytime
By Tyler Plofker
“We got time,” said Dax.
The room was dark and glowing.
“Time for what?” I said.
To my right sat a couple from Montana, or Wyoming. They were talking about their son—John—who was attending Freshman Orientation at the local college. So the parents were in town for the weekend.
My attention was split between Dax and the couple—not because the couple’s conversation was particularly interesting, but because they were speaking.
“The dorm room was much bigger than when I went to school,” said The Father.
“How much bigger?” said The Mother.
“5.” said The Father.
The Mother sipped at her beer and The Father at his.
To my left sat Dax and to the left of Dax sat two young men and to the left of them one older man of about 60.
The pigeon on the cash register sat silently.
“Excuse me, sir?” I inquired.
“Yes?”
“Well, I don't mean to barge into your conversation—certainly not—but what exactly do you mean by ‘5’? Are you saying that your son’s room was 5 times bigger than your own?”
“No. Not 5 times bigger. Just 5.”
“But 5 what?”
The Father’s face contorted.
“Now, my young friend, what the hell don’t you understand about the number 5? That’s the last I’m sayin’ on that.”
The pigeon was leaping and hollering.
“Alright,” I said, so as to end the conversation, surprised by The Father’s anger.
One of the young men was telling a very animated story with the other nodding along.
The Nodder began to look sicker and sicker as The Talker talked and talked. Sicker and sicker as the liquor flowed.
The Bartender was meandering behind the bar with a green lizard on his shoulder. He stopped in front of me.
“Well?” he said.
“I’m good for now, thanks,” I responded.
“Good with what?”
“I mean I don’t need another drink or anything haha...”
The Bartender wore a scowl on his pale face.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass if you want a drink or not!”
“Sorry, when you said ‘Well..’ I thought you were referring to a drink...sorry about that.”
He then grabbed the tail of the lizard, swung it over his head, and slammed it onto the bar top.
“Oh my god!” I yelled.
It died instantly.
The Bartender grabbed a bottle of whiskey from under the bar and went to refill the Old Man’s glass.
The Mother walked over to me slowly, The Father looking on.
She whispered in my ear.
“Don’t forget the monkey by the turnstile, if you do you can’t turn left. On the left is where you’ll find the balloon with their friends. Don’t pop them! Pet them. Please pet them.”
She walked back to her seat and sat down next to The Father again.
The Father glared at me.
The face of The Nodder was now a kind of green. He started to do the half-cough half-gag thing people do when they’re about to puke. Cough-gagging every few moments while listening to The Talker talk.
Cough, cough, COUGH, and out came a little red chick. Now scampering all over the bar.
The Old Man shot up.
“Chick on bar! Chick on bar!” he hollered, taking off his shirt.
“Chick on bar! Chick on bar!”
The little red chick was scampering left and right and left again and right again. This time, moving right, he stopped in front of me, looked up, gave a chirp, and then hopped—yes, I say hopped—into my beer.
The little red chick swam around in my brew, flapping around and having a marvelous time.
“Chick on bar! Chick in BEER!”
The Old Man came rushing towards me.
“Hellooooooo,” he bellowed.
“Why hello to y—”
And before I could finish my greeting the Old Man had grabbed my drink and slugged it down, chick and all.
He wobbled back to his stool without a word and plopped.
“We got time,” said Dax.
The Talker now opened his mouth wide, very wide, and I braced myself for another chick.
The Old Man was mumbling something to himself constantly and inaudibly.
The Talker opened his mouth wider still. And wider still. He grabbed The Nodder’s head (as green as a melon) and slowly and meticulously pushed it into his outstretched jaw.
The pigeon was going wild.
“I think I have to get going,” I said to Dax.
“Get going? Where are you going to go?”
Tyler Plofker is a writer living in Manhattan. He is focused primarily on short stories and flash fiction.