Once A Jerk
I finish loading the pickup too late for the trek back home so I decide to check out Doc’s Place. Coming into town, I was surprised to see the tavern was still around because the owner, Steven Mitchell, died a few months ago. Mitchell was a jerk.
The tavern isn’t far so I walk, taking the long way around the square to admire the flood-lit courthouse, which is topped by a statue of Lady Justice.
Entering the saloon, I find a typical small-town watering hole, sit at the bar and order a beer. After a couple sips, I ask the bartender if he knew Mitchell.
“You’re not from around here, are you.”
“Grew up here. I assume ‘Doc’ was a nickname?” A few months ago, I came across the online obituary for Steven “Doc” Mitchell. The obit said after serving in the army, he returned to his hometown and opened Doc’s Place.
“Not entirely… we lost Steven seven months ago. I’m William.”
“Rod. What did he—”
“Heart attack.” William takes a deep breath. “You knew him?”
“We were in school together.” My first contact with Mitchell was on the playground. When my shot clanked off the rim, he snagged the rebound, flung the ball into the street and smirked when tires squealed.
William wipes the counter. “He was my boss, then my partner. Now the place is mine… Steven served three tours in Nam.”
Never would’ve expected that. I recall the day Mitchell was made my lab partner in science class. The room smelled rotten from a chemistry experiment. Mitchell cupped his hand under his pit, flapped his arm, then pointed at me.
“Never seen you around before,” William says.
I tell him I moved away years ago and came back to pack up a few things after my mother’s death.
“It’s tough to lose someone you love… you’d’ve been proud of Steven.” William recounts that over the years several men and women came into the tavern to thank Mitchell. “A couple even said he saved their lives. He was,” William’s voice cracks, “a helluva guy. He saved my life, too, in a way.”
I can hardly believe William is talking about the same Steven Mitchell who had a DA haircut in high school and called me a nerd. To make matters worse, later that year, my sister, Peggy, went out with Mitchell. I froze when he brought his smirk into our home and aimed it at my mom and dad. I can still hear him peeling out in his ‘57 Chevy stick after he dropped my sister off around midnight. I don’t know what happened, but Peggy never spoke about the date nor went out with Mitchell again.
“You’re talking about Steven Mitchell?” I say to William, not bothering to screen the surprise from my voice.
“Yes, he —”
I raise my hand to shush him. I don’t want to hear, can’t believe, Mitchell was some kind of hero.
I pay my tab. On the way out, I notice a framed, photograph. A helicopter hovers in the background. In the foreground is Mitchell, a red cross visible beneath the grime on his helmet. There’s a second photo — Mitchell and William sitting together on a blanket under a tree.
When I look back at William, he lifts his chin,
and slings a bar towel over his shoulder.
I leave, walk to the square, and gaze up at the courthouse statue. The carving is more intricate than I’d realized, and I struggle to make out the details.