THE POWER OF PLACE

As soon as Amy arrived at the café, she was hit with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. The chipped, wooden tables with their mismatched chairs and the faded murals on the walls all transported her back to her college days. It was the same place where she had spent countless hours during her final year, studying for exams and sipping on coffee.

As she sat down at a table near the window, she couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort wash over her. Even though it had been almost ten years since she graduated, the familiarity of this place made her feel as though she had never left. The smell of freshly roasted coffee beans wafted through the air, and the sound of the espresso machine whirring in the background was like music to her ears.

Amy didn't care about the people around her. She didn't care about the plotlines of their lives or what they were talking about. She was lost in the place itself, and all of the memories that it held for her. She remembered the many long nights spent poring over textbooks with her friends, the laughs shared over cups of steaming hot chocolate and the panicked last-minute cramming that had always preceded exams.

Now, sitting in the same café after all these years, she realized that it was the place that mattered most. It was the sense of belonging, of being a part of something bigger, that made all the difference. And as she took a sip of her coffee, she knew that she would never forget the feeling that this place had given her.

“Knock knock. Anyone home. Wake up, lad! Wake up, would ya?” Billy Fryer knocked on the dirt in front of a brand new headstone. The soil still loose from the freshly dug grave. “Who do we got here? Let me see.” He read the engravings.

Patrick Mann, 1974-2023 Beloved father, husband. A proud railroad man.

“Another railroader. Christ, I’m getting outnumbered here.” Frankie Jenson laughed.

“You’ll always be outnumbered, my friend. Ain’t many drunken poets around these parts. Except old Herbert. One of the greatest poets on this side of the grave.”

He winked, waiting for the reaction he knew he’d get from his old friend.

“Why that old fool ain’t no poet. Just a drunken fool. A rambling fool. And before you say anything, lad. I’m more than just a drunken rambler. Why in 1932, during famine and war in Ireland. I wrote a collection of poetry that made its way to the land of opportunity. Poems for the broken man. That was poetry. Do you want me to recite some of it?”

“No, God. Please, no more. Or I’ll opt for the eternal sleep.”

“Oh, you’d never, you tired old fool. You like me far too much.”

“Um. Excuse me. Pardon me!” A timid voice from behind the bickering friends made

them turn around and smile.

“Bloody hell, you owe me a drink,” Billy said.

“Yes, sir. You must be Mr. Patrick Mann. Beloved father, husband, and proud old railroad man,” he said, again looking at the headstone. “Let me guess, your old man told ya it was in yer blood? The way father’s guilt their sons into becoming them, even though they hate themselves, is beyond me.” He finished with a roll of his eyes. “Anyway, we’re here to welcome ya.”

“Where am I? Where the hell am I?”

“Frankie, do ya want to explain it to him?” Frankie was a tall, dark-skinned man in an old dirty suit that looked as though once upon a time it could have been white. It was ripped and torn, parts were charred and burned. Half his face in the same condition.

“Well, uh. Patrick. It’s always hard to tell the new ones. It’s going to take you some time to grasp what I’m about to tell you.”

“What’s going on?” Patrick looked around swiftly. Eyes of panic. Eyes that Frankie and Billy had seen many times before.

“Well, boy. You’re dead. Ain’t no simpler terms a man can put it.”

“Dead? What are you talking about, dead?”

“You’re dead, son.”

Then Billy cut in. Those five seconds of silence, far too much for him to bear. “You’ve bitten the dust. But the good news is you can spend your time here with the likes of us.” Then he began to sing “Here in Drunkard’s Row, where the working men they go. The ones who lived with just enough hate to miss their chance at the Pearly Gates.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “An old poet. Don’t worry about him.”

“But. But. But. The doctor. He. He told me I was getting better.” Patrick checked his arms where the IV had been placed when he was still in the land of the living.

“They do that, lad. They do that. Now come with us, would ya? You’ll understand what I’m talking about in due time, friend.”

The trio walked through the thick smog of the graveyard. Patrick’s head still on a swivel as he scanned the darkness of St Anthony’s. “What is this? Is. Is. This heaven?”

Billy looked at Frankie and the two burst into laughter. They awaited that question every time, and every time, the same reaction flowed through them like the ghosts of their flesh and blood.

“Not quite, pal.” Frankie answered.

“Well, then. Oh God. Am I in hell?” Patrick asked as he looked at the melted skin on the left side of Frank’s face.

Again, the two laughed despite telling themselves on the way to see Patrick, that they’d be courteous and respectful this time. The green ones just asked so many questions. So many existential questions that an old poet and and door-to-door vacuum salesman had to explain.

The two self-appointed greeters.

“Not quite, my friend.”

Then Patrick stopped in front of a giant white cross. “What the fuck is going on?” The two turned around and could see the anger in his eyes. That anger that belonged to a railroader. “You better fucking tell me right now what’s going on.” His fists were raised in front of his face. A stance that told the men that in life, old Patty had been accustomed to raising them. And probably doing quite well when they started flying.

“Yep. He’s a railroader alright.” Billy said. “Look lad, put those weapons down, would ya? There’s something you need to understand about death, alright? These are secrets that the living will never know, nor ever understand. It belongs to us, friend. Only to us. I’ll explain it as clearly as I can, though I’m half in the tank.” He said, hauling a brown paper bag out of his striped wool coat.

“You’re always half in the tank.” Frankie said. Billy just shrugged and took a swig that

quickly turned into a chug.

“Neverthe-fucking-less. I’m going to explain it to you, lad. Ya see, in life, they teach you about heaven and hell, right? How if you’re good, you go to heaven and. If you’re bad, you go for an eternal swim in the lake of fire. But even in the land of the living, you must have had some questions about that? You a religious man?”

Patrick shook his head.

“Good. The zealots are harder to explain this to.”

“Watch your mouth,” Frankie said.

“Oh relax, would ya? Drunkards’ Row in yer Bible?” Frankie didn’t answer. “Anyway, Mr. Mann.”

“Patrick”

“Sorry. Patrick. You see, life is far more complicated than good and bad. Most of us tread that line our entire lives. Because, well, how can you be saintly all the time? Christ, giving yerself a tug is grounds to be bedmates with Lennon. So where do we go? The Catholic Church never told me where I’d go. Because even as a young boy, I knew I wasn’t the good books definition of Abel. I wasn’t going to be met with a choir of angels waiting for me once old Pete let me through them Pearly Gates. But I also didn’t think that I belonged with the Old Red Spire.”

“The Red Spire?” Patrick asked.

“Just a goddamn killer. Killed a dozen or so women outside of Dublin when I was just a little lad. So, as I say. Where do the rest of us go? The ones who might drink a little too much. Frequent the gambling halls more than we should. Fight. Possibly some infidelity sprinkled on top. Where do the humans go? The real humans?”

“Here?” Patrick asked. Frankie wrapped his arm around Patrick’s shoulders.

“You got that right, pal. Right here in Drunkards’ Row”

“Drunkards’ Row?”

“Well, that’s what we call it, anyway. Seems better than purgatory, or the land of the kinda good, but kinda bad. See what I mean?”

Patrick was silent for a moment. He rubbed his thick black hair, tugging at it. And again he looked around. Then finally, at Frankie. He looked the gentler of the two.

“When did you die?” Patrick asked.

“1963. Birmingham. Alabama.”

“The church bombing?”

“The man knows his history. Yes, Patrick. I died in the riots after the bombing. But you know what? Even in death, you are not martyred, son. Even in death, you’re a marked man. My past never eluded me.” He touched the burned side of his face.

“What did you do that was so wrong?”

“Well, like we said, we weren’t exactly monsters. I was only in Alabama to meet up with a pretty young thing. Not my wife. Ya know? It doesn’t take much. Oh well. It’s better here, anyway. You know every self-righteous prick you ever met? Guess where they are.” Frankie pointed up. Patrick let out a short smile.

“What about you?” he asked Billy.

“1936 in Spain. Goddamn, O’Duffy and politics. I volunteered. I was young and wanted to fight. I died in a blood soaked foreign land. Want to hear some poetry I wrote during the war?”

“Uh. Maybe later. So, why no heaven for you?”

“My past, son. I killed a man. A dirty, dirty man, plus all the men I killed in the war. That’s kind of a grey area, I think. But, nevertheless, killing don’t get you the harps, my friend. We grew up in a hard place. Chances of making it out without blood in on yer hands were slim. Slim to none. Anyway, enough about me. So what brings you to Drunkards Row? Other than the cancer, of course. Sorry about that, by the way. Terrible way to go. Took me old man. Working in a factory his whole life. Breathing in chemicals.

Patrick paused. Thinking about his life. His wife. His kids. Friends. All the living people he wasn’t going to see again.

“Christ. I wasn’t a good man. I worked hard and kept a roof over my family’s head, but that’s all I ever did. I was a tired, cranky old drunk. No time for anyone. Not even my boy. Jesus. I need to tell them. I need to tell them I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, pal,” Frankie interjected, patting him on the back. “But that’s the mystery. They can never know until they come themselves. I’m sorry, friend.”

“Jesus. Jesus. I wasn’t good.” Patrick began to cry. “I could have been better. Christ, I could have been better.”

“Regrets run rampant here, Patrick. Let us introduce you to the rest, alright?”

“The rest?”

“Well, Jesus H. Christ, ya didn’t think it was only the two of us in this sea of lost souls?” Billy asked.

“Why am I here?” Patrick asked. “I mean, why am I not just, you know, dead? I mean, dead, dead.”

“It’s a fair question.” Billy answered. “The way it works here is strange, friend. Some folks die peacefully. They died having lived a full life and they feel no need to go on. This place here is for those who bit the dust before having their full say. You know what I mean? Died before their time, even though maybe that doesn’t make sense, because whenever you die is your time, I guess. But you know what I mean. And if you don’t want to do this anymore, you can go right back to yer resting place. But once you do that, then that’s it. Dead dead, as you put it”

“Really?” He looked back towards his grave.

“I know what yer thinking. We’ve all thought about it. But come with us before ya decide, alright?”

Patrick nodded.

Billy continued leading the way through a path between headstones on either side that looked as old as time. Full ecosystems were growing through the cracks, and the words were barely legible, if legible at all.

Eventually, they reached a tall eucalyptus tree. “Well, here we are. You ready?” Billy asked Patrick. Who stared into the darkness before answering. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“That’s my boy.”

Then the three men of different times walked by the eucalyptus to the place where time blended in sweet sacred harmony. Drunkards’ Row.

The bar looked like an old English Tavern. Somewhere you’d expect to find the Shelby brothers in an episode of Peaky Blinders. Patrick stared at it in disbelief. He looked around and there was nothing but darkness on either side of the bar.

A sign read Drunkards’ Row, and the S was hanging upside down. There were men outside, smoking, drinking, and laughing. Telling dirty jokes about a lonely housewife and a foreign pool cleaner. The men were laughing hysterically, and clinking their beer glasses together, spilling half the drought in the process.

“Well, come on, lad. Let me introduce ya to the renegades.” Billy waved him forward, and Patrick looked at Frankie, who supplied a generous nod, letting him know that it was alright. It was safe.

“Billy! Frankie!” The men in front of the bar yelled. “You got another new one?”

“Meet. Mr Patrick Mann. Devoted father. Husband. And a proud railroader.”

“You hear that, Jim?” A big burly man walked down the steps towards Patrick. He looked mean. Patrick was ready to raise his fists again, before Big Jim put his hand out.”

“My grandfather, my father, and myself were all railroaders. It’s in our blood.” Billy rolled his eyes, and the two men shook hands. “Worked in Kansas City for 35 years.

What about you?”

“Uh, Annandale. Small industrial town in the North. 23 years. Then the cancer..”

“Line drive right to the throat at a summer softball tournament between the railroaders and the men at the pulp mill. Struck down in my prime. Come on, let’s go inside.” Big Jim lead him to the old tavern doors like in the old west. He pushed them open, and the aroma of eternal life welcomed Patrick.

Inside looked like the pages of an introduction to World History textbook. Although on the outside, Drunkards’ Row looked like a small time hole in the wall pub, inside it was endless. Tables upon tables, and a bar that stretched the length of the Great Wall. It was filled with laughter, stories, and singing.

A corner table had a 15th century peasant, speaking with what looked to be a blood relative of Lucky Luciano. There were vikings, moors, some kind of royalty, and a myriad of working class labourers. One large man with a flat brim hat was yelling about unions and McCarthy. A scientist was claiming that he worked in Los Alamos as part of The Manhattan Project under Oppenheimer, while a veteran of the second world war talked about the bloody carnage during the Battle of the Bulge.

Patrick couldn’t wrap his head around what he was seeing. Billy and Frank were smiling slyly at each other, knowing full-well that everyone who rose up from the grave, to see a thick dark fog and two haggard souls, who looked nothing like angels to greet them, wanted to crawl right back in. But Drunkards’ Row was a place that most wanted to be a part of.

The door closed behind Patrick as the sounds of an English band singing their version of Dirty Old Town.

“I met my girl by the gas works wall. Dreamed a dream by the old canal”

They were to meet behind the sprawling tree with the crazy buttress roots. It was dark and private there. She loved that place. Mysterious and ominous. He was anxious to meet her after their first coffee date. Dressed in his black shirt, he was sure he was looking sexy. Their meeting place suggested he might get lucky. He passed the groundsman fixing a fence, but there was no one else around.

She was already there when he ambled there, a bit worried he was being punked. But a smile spread over his face as he caught her sitting on one of the massive protruding roots. She looked like she belonged in a book, ethereal, dressed in red.

The old University campus was really old. Stone buildings which were dark and musty, colonial architecture with gargoyles on the roof. It looked even darker after a rain shower, but the lush green lining every avenue gave it a certain serenity. She was always drawn to this campus, but the tree was her absolute favourite. She spent a lot of time here, but to her it suggested romance.

She greeted him warmly and they sat on one of the widest roots. She spoke easily, all the while looking into his eyes. It was unnerving to most men, but he could not help but feel a certain thrill. She was beautiful and there was electricity between them. They spoke for a long time and she gently touched his arm once, then caressed his back. He felt more and more at ease. They nestled against the tree trunk and they were in an embrace. She looked in his eyes once more and their lips touched. He felt like he was floating. He wanted her to be only his. They were locked in their kiss for a long time. The leaves over head rustled softly and the old tree sighed. Finally she pulled away slowly and looked at him. He looked dazed. His eyes were glazed over. He rose unsteadily and teetered a little bit. She stayed seated, smiling contentedly and breathing deeply. She had got what she needed, his essence from his soul. And it had been easy, his soul was quite shallow. Yes, she was satisfied. He walked away as if in a trance. She looked up at the tree and rested a while.

It was reported that a man in a black shirt had drowned in the waves off the bridge in the bay.

A young man dressed in a blue shirt stopped the groundsman to ask for directions to the old tree with the giant roots. As he walked towards the gnarly giant, he immediately spotted her looking divine in red.