March 23rd, 2018 - Part 1: Samwell Parker, age 21

     The crowded bar teemed with sounds and smells of all shapes and sizes—enough to make a canine’s head throb. The old-fashioned that the fox nursed gingerly did little to dull the torrent of information. Even with the burn of whiskey stinging his nostrils, he could still tell that the old mutt to his left hadn’t wiped his ass properly after his recent trip to the restroom. At least he had washed his hands.
     The muskrat tending bar waddled by and pointed to Samwell’s near-empty drink wordlessly. 
     “Yeah, I’ll have another, please. And a shot of Jameson. And a glass of water.”
     “Hmph. Good choice with the water. You’re not driving, are you?”
     “Walking. I’m staying over at the Motel 12. Thanks for the concern, though.”
     The bartender smiled warmly and went off to fix the drinks. Almost a decade had passed since he’d been here—home—and the town had changed almost as much as he had. But that small-town charm hadn’t faded a bit. 
     The Yak Shack, once a hole-in-the-wall dive bar reserved for the town drunkards, had been upgraded a few years ago when the owners’ son took over. He remodeled and rebranded, but didn’t have the heart to change the name his parents had chosen. It was their first and only business venture in America after immigrating from Kyrgyzstan. A yellowed monochrome picture of them hung on the wall above the bar.
     Long ago, the only food they served was a bucket of peanuts placed every few feet along the bar. Today, the zebra to Sam’s right snacked on a tray of cauliflower kimchi street tacos with a daikon radish slaw on top. The smacking of his large equine lips made Samwell’s cheek twitch. The sight of the tacos made his stomach turn. Has was in no mood to eat. Just to drink.
     The bartender returned with Sam’s drinks, expertly carrying all three at once. He set them down, Sam thanked him, and the muskrat walked away. Samwell picked the cherry out of his cocktail and popped in it his mouth. He moved to the shot next and downed it without flinching. He chased it with a sip from the old-fashioned.
     “A little young to be an alcoholic there, aren’t ya?” 
     Samwell swallowed hesitantly, appalled that someone had had the gall to even speak to him, let alone say something so brash. He turned to the old mutt on his left.
     “A little old to be leaving skid-marks in your underwear, aren’t ya?”
     This caught him off-guard and shut him up quickly. It appeared as if he nearly began to speak again, but decided against it. Offended and embarrassed, the old man turned his attention back to the basketball game on the television in front of them. Samwell fought the urge to continue the argument, if it could even be called that. 
     The bell above the front door tinkled and a rush of brisk air passed by. It was unusually cold out for the end of March. Some people would claim this as proof that global warming is a scam. Sane people would just put a light jacket on. 
     Samwell didn’t even turn around, but heard someone in the corner of the bar react gleefully. 
     “Theo! How the hell are ya?”
     The conversation faded into the background noise and Samwell’s focus returned to the bubbles clinging to the ice cubes in his drink. The mutt next to him cheered, and the zebra on the other side clapped loudly. Something must have happened in the sports game. He didn’t care much for sports anymore. The bell tinkled gently as the door finished its slow journey to the closed position. 
     Instantaneously his nose was hit with a familiar scent: that of a bear—a grizzly bear to be precise (and yes, he could smell the difference). His eyes widened when he was hit with the also-familiar aroma of the grizzly bear’s house that clung to him like an aura. A fox never forgets the scent of a friend. Or an enemy, for that matter.
     A friend. Theo. Theodore. Ted. Teddy Bear.
     Sammy’s grip on his cocktail tightened so much he was afraid the glass might crack between his fingers. He hadn’t planned on running into anyone during his time here. That’s why he had gone to the Yak Shack. He figured only the old-heads would be hanging out here. But that’s because the last time he had been to the Yak Shack was twelve years ago with his dad. The clientele had changed as much as the bar itself.
     He didn’t dare turn around and confirm his fears. What exactly would he say? What could he say? ‘Sorry I’ve been gone for ten years and never called, how have you been?’? 
     Instead, he said: “Can I have another shot of Jameson, please?”
     The bartender gave a disapproving half-smile, but complied. Then, the scent of bear grew stronger—and closer.
     Sam felt the bear approach the bar two people down to his left. He tried to force himself to look but couldn’t. Instead he just stared at his drink and wordlessly downed his shot upon its delivery. 
     “Greg! How’s it hangin, kid?” Puberty had changed his voice, but it was unmistakable.  In his peripheral vision, Sam saw the bear fist-bump the bartender, who was already pouring up a whiskey ginger for ‘Theo’ without him even having to ask. 
     The two chatted lightly while Samwell tried not to listen. His ears flattened against his head and he quickly finished his cocktail. The alcohol seemed to hit him all at once. The room spun and he shut his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t the alcohol at all. A panic attack? Not here, not now. He struggled to breathe. Yup, panic attack. He took a long gulp of his water and then stumbled hurriedly to the restroom.
     Locked in a stall, the fox hugged his knees while sitting fully clothed on the toilet. He muffled his sobs when he heard the bathroom door open. Some kind of feline walked in, sloppily used the urinal next to Samwell’s stall, and walked out without washing his hands. When the bathroom door closed again, Sam rammed his skull against the thick plastic wall and screamed into his shirt sleeve through clenched teeth. The ringing in his brain comforted him somehow, as if the titanium plate in his head were a tuning fork. He tried to breathe calmly but each breath got caught in his lungs as if one had collapsed again. 
     Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. He placed one on top of the toilet paper dispenser and crushed it violently with the bottle. The small pile of unnaturally pink powder stared back at him as his eyes twitched. He suddenly realized he couldn’t snort the pill, seeing as his nose was clogged with tears and mucus. He couldn’t even fuck his life up properly. 
     He opted instead to lick it off the filthy plastic surface, defeating the whole purpose of having crushed it, then leaned back and waited for the the pill to make the pain go away. It didn’t—it never had—but something about it made him feel a little better anyway.  He had stopped crying, and his brain was silent once more. When he finally exited the bathroom, he felt as if the whole bar was staring at him.
     Not a soul had looked up, in fact, but Sam lowered his eyes to the floor and slinked back to his spot at the bar. He looked around and noticed that Teddy had sat in the far left corner from which Sam heard the joyful voice earlier. The bear bantered furiously with a tiger as the two occasionally glanced at the basketball game.
     Not long after Sam sat back down, the bartender came over and motioned to Sam’s glass. Sam nodded, held up two fingers, and used them to point at the shotglass and the lowball. Greg the muskrat faked a smile and complied.
     This time, Sam sipped his drink slowly, and tried to hone his ears in on the conversation Teddy was having with his feline friend. So far, it seemed to be nothing more than small talk and casual comments on the game. Sam heard the bear mention Todd—Ted’s twin brother—further confirming that it was indeed the same Theodore.
     Sam sat in silence for almost half an hour before the bear came back to the bar to order another drink. The old mutt and his friend had since left, so there was no one in between Sam and his long-lost friend. 
     “Greggy-boy, let me get another whisk-ginge and two shots of Patron.”
     “Lime?”
     “Come on, man. I’m Mexican, do you even have to ask?”
     “Your dad is from Canada.”
     “Sí, pero mi mamá…”
     “Yeah, yeah, she’s from Puebla. Lleva sangre Azteca. Puto.”
     “Órale, güey, ya estás aprendiendo!”
     Sam had no idea his friend was half Mexican. Nor was he aware that he spoke Spanish. If he ever had known, he forgot. Did Ted grow up speaking Spanish? Did his parents speak it at home? Did he pick it up in school? What else had he missed? Or forgotten?     
     Samwell turned to look at Teddy for the first time in ten years.
     His young face had grown hardened. His chubby cub fat had turned into a slowly-receding winter blubber that barely hid his pronounced muscles. Sam had only met Ted’s dad a few times, but there was now an uncanny resemblance. The bear felt the fox staring at him, and turned to give him a glance and a smile. Their eyes met but there was no recognition at all. Sam didn’t return the smile, but slightly nodded his head. 
     Ted thanked the bartender and returned to his booth with three drinks in hand. Sam downed the last of his drink and contemplated getting another. Part of him wished that the bartender would cut him off so he wouldn’t have to make the decision for himself. Instead, Greg walked by and once again pointed silently to the lowball glass between them. Sam nodded. He had lost track of how many drinks he had had, yet he hardly felt the slightest bit tipsy. He liked to drink until he couldn’t see or think; his mind was still very loud. He closed his eyes and rubbed them until he saw stars. When he opened them again, his glass was full and Greg was already at the other end of the bar. Sam made a point to thank him when he walked by again.
     There was a bout of raucous laughter from the corner where Ted sat. A shout from the opposite corner where a pair of hippos were smashed into the tiny booth. A sneeze from the right end of the bar where another fox sat next to a skunk. These sounds echoed inside Sam’s head until he closed his eyes again and rubbed the metal part of his skull. Placebo effect, indubitably, but it worked nonetheless. 
     This time, the tiger came up to the bar. 
     “Hey, man, let me get two Coronas, and then I’m gonna close out.”
     “Turning in early on a Friday?” 
     Early? This prompted Sam looked at his watch. It was five of ten.
     “Yeah, yeah. I picked up an extra shift tomorrow morning.” 
     “Gotta get that bread.”
     “The grind never stops.”
     Did people Sam’s age really talk like this? He rarely interacted with people his own age, or… anyone, really, for that matter. 
     The tiger paid with a shiny green credit card and tipped with a twenty-dollar bill. 
     “You know, I’ll never forgive you for not telling me to invest in Bitcoin when you did,” Greg said, snatching the bill from the tiger’s hand.
     “It’s not too late. You know what they say: the best time to plant a tree is forty years ago. The second best time is today. And besides, you’ll forgive me if you buy into Dogecoin. Trust me.”
     “Yeah, right. Like that shitcoin’ll ever break a penny.”
     “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you to invest in Bitcoin,” the tiger replied with a knowing grin. The two fist-bumped and the tiger returned to his table with his final drink of the night.
     By the time Sam finished his drink, the tiger had left. Teddy moved from his booth to the bar, leaving two empty seats between himself and the fox. Sam’s hands began to tremble.
     “You heading out, too?” Greg asked the bear.
     “Nah, I figured I’d stay and catch the rest of the game. Tonight’s Greyhound’s Anatomy night, so the TV will be occupied.”
     “That was on last night,” rebutted the rodent. “I’ve never missed an episode.” 
     So, Greg is gay. Got it, Sam thought sarcastically to himself.
     “Yeah, but my dad works late Thursdays, so they DVR it and watch it on Friday.”
     “Must suck for spoilers. It’s always all over Facebook the next day.”
     “My parents are too old for Facebook.”
     “Touché. Another drink?”
     “Uhhhh… Let me just get a water and then I’ll think about it. I’m driving tonight.”
     Responsible. Teddy hadn’t changed much in that regard. Before continuing their conversation, Greg pointed once again at Sam’s once-again empty glass. He once again said nothing to the fox; this muskrat was quite good at picking up on social cues. Perhaps it came with the profession. Sam once again nodded.
     Ted offered the fox another warm smile; this time, Samwell made a weak attempt at returning one. There was still no sign of recognition in the bear’s eyes. It stung, a bit. 
     The bear turned away, but Sam continued to stare at him as his own smile faded. The bartender interrupted by loudly placing Sam’s drink down in front of him. 
     “You know, I feel a lot better over-serving you knowing you’re only walking a few blocks. You weren’t lying, were you?”
     Sam pulled out his Motel 12 key and dangled it in front of the muskrat.
     “Alright, well if you feel like you need someone to walk you back, I can easily arrange that.”
     “I’m—I’m fine,” Samwell stuttered, focusing hard on not slurring his words. “I really do appreciate the concern, though.” 
     “Hey, don’t take it personal. It’s part of the job.” Greg smirked sarcastically, and began polishing some glasses.
     A few minutes of silence ensued before the bear scooted one seat over, leaving only one stool between him and the fox.
     “Hey man, wanna do a shot with me?” 
     Sam looked up and then over at the bear, incredulous that he even spoke to him.
     “M-me…?” Sam asked, bewildered.
     Ted looked around and gestured at nobody. 
     “Who else would I be talkin’ to?” 
     “I—uh, sure. I suppose. A shot of what?”
     “Your pick.”
     “Well, I’ve been drinking Jameson, but—I feel like it’s time to switch it up.”
     “Ever tried mezcal?”
     “Uh, no, what’s that?”
     “Well, have you ever had tequila?”
     Sam slowly shook his head yes.
     “It’s like that, but worse.”
     Samwell smiled genuinely for the first time in a long time.