THE $12 SPECIAL

by

Cindy Rosmus

          Who expected that? So horrific. And right before Christmas.

          But then, when else but at Christmas?

Twenty years ago, before they redid the Lodge. That night it was still ancient, decrepit. Like any minute, the ceiling would cave in. I tended bar, and that little creep ran the karaoke.

          Gino, that werewolf-looking mama’s boy. With the fat ass and unibrow that the Santa cap couldn’t hide. “Put your hands together,” he said, with that old system echoing, “For Nelly!”

My heart sank. Nelly was the worst. Still, as she trudged up front, we all clapped.

Boring, tone-deaf Nelly. A fixture at karaoke. The year before, her off-key version of “Crazy” made drunks howl with laughter.

Then, suddenly, she vanished. For months. “Where’s our diva?” Butchie, the day bartender, said.

That night, she was back. As she reached for the mic, her hand looked skeletal.

Cancer, I thought.

She opened her mouth, and “Cra-zy” came out hoarsely, off-beat. Around her, the same drunks that had laughed at her looked down into their drinks.

          In the front row, Gino’s mama, Josephine, clapped. As old as the Lodge itself, Josephine still wore roll-up stockings. Why?, I wondered, since they fell down. Even at our Christmas party.

          The Lodge’s “special”: For twelve bucks: a baked ziti and meatball dinner, karaoke, and all the beer you could drink.

“You can’t go wrong!” Butchie told everybody. On line with their empty pitchers, I couldn’t pour beer fast enough.

That’s why they came. Not for ziti, slaved over by Mary Kopec Elementary’s retired cook. Or Gino’s lame karaoke, with Elvis wannabes singing “Burning Love.” Nobody cared that the building smelled like rotting wood. 

“Susie! Not so much foam!” Butchie said. But the keg was going.

Behind him, a hairy face kept popping in and out of the line. “Susie!” Gino said. “My mom needs a drink!”

Wine from a box was Mom’s best bet. In a clear plastic cup like I served the beers.

As I turned back around, I saw him.

It.

This black-cloaked, hooded figure. So out of place at a Christmas party, even this one. With its spangly pink tree and Toys for Tots. Strolling around among the regulars in their ugly Santa sweaters.

The Ghost, I thought, of Christmas Future.

“Susie?” Gino said. “What’s wrong?”

The cloaked figure was gone.

When Butchie touched my arm, I jumped.

“Let’s bring up the keg,” he said. I looked around nervously, before we went down to the cellar.

For an old guy, he was pretty strong. Like that Jack LaLanne guy, muscles stuck out in his arms. All that beer and ziti went to his gut.

When we got back, the cloaked figure was there again. Right behind Nelly. Sipping her beer, she seemed unaware.

The cloak slid up, so a bony hand was revealed. When it stroked Nelly’s hair, I felt sick.

She didn’t react.

“Butch—” I said.

Butchie was tapping the keg. “Doing your job,” he joked.

When I looked again, Nelly was alone.

She’s gonna die, I realized, soon.

Butchie helped me tend bar. People drank beer like mad. Like this was a frat party, instead of the twelve-buck special.

Or like tonight, they would all die.

For the next hour, I peered around, waiting for the cloaked figure’s return.

Who would it pick next?

By now, Josephine’s stockings should be down to her ankles. I wondered if she’d wear roll-ups in her casket.

Gino would be lost without her. Sobbing through “After the Lovin’,” his closing song. Karaoke wouldn’t be the same.

From behind me, I sensed someone. Butchie? I thought.

But I knew.

Before I even turned and saw it hover over Butchie.

When the register dinged, the bell tolled for all of us.

This loud rumbling we heard, like the world was coming down around us. Not just the Lodge’s ceiling and walls. The building splitting apart was long overdue.

People screamed. In their rush to get out the front entrance, they knocked each other down, trampled each other. Cement and rotten wood fell, crushing the pink tree, the toys that tots would never enjoy.

Right off the bar was an exit only staff used. I pushed the door open, smelled cold air outside.

“C’mon!” I told Butchie, whose face was gray. But he didn’t move.

Looking back, I saw Nelly with the mic.

Without music, she began the closing number: “O Holy Night . . .”

Beautifully.

To Death’s standing ovation.