He’s at the airport some thirty minutes before boarding when he spots the bar and thinks he could use a drink at that moment.  Mind you, Jim’s not usually a drinker.  The occasional beer, sure, but he had the taste for something a bit stronger at that time, so he sits before the tender and orders a whiskey on the rocks.  That lead to two more before boarding began, so he pays the tender, heads over and five minutes later he’s in his seat.  First class, that was impressive.  Gets another whiskey before take off and then he notices the fog, and he’s gone for the next few hours, waking up to see the English landscape below the plane as they head towards London. 

He stands at the baggage claim for a few minutes before he remembers the only thing he brought over was on his back.  There’s a Starbucks within sight so he gets a cup of coffee, black, and sits for a moment, slowly sipping when there’s a tap on his shoulder.  The man behind him is a few inches shorter than him, but still tall, midnight-dark skin and long dreads to his waist.

            “Oy, kid,” the man says, his accent British with a slight bit of African harshness.

            “Hey Bill.”

            “Have a good flight?”

            “Passed out for the majority of it.”

            “That qualifies as a good flight.”

            “I guess.  Where’s Jonathan?”

            “At the hospital.  Said you wouldn’t mind if I came to get you.”

            “Course I don’t,” Jim says as he gets up.  Bill starts walking toward the exit and Jim falls in step beside him.  “How’s that little girl of yours?”

            “Beautiful.  I’ll show you a picture in the car.”

            “I’d like that.”

            “Don’t get to see her as much as I’d like.”  They walk out through the front entrance and Bill’s ride is illegally parked there, in plain view of the security guards and cops, who don’t even say a word as they get in.

            “Why’s that?”

            “Her mother went back to Nigeria.”

            “Damn, man.”

            “Is what it is.”  He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, where he brings forth the promised photo, of a beautiful little girl with chocolate skin lighter than her father’s. 

            “She’s lovely.”

            “That’s for sure.  I’ve already made sure she’ll be getting into only the best schools.  She says she wants to be a doctor.  How’re you doing?”  Jim hands the photo back to Bill, who slides it back into his wallet before starting the car and pulling out.

            “Not too sure at this juncture.”

            “Has it sunk in yet?”

            “Probably will when I see him.  How’s Jonathan doing?”

            “Doing okay, I guess.  You know him.”

            “Yeah.”  They don’t talk again until they get to the hospital, where Bill again parks illegally, though not in the way of any emergency vehicles. 

            “I’ll wait down here, give you cats a ride when you’re done.”

            “Thanks, Bill,” Jim says, holding out his hand, which Bill takes.  “It’s good to see you again.”

            “For sure.  Wish it could have been under better circumstances.” 

            “Yeah.”  Jim nods before turning an entering the hospital, heading straight for the front desk and telling the nurse, “I’m here to see Charles Chinaski.”

            The nurse looks down at her computer and types something quickly before looking back up at Jim and saying, “He’d be in room 412.”

            “Thank you.”  He spots the elevator and heads up, the car empty except for him.  He counts his breaths, one in with each new floor.  At the fourth he follows the signs and there he his, Charles Chinaski, his face horribly bruised along the left side, tubes up his nose and down his throat, the machine to his right silently indicating a steady but weak heartbeat, the man in the chair by his bed looking up from his copy of Milton when Jim walks in.

            “Hey there, kid.”

            “Hey Jonathan.”  They shake hands and a quick hug.  Jonathan is about five years older than Jim, his brown hair not at all long and shaggy but cut short, as if he’d trimmed it himself.  His green eyes, usually twinkling with mischief, were dull and red.

            “Glad you could make it so quickly.”  He pockets the book in his camelhair coat.

            “How long?” 

            “His kin from Israel will be here in a day.  They insist we not be here when they arrive.”

            “They’re going to have them pull the plug.”

            “Yep.  He’s been brain-dead since they brought him in, so really, the machines here are just for show.”

            “What happened to him?”

            “Hit by a bus.  Walked right in front of the thing, it seems.”

            “Was he strung out?”

            “Nah.  Seems he spent his time there in Israel kicking.”

            “Sure.”

            “I talked with the doctors.  His tox screen was clean.  Sober as the day he was born.”

            “That’s good, I guess.”

            “Yeah.  How’re you doing?”

            “Bill asked me the same thing.”

            “What’d you tell him?”

            “That I wasn’t sure.  How’re you?”

            “I don’t know, son.  It’s weird.  Not like I saw him much growing up.  Never really thought of him as ‘Dad’, you know?  But still, he was, and I know he loved me, in his way.  Loved you too.  Whenever I talked to him, always went on about how proud he was of you.”

            “He’d tell me the same things about you.  On and on about the things you’d do, about how even if they weren’t necessarily legal, you were your own man always.”

            “He said that?” Jonathan asked, a thin smile spreading on his lips.

            “Yeah.”

            “Guess we’ll just have to get used to the thought he’s not out there.”

            “Guess we will.”

            “I can’t sit here, anymore,” Jonathan said, looking about the room.  “I’ve said my goodbyes.  You want a moment?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I’ll meet you outside.”

            “Okay.”  Jonathan closes the door behind him and Jim sits where his brother had been.  He takes in how the old man in the bed looks, so close to the end, kept alive only by the machines.  His wrinkled skin thin but tan.  The bruise along his face dark with blood.  Gray hair along the sides of his dome.  The great Charles Chinaski, subject to the whims of his Israeli children, brothers and sisters Jim Halpert didn’t know, and cold as it were, had no inclination to know.  The machines silently keep on keeping on.  The sky outside the hospital window grows darker and rain is coming on soon.  He rises from the chair, puts a hand on his father’s cold forehead, and says something to himself that could be considered a prayer.  A kiss to the brow and one look back is the last he’ll see of his father. 

            Jim skips the elevator and slowly walks down four flights, softly walking out the lobby to where Jonathan Chinaski and Bill Bones are leaning against Bill’s ride, smoking.  Jonathan tosses his smoke to the ground when he sees Jim, claps him on the shoulder and opens the door for his brother.  Jim in the back, Bill driving and Jonathan looking out the window, rain trailing slowly and obscuring his view. 

            “You in the mood for a brew?” Jonathan asked.

            “Just said one last goodbye to my father.  Could use one, sure.  Where’s Nigel?”

            “He’s at the pub, keeping Courtney company until we arrive.”

            “Courtney’s still around these parts?  Thought he went legit?”

            “Technically, yeah, but his type never completely leaves the life behind.  We can’t all be like you, brother.”  Jim doesn’t know quite how to respond, so he doesn’t, simply rides for a moment, looking out at London but not seeing it.

                                                       * * *

            It’s three in the morning, and Pam’s not asleep.  She’s got a bottle of wine some time ago and turned on the TV to some random channel, watching whatever comes on.  The wine is almost gone.  She’s tired and cold and no where near drunk enough but doesn’t want to go to bed, doesn’t want to turn on the heat or get a blanket, but she wants more wine. 

            There comes a knock on her door, soft on the wood so she knows it’s not Roy.  She knows who she wishes it was but knows it isn’t him; she’s not that deserving of such luck.  The knock comes again, so she gets up from the couch and crosses her living room to the front door, not even looking outside to check who it was before undoing all the locks.  When she opens the door, Karen is holding a bag with a few bottles of cheap wine.  She looks lost, like a dog who had lost it’s scent home in the rain.

            “Want to get drunk?” she asks.

            “Sounds good to me.”  Pam turns and lets the woman into her home.  She closes the door and redoes all the locks.  When she turns, she sees Karen looking at the almost empty bottle of wine and the television on to an infomercial. 

            “Bad night?”

            “Something like that.  You?”

            “Yeah.  I think I’m a horrible person.  Why the bad night?”

            “Realized the man I loved for ten years was a monster.  Why are you a horrible person?”

            “Kind of broke up with my boyfriend right after he was told his father is dying.”  Somehow, Pam is able to not react to the news. 

            “Wow.”

            “I win, huh?”

            “I guess.”