A strong wind suddenly blew inside from the open window. Nick scrambled to stop the pages on his desk from taking flight; quickly he realized that this was pointless and instead ran to close the window. He stood at the window and watched the storm brew outside. The sky, gray and menacing, guaranteed that rain was not too far away. Being a bike rider, Nick would normally curse the rain. But today, he could envision no better backdrop for the current mood he was in. Nick watched as a sliver of water suddenly appeared on his window glass. Then another showed up, and then two more.
He turned around before the window was completely covered, and assessed the damage. He could see papers thrown as far as the liquor cabinet behind his desk and chair. It was clear to him that the wind had won the battle of the desk. He leaned against the windowpane and brought his hands across his face. As he stood there, Nick entertained the possibility of simply leaving the papers where they were, like the flyers and utility bills in the past. He immediately dismissed that. These papers were not the normal desk clutter. No, these were much more important and deserved much more respect. Nick bent over and reached for the first page closest to him, funeral bill for Jeffery Duncan. He took a second to review the piece of paper. As he scanned over the services rendered, his somber mood had deepened. To him, this was the saddest of all the papers to him. Nick’s thoughts were interrupted by a light knock.
“Yeah,” he called out. The door creaked open, allowing all of the sounds of celebration downstairs into the room. A man peaked in. He was a much older than Nick, with golden leathery skin. His long greasy hair was rusty-brown, with strands of gray intermingling vicariously within his unkempt ponytail. It was the most prominent thing the members of the club would always remember about him, if you didn’t know Logan McInerny’s name, then you knew the guy with the rusty looking hair. So that’s what everyone called him. Rust looked around the room at the disarray.
“You busy?” He asked. Nick gathered all of the papers around his feet in one brushing motion, then walked them to the desk.
“Not quite,” he said as he began organizing them. “What’s up?” Rust pushed open the door and revealed a bottle single malt whiskey. Nick let out a gentle smile.
“Thought you could use some cheering up.” Nick signaled for Rust to enter. He walked over to his desk, reached down in his bottom desk drawer pulled out two glasses and placed them on the surface.
“Getting pretty loud down there,” Nick said. Rust sat down in one of the visiting chairs and shrugged.
“Legion day, it’s to be expected.” Suddenly there was a loud crash in the distance, followed by some screaming and a lot of laughing. Rust and Nick met glances and then simultaneously laughed.
“Damn psychos!” He added.
Rust unscrewed the cap and poured a generous amount in both glasses, while Nick finished collecting and organizing all of the papers off the floor.
“Your grand-pop gave me a case of this as my initiation present,” he began as he topped off the last of the two glasses. “‘For the darkest of days,’ He said.” Rust shoved one of the two glasses towards Nick, who caught it and then sat down.