Chapter Text
In an unfamiliar bar, Bill ordered a beer and took his place at a two-seater table. The bar was clearly set up with small-scale performances in mind, the copious seating options all arranged towards a cozy stage. It was dark at the moment, and Bill pulled the flier out of his pocket. He flattened it out to read it, but struggled in the dim room.
A light came on in front of him, an upright bass humming out notes, as Bill finally located the date on the paper. It was open mic night, with free time at the end of the night for anyone who felt the urge to perform. Bill briefly scanned over the other nights, considering if he might come back another time with friends, but his head snapped up automatically as a new sound hit his ears.
Now, you say you’re lonely
You cried the whole night through
Well, you can cry me a river
Cry me a river
I cried a river over you
Never before had Bill heard a more beautiful sound than the voice of the man on stage, as he crooned a jazz number. The thin, dark-haired man sat on a stool, head down causing his curly hair block most of his face.
You drove me, nearly drove me, out of my head,
While you never shed a tear
Remember, I remember all that you said
Told me love was too plebeian
Told me you were through with me
Despite his lax posture, the mysterious singer’s sirenic voice dripped with emotion as he sang a song Bill had never heard before. His voice would fluctuate between a melancholic, husky whisper, all the way to a soulful bellow. The song took Bill on an emotional journey with him, from heartbreak to anger through depression and ending with a sense of confusion and emptiness.
And now, you say you love me
Well, just to prove you do,
Come on and cry me a river
Cry me a river
I cried a river over you
His voice faded out, echoing the last line over and over, until the sound disappeared seamlessly. People rose to their feet, clapped, hooted and hollered, but Bill stayed where he was, his vision clouded. He wasn’t sure when he started crying, but he looked down, and noticed discolored spots covering the flier, making it practically indecipherable.
Wiping his eyes as the cheers died down, Bill whipped his head up, looking for the singer, who had already left the stage. Bill scanned the crowd, but the dim lighting combined with his blurred vision made him almost impossible to track down. Making a b-line for the bar, Bill waved the bartender over frantically. The guy rolled his eyes and walked over to him, impatience clear in his glance.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked, a bored expression on his face.
“No, I don’t, not right now. Do you know who that was?” Bill asked frantically, pointing to the stage.
“Richie Tozier. He’s a regular here for open mic.”
“Really?” Bill asked incredulously. “Is he always that good?”
The guy shook his head, as he dried a glass with a towel. “Uh, no. I’ve never heard him sing, actually. Usually does stand up,” the bartender replied, looking at the glass and not at Bill. Finally, he set it down and looked Bill in the eye. “Somebody must have hurt him real good to get him to sing that well.”
Nodding, Bill scanned the crowd again, not seeing anyone familiar or that looked remotely like the singer...Richie, the bartender had said. “Do you know where he might be? Does he usually hang around after or does he just leave?”
The bartender sighed, and Bill looked back up at him. “Look, it’s not my business what you are trying to get out of this guy. But, to keep my conscience clean, promise me you’re not a rapist or a stalker or a murderer before I tell you anything.”
The tone he used was a joke, but the man behind the bar clearly felt some amount of protectiveness over Richie, even if they didn’t seem to be friends exactly. Bill held up his hands in surrender before he replied.
“I’m not, I promise. Something about him was just….” Bill trailed off, trying to think. Enchanting? Alluring? All-encompassing? For some reason, despite touting himself as a writer, Bill had the hardest time pinpointing a word that really captured how he was feeling.
As Bill looked back at the bartender, he only caught the end of an eye roll, before the man replied, “Yeah, whatever. Normally, he smokes right after he performs in the alley out that door,” he said, gesturing towards it.
Hope filled Bill’s heart as stood up to head that way, feeling that destiny was on the other side of it for him. He turned back, though, to say, “Thank you, ummm….”
“It’s Stanley. And you’re welcome….”
“Bill,” he replied, adding, “Denbrough,” when Stanley looked like he wanted more.
“Bill Denbrough. You’re welcome. Don’t kill him in the alley, or I’ll know it was you. I know your name and what you look like. And I’ll keep this,” he explained, as Stanley reached over to pull the flier Bill had been fidgeting with out of his hand, “For fingerprints and DNA.”
Stanley walked over to a cork board behind the bar, pinning it to the center and ripping off the corners he had touched. Bill wasn’t sure if it was for show or not, but he simply smiled and said, “Thanks Stanley,” as he walked swiftly to the alley door, desperate to know what lay in wait for him on the other side.
Flinging the door open more than he meant to, it slammed against the wall as Bill made his way outside, his breath clouding in front of him instantly, the cold air biting. His head moved rapidly side to side, scanning deftly the scene in front of him, but nothing caught his eye immediately. As he walked, still scanning, Bill heard no speaking, no movement.
A ways down the alley, there was a dumpster, and Bill thought it might be obstructing his view of someone on the other side. He made his way in that direction and heard a hollow thump against the metal dumpster, his heart beating faster with the possibilities. Bill even thought he could smell tobacco smoke in the air as he neared the source of the sound.
Alas, fate would have to wait for another night. The alley was empty in front of him, not a handsome man in sight, the noise probably from the rat that ran by as Bill decided hanging out in alleys wasn’t really for him. He headed back towards the door to the bar, trying to stave off the dopamine crash as logic threatened to overtake the feeling of kismet he had just moments ago. Would fate really let him miss out on that opportunity?
As he opened the door, walking back through the threshold, Bill pondered if Richie had even been real. Every moment since Bill had seen him felt like an out of body experience. Richie had vanished so quickly, no trace lingering except for the scent of cigarette smoke. Bill felt, if he tried hard enough, he could convince himself the man had simply been a dream, a fabrication, an illusion.
But Stanley knew him, and saw Bill come back in looking thoughtful and distraught, and commented more than asked, “Not there, huh. Well, he seemed emotional tonight, so hopefully next time, he’ll stick around. Sorry kid.”
“Kid?” Bill said, climbing up onto the bar stool. “We’re like the same age.”
“Physically,” Stanley said wryly, a wistful smile on his face the first hint of happiness from the stoic man that Bill had observed. “But mentally, I’m an old, grumpy man who just wants kids to stay out of my bar.”
Without prompting, Stan filled a glass partway with a brown liquor and passed it to Bill. When Bill went to reject it, the curly haired man simply stated, “Bourbon, on the house.” Bill still looked like he might resist, so Stanley leaned in closer, before explaining, “You’re doing me a favor, man. The bottle’s nearly empty and I’d rather finish it off.”
Sighing, Bill nodded a thank you to him, and sipped at the drink, surprised at how smooth it went down. He normally stuck to beer, but the taste and alcohol content seemed to be helping stave off the wave of sadness threatening to overtake him, so Bill took another long drink, as Stanley whistled while he wiped down the bar.
Throwing his head back, Bill finished his drink, slamming his glass on the counter, as Stanley slammed a flier down next to him. “A new one, since the one in evidence is smudged and basically illegible.”
“Thanks,” Bill said simply, noticing that another open mic was coming up in a few weeks. He folded it carefully and committed the time and date to memory, just in case he lost it, as he so often did with whatever he put in his pockets.
He headed for the exit, and opened the door, hearing a voice call, “See you on the 20th,” as it closed behind him.