Bar Talk

The smoky little bar is hidden away on a side street in a rough edged part of town.  It's a place the locals know but don't much talk about, a place for serious drinkers who drink alone and like to mind their own business. There's no dance floor, no pool table, not even a single video poker machine.  The jukebox in the corner has been silent for years.  At four in the afternoon, there's not much of a crowd and even the bartender - a hefty brunette in a skimpy halter, tight jeans and too much blue eye shadow - looks tired and bored.  She's smoking a lipstick stained cigarette in between smacking her chewing gum and twirling her hair with one pristine manicured fingernail.  She barely spares me a glance. 

I climb onto a ragged leather bar stool with the stuffing leaking out the sides and pull a pack of cigarettes from my jacket pocket.  She slaps a cracked plastic ashtray and a chipped bowl of salted peanuts in front of me, switches the dirty rag of a dishtowel from one bare shoulder to the other and gives me a dull eyed look.

So, she says with another smack of her gum and a deliberate wink, What'll it be.

A dozen or more years ago, before I realized that drinking was a shield and a useful crutch in social situations, I'd have ordered an Amoretto or a glass of the house white wine but I haven't had a drink since.  I start to order my usual diet coke and then for whatever reason, I back pedal.

Disaronno, I tell her, On the rocks.

She narrows her blue eyelids at me and nods although whether in approval or contempt, I can't tell.  I'm a little surprised when I realize I don't care either way.

Several bar stools away, hunched protectively over what I'm sure is his ninth or maybe nineteenth bottle of beer and squinting from the smoke, sits an old and once dear friend of mine, a one time compassionate and promising attorney.   He's sullen, silent and glassy eyed and doesn't see me.  When I think about it, it isn't likely he sees anyone or anything except the half full beer he's clutching. He guzzles it, softly thuds the empty bottle on the bar and the brunette brings him another.  It's like watching for a train wreck that you know is coming and can't stop, can't warn anyone about, can't even get your own self off the tracks.  

Another three or four beers later, she finally shuts him off - out of pity, I suspect - and tells him to leave and go home.  He argues.  She ignores him.  He argues some more and she comes out from behind the bar and gives him a rough shove, toppling him from the bar stool and into a sodden heap on the floor.  He struggles and tries to focus.

I said you're done, you filthy tramp, she tells him coldly, Move your sorry ass outta here.

I turn away as he staggers to his feet and begins to plead for just one more drink.

You're on the other side of that fuckin' door in ten seconds or I call the fuckin' cops, she snaps.  He stumbles toward the door, trips over his own feet and falls heavily.  She stands over him, an empty beer bottle in each hand, prods him with the toe of her boot.

You think I can't handle one broke down, nasty drunk?  she demands and the prod becomes a kick, Carry your fuckin' ass or I'll have it carried for you!

You blue eye shadow whore!  he spits and tries to pull himself to his feet. She swings a beer bottle, catching him on the ear and sending him crashing down again.  He curls up and begins to cry.

Lonnie!  she shouts, Come take out this fuckin' trash!

A mountain size of a man in jeans, a black t shirt and biker chains peers over the swinging doors that lead to the bathrooms.  He steps through with a disgusted look, grips the poor drunk's collar and drags him through the door, kicks him to the curb.

Find yourself somewhere else to get shit-faced, buddy, he says roughly, You ain't drinkin' here no more.

It's quarter after five and the bar traffic is beginning to pick up. I decide the old musician I was supposed to meet isn't going to show so I leave a ten spot on the bar and finish my now watered down drink in one gulp. Lonnie gives me a half-hearted salute as I head for the door.

Sorry 'bout that, he says with a shrug of those massive shoulders, Don't like havin' to show'em the door like that but sometimes........

The blue eye shadow whore just laughs.

It was a sound I could've done without.