Evening at Clint's

There's this little bar, a couple blocks the other side of the diner; I stop there once in a while after work. It doesn't have a sign or anything out front, just a neon bottle hangin in a dingy window. The bartender is this young kid, big for his age; come to think of it, he's big for any age; anyway... he works most nights. "Al, you wanna drink?" He's holdin a bottle of J&B. Truth is, the only time I stop in is on payday, and he knows I'll drink the whole bottle if I worked all week. "Yeah Scoot, gimme an easy one ta' start with though." I crawl up into my usual stool while he mixes 4 ounces of JB with about a teaspoon of water and 3 cubes. I shake my head and wonder why I deserve this every Tuesday. He's tellin me about this chick that follows him around all the time and so on, while I choke down the first swallow. He's a nice enough kid I guess, I just can't help but think though, this girl has got to be a fairly sturdy model to support his bulk. "Scoot, you don't know when ya' got a good thing goin," I tell him and take another shivering jolt. God this stuff is nasty, I pull out a cigarette and fire it up. "Yeah right Al, like you would." Maybe he's right. I used to say I believed in serial monogamy, but after 3 marriages the serial turned out to be granola; one fruit, one nut, and one flake. I rattle the ice for another drink. She lives out by Genoa he continues, "Calls me all the time; she was here last weekend, where were you?" I stare at the cooler of cheap beer till he brings my drink. "Oh, I went out to the lake and..." I let the sentence dangle in the air when a couple customers come in, and Scoot moves to the other end of the bar. I've seen 'em in here before, charter members of the beer crowd. They start tellin' bad jokes and laughin' like idiots, Scoot grabs a couple bottles from the cooler. "Al, come on down and join us." Scoot's always tryin' to get me to join these tedious conversations; he knows I won't but he keeps on anyway. He told me once, "Ya gotta get involved." There's a big difference between gettin' involved, and listening to fools empty their brains over a beer I told him. Now I think he just asks for the aggravation factor, I let it go. "Later," I nod in their general direction.

For a change of pace I head back to the can for the first in a long series of leaks. A while back I thought I was developing a prostate problem, til' my stay at the rehab center. Nothin' like a 30 day stint to calm your nerves and put ya' back on track. A young p.a. gave me the 1-2 probing check and I passed. Not really much of a highlight in life, but you take what comes along, and you're damn grateful if it isn't bad. The hallway is pretty dim back there and I always struggle to find the door, unless I follow my nose. The scent of every male of the human species leavin' his mark in the urinal just about turns my stomach, so I cover it over with my own. It wouldn't be as bad if the bastards didn't just step in the door and take their shot from 3 feet out. Goddamn place is a wading pool. How anyone can believe we're the higher race is beyond my comprehension. The way we scurry about fuckin' everything up, including each other, and foulin' our own nest. I realize, as I'm puttin' my buddy away, this is a dangerous line of thought to mix with scotch. A shot of religion, one of politics and a fair amount of psuedo-intellectual pride, and I devolve into an arrogant asshole with a bone to pick with all comers. Fumbling my way outa' the can I head back to my drink.

I focus back in on my little glass of elixir, turning it in my hand. No point rushing through this, Scoot'll be 'gettin involved' till somebody else comes in. One of the idiots knocks a beer over while fumbling for the punch line and their laughin' their asses off again. Jesus! I never could hack the taste of beer but, what a waste. I fix my gaze on the bad check list and wonder if these things are just passed from one place to another, like the names scratched in the top of the bar. While pondering this, as yet, unanswered question of the universe, Scoot sets a fresh drink in front of me. I must've looked puzzled. "Is's on the house," he says in the condescending manner reserved for bartenders. I mutter a 'thanks' and suck down the last of the other one. "Fuck you too Al." He laughs and heads for a table of secretary types that must've come in while I was pondering the scratches in the bar. I watch as he takes their order. He must be smoothin' one of 'em cuz she's gigglin' like a school girl and battin' her eyes. The other 2 just look tired, their both a little older, maybe my age. The school girl catches my stare, turns red and glares at me. Scoot gives me a wink and says somethin'; the school girl giggles again while the other two turn toward me. I give them a weak smile and scurry my gaze back to the glass in front of me. I know how ratty I look; besides, I can always recall the image later if I get the urge.

The place is fillin' up fairly quickly now, happy hour has started and somebody has plugged the juke for some old Bob Seger. Construction workers are shootin' pool and makin' moves on the secretaries, and gettin' no where. Typical scene. If I didn't smell like a fryer I could talk my intellectual 'schtick' to the secretaries I guess, maybe one of 'em has green eyes... I let that thought die a natural death, and honor myself with a couple good swallows. Scoot's gettin' pretty busy so I order 2 more, a pack of Winstons, and ponder the bar again. I'm wondering how it is that only people with names like 'Bob' and 'Joe' are scratched in bar tops. Just once I'd like to see a 'Sylvester.' Then again, considering how drunk you'd have to be to sit and do it, I suppose it'd stretch from one end to the other. With no room left for the other assorted squiggles and lame geometric patterns of wanna be Picassos' and Eschers'. I'm really getting absorbed in this pointless line of thought when a womans voice drifts by at close range. Not feeling particularly energetic, I twist my eyeballs over to see 'warm eyes' standing in a gap between the stools tryin ta' get Scoots' attention. I suddenly hope he's real busy.

She has those little lines on her face, the ones a woman gets from spending too much time alone with her kids. Single mothers are easy to spot, the perpetual run-down look and more than enough glances at their high-fashion K-Mart watches. Scoot's giving me plenty of opportunity but my mind is to distant from my mouth to do any good. So few things are worth the effort, however... She's incredibly patient for a single mom I think, about that time she looks straight at me and smiles. Huh... that's a surprise, a real smile in this rats nest. "This could take awhile, mind if I sit here?" My 'please do,' came out more quickly than I intended though she didn't seem to notice. "I'm Christine," she said, offering her hand. I take it and she goes on, "You can call me Christi, a lot of people do." What the hell, this is the 90's. I try to keep pace but when you live alone, time dies right along side your spirit. I relax a little, "I'm Allen." Most people call me Al though I don't like the sound of it; so I start off with the full name hoping it'll stick. "It's nice to meet you Allen." A certain kind of fool likes to hear the sound of his own name. And when she said it, I knew once again, I was just that kind of fool. I made the standard reply and the conversation rolled along the usual path. You come here often? Work is a drag. The usual boring stuff. It's old and tiresome, but certain things have to be agreed on, and people need to get through them before they can really talk. She smells fantastic so I ask what she's wearing. "Nude, by Bill Blass" she said, with just a hint of a blush. Her eyes were sparkling; probably the alcohol but the moment was too ripe. Deep, satisfying laughter poured out of us without embarrassment till we stopped to catch our breath and wipe our eyes. Scoot showed up about then and smirked at us. I wanted to tell him to 'fuck off' but... "What are you up to over here?" "We're talking about doing commercials," I said. Christi burst into a laughing streak again with one hand covering her mouth, gripping my arm with the other. Her whole body shook with it and I felt really good for her as she looked up at me with glistening eyes. It was an open, friendly look and it was warm. This lady's going to be alright I thought. I ordered her another drink while she nodded an affirmation, and Scoot was gone. She pulled herself together as I worked my drink. "Thank you Allen, it felt good to laugh, I guess I needed it."

She had turned to face me while she dabbed at her eyes, trying to stem the tide of running mascara. We both smiled, "You're welcome." She squeezed my arm gently, turned back to the bar and dug into her purse for a mirror. I drained the glass, swallowing hard against my wandering mind. It's a strain at times not to create little scenes in my head. A selfishness of sorts, or maybe just a form of self-preservation. Whatever the reason, I wasn't about to indulge in it now; this was so real I could taste it. My bladder was aching so I excused myself and headed toward the back. Most of the tables were covered with empty drink glasses, and surrounded by Kirby vacuum and vinyl siding salesmen. A table of Scamway reps were back in the corner talking about themselves to each other with alternating smug looks, and mutual disgust showing on their faces. One of 'em was trying to get the others' attention by waving some brochure in the air. "I just wanna' show ya... ", and "Just take a look at... " he kept bawling over and over while the others ignored him. One look at this guy and I froze, I could see his childhood. Forever tryin' to get somebody's, anybody's attention, and always ending up going off by himself muttering about how they really should listen to him once in awhile. It was a sick vision, and the scotch started bubblin' in my belly. "Gotta' switch thoughts," someone inside of me said. They all sell the same empty capitalist shit so I couldn't imagine what he thought he could offer the other weasels. Skirting the last table of arm-wrestling hard-hats and down the dark hallway to the mens' sewer. It was really a mess by now, so I drained off the top half and got the hell outa' there. I could only hope Christi didn't notice the couple drops that darkened my crotch; just my dumb luck. As I elbowed my way through the mass of young bulls who never sit down, I realized I was already playing the impression game. The very thought of it made the scotch churn again; I reached my stool and sat down heavily. I turned to say something pithy to my new girl, and sat with my mouth hanging open stupidly to the chagrin of an empty chair. I cracked my neck turning toward her table too quickly; shit, they're getting up to leave, I sat rubbing my neck. She glanced back at the bar and I turned away fast, but she smiled and walked toward me. I took a stiff drink to fill the pit forming in my stomach, and set the empty glass down just as she touched my shoulder. "It was really nice talking with you Allen." I wanted to hear sincerity in her voice, so I don't know if it was there or not. The weak smile came out again, and I guess I returned the compliment. "Maybe we can do another commercial sometime." She caught me off-guard with that line and I instinctivly laughed with her again. She squeezed my hand once, smiling with broad honesty, turned and left.

I sat there for a long time nursing that last drink. I thought about scratching 'Christi' in the top of the bar. Instead, I downed the last of the scotch, hoping to quell the agony of a chance encounter and ordered another... just to be sure.

© 1995-2001 A Hominid G