hundred-year flood," I answered, quoting my local fountain of knowledge, Shorty Rojas. "Personally, I've never seen one like it," I added with what I thought was artful candor.
The hamburger was all right, if you don't mind fried lettuce, and the French fries were soggy with grease, but food is food if you're hungry enough. I downed the main course and ordered a dish of vanilla ice cream for dessert. It was the first time in years I had ordered ice cream in public. Watching me curiously, the man next to me ordered another Bud.
"What do you do for a living?" I asked. By asking questions first, I thought I could at least direct the flow of conversation.
"I'm an accountant. You?"
But that's the problem with casual conversations. Every answer evolves into another question, tit for tat.
"I'm a cop," I answered.
"Oh," the guy grunted. Not, What kind? Not, Where? Just, Oh, and since he didn't ask for any more specifics, I didn't offer them. An old loose-jawed guy one seat over asked Gray Suit for a light, which he didn't have, but the two of them struck up another conversation, leaving me out of it. With the life- and property-threatening flood surging past outside, everyone in the room found it easy to talk to strangers. While Gray Suit was preoccupied, I asked the bartender for a pay phone. He directed me to one in the grungy yellow hallway between the dining room and the bar, but when I picked up the handset, the phone was dead.
"Phone's out of order," a dishwasher said unnecessarily as he trudged past me lugging a huge plastic tub laden with dirty dishes.
"I noticed," I said, and made my way back into the bar, where a third glass of tonic had reserved my place. I had just hunkered onto the stool and was in the process of raising the glass to my lips when someone spoke directly behind me.
"If this isn't cozy. What are you two doing, sitting around comparing notes?"
I recognized the icy voice. Instantly. It was Karen, my ex-wife Karen, on a rampage. Stunned, I turned to look at her, almost spilling the full drink down my front. What the hell was she doing here?
Carefully I set my drink back down on the bar. When in doubt, attack, so I took the initiative. "I thought you were going to the meeting."
There was such blazing fury in her eyes that I almost would have preferred tangling with the rattlesnake in Dolores Rojas' glass jar.
"Meeting? You're damned right I've been to a meeting, but I'm here to tell you you've suckered me for the last time, Jonas Piedmont Beaumont."
"Karen," I said reasonably, "it's not what you think."
"It isn't? I'll tell you what I think. The kids and I took a full week out of our lives. We came all the way over here and squandered our time willingly, on the assumption that we were doing you a favor, helping you get well. That's what all the counselors told us on the phone when they were begging us to come. Just now we've spent a good hour and a half attending a goddamned Al-Anon meeting, while you're already back in the bars and drinking again."
"Karen, I…"
But before I could say anything more, the man in the gray suit, who seemed almost as surprised as I was, managed to find his voice.
"Honey," he said, standing up, "I think I can explain everything."
She glared at him, her face awash in tearful anger. "You'd better get started then, David, unless you prefer his company to mine."
With that, karen Moffit Beaumont Livingston turned on her heel and swept regally out of the Silver Spur Saloon, with gray-suited David, her second husband, trailing miserably behind. Somehow sensing incipient danger, people in the crowd parted, stepping aside to let them pass.
The bartender came by and collected David Livingston's abandoned glass. "Who was that?" he asked, pausing for a moment to polish the top of the bar in front of me.
"My ex," I replied grimly. "And her second husband."
I couldn't exactly call David Livingston Karen's new husband. After all, he had been around for some time now, ten
The hamburger was all right, if you don't mind fried lettuce, and the French fries were soggy with grease, but food is food if you're hungry enough. I downed the main course and ordered a dish of vanilla ice cream for dessert. It was the first time in years I had ordered ice cream in public. Watching me curiously, the man next to me ordered another Bud.
"What do you do for a living?" I asked. By asking questions first, I thought I could at least direct the flow of conversation.
"I'm an accountant. You?"
But that's the problem with casual conversations. Every answer evolves into another question, tit for tat.
"I'm a cop," I answered.
"Oh," the guy grunted. Not, What kind? Not, Where? Just, Oh, and since he didn't ask for any more specifics, I didn't offer them. An old loose-jawed guy one seat over asked Gray Suit for a light, which he didn't have, but the two of them struck up another conversation, leaving me out of it. With the life- and property-threatening flood surging past outside, everyone in the room found it easy to talk to strangers. While Gray Suit was preoccupied, I asked the bartender for a pay phone. He directed me to one in the grungy yellow hallway between the dining room and the bar, but when I picked up the handset, the phone was dead.
"Phone's out of order," a dishwasher said unnecessarily as he trudged past me lugging a huge plastic tub laden with dirty dishes.
"I noticed," I said, and made my way back into the bar, where a third glass of tonic had reserved my place. I had just hunkered onto the stool and was in the process of raising the glass to my lips when someone spoke directly behind me.
"If this isn't cozy. What are you two doing, sitting around comparing notes?"
I recognized the icy voice. Instantly. It was Karen, my ex-wife Karen, on a rampage. Stunned, I turned to look at her, almost spilling the full drink down my front. What the hell was she doing here?
Carefully I set my drink back down on the bar. When in doubt, attack, so I took the initiative. "I thought you were going to the meeting."
There was such blazing fury in her eyes that I almost would have preferred tangling with the rattlesnake in Dolores Rojas' glass jar.
"Meeting? You're damned right I've been to a meeting, but I'm here to tell you you've suckered me for the last time, Jonas Piedmont Beaumont."
"Karen," I said reasonably, "it's not what you think."
"It isn't? I'll tell you what I think. The kids and I took a full week out of our lives. We came all the way over here and squandered our time willingly, on the assumption that we were doing you a favor, helping you get well. That's what all the counselors told us on the phone when they were begging us to come. Just now we've spent a good hour and a half attending a goddamned Al-Anon meeting, while you're already back in the bars and drinking again."
"Karen, I…"
But before I could say anything more, the man in the gray suit, who seemed almost as surprised as I was, managed to find his voice.
"Honey," he said, standing up, "I think I can explain everything."
She glared at him, her face awash in tearful anger. "You'd better get started then, David, unless you prefer his company to mine."
With that, karen Moffit Beaumont Livingston turned on her heel and swept regally out of the Silver Spur Saloon, with gray-suited David, her second husband, trailing miserably behind. Somehow sensing incipient danger, people in the crowd parted, stepping aside to let them pass.
The bartender came by and collected David Livingston's abandoned glass. "Who was that?" he asked, pausing for a moment to polish the top of the bar in front of me.
"My ex," I replied grimly. "And her second husband."
I couldn't exactly call David Livingston Karen's new husband. After all, he had been around for some time now, ten
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