They stared silently at their drinks, as lively
as a pair of potted plants. Maybe they're joint owners of an
uninsured boat that has just sunk, Michael mused. The only other
customer was a young man with curly hair. He wore a sweatshirt with
cut-off sleeves and he was sitting on a stool at the end of the
bar. The bartender listened impassively as the young man explained
something in great detail, underlining every word with elaborate
hand gesture:;. Michael couldn't catch What was being said, so he
occupied himself with filling a pipe (he had taken care to bring
the most battered briar in his collection). The mirror behind the
bar was festooned with postcards, paper money from foreign
countries and pasteboard plaques with catchy mottos like A HARD MAN
IS GOOD TO FIND! and ONLY SAILORS GET BLOWN OFFSHORE!
The bartender saw Michael and came over to
serve him.
He was a heavyset man who might have been
thirty-five or fifty or any age in between. He had the lumpy,
nicked features of someone who has taken at least as many punches
as he has thrown. His crew-cut hair was a neutral lichen on a skull
that presented new horizons in phrenology.
"Bottle of Bud," Michael requested.
He got four dollars and fifteen cents change
from his five. The bartender went back to the curly-haired youth
who now addressed him as Ted. Ted, the bartender, took in another
minute or so of Curl's ongoing saga before shrugging and walking
away. He stuck a toothpick in his mouth and took a closer look at
Michael.
"You from here in town?" Ted asked, making
it sound like an accusation.
"Yeah, moved in not too long ago."
"That right?" Ted had heard stranger things.
He chewed his. toothpick.
"Quiet night," Michael observed.
Ted grunted ambiguously. At that moment
three more young men came into the bar and joined Curly. They
called for 7 & 7, a mix of Seagram's rye and 7-Up that Michael
loathed. Ted started pouring and Michael's eye fell on a card that
said OUT TO A DRINK OF LUNCH! He noticed that all of the messages
ended with an exclamation point.
One of the men at the bar proceeded to tell
a story in a loud voice. It was about a sailor who, after months at
sea, prowled the bars and finally found a prostitute he liked. They
went back to her place, he paid her five dollars and they got down
to it. But the sailor had had too many drinks and he wasn't making
progress~~. Still, he labored on, and at one point asked the bored
girl how he was doing. "About three knots, sailor," she said. The
sailor wondered if she was making fun of him, so he asked her what
she meant by that. Her answer: "It's not hard, it's not in, and
you're not getting your five dollars back." The four young men
rocked on their feet with laughter. Michael smiled. Ted, who had
heard that joke many times before, studied the serial numbers on a
handful of dollar bills.
A woman entered the bar and, after a quick
glance around, sat on a stool next to Michael. Right on time, he
thought. Just as he had cued the arrival of the noisy trio by
remarking how quiet it was, so their little story had cued the
entrance of this shady lady. The only cue in the bar that wasn't
working was the exclamation point: so far it had failed to produce
a single laugh. Ted must have known the woman because he brought
her a rye and ginger without having to be told. Then he stared at a
large jar full of pickled eggs, perhaps trying to guess their
number.
"Hi," the woman said with a smile.
"Hi," Michael said.
"The place is busy tonight."
"Quite a crowd," Michael agreed with a touch
of sarcasm. It was easier and safer to take a look at her in the
mirror behind the bar. She had the bright, artificial face of a
child's doll. It probably took her longer these days to assemble
all the components, but she hadn't reached the stage where no
matter what she did she would always look frayed. That might be the
next comer, but she hadn't quite got to it yet.
"My name is Vy," she said. "Short for
Viyella, as in Viyella
as a pair of potted plants. Maybe they're joint owners of an
uninsured boat that has just sunk, Michael mused. The only other
customer was a young man with curly hair. He wore a sweatshirt with
cut-off sleeves and he was sitting on a stool at the end of the
bar. The bartender listened impassively as the young man explained
something in great detail, underlining every word with elaborate
hand gesture:;. Michael couldn't catch What was being said, so he
occupied himself with filling a pipe (he had taken care to bring
the most battered briar in his collection). The mirror behind the
bar was festooned with postcards, paper money from foreign
countries and pasteboard plaques with catchy mottos like A HARD MAN
IS GOOD TO FIND! and ONLY SAILORS GET BLOWN OFFSHORE!
The bartender saw Michael and came over to
serve him.
He was a heavyset man who might have been
thirty-five or fifty or any age in between. He had the lumpy,
nicked features of someone who has taken at least as many punches
as he has thrown. His crew-cut hair was a neutral lichen on a skull
that presented new horizons in phrenology.
"Bottle of Bud," Michael requested.
He got four dollars and fifteen cents change
from his five. The bartender went back to the curly-haired youth
who now addressed him as Ted. Ted, the bartender, took in another
minute or so of Curl's ongoing saga before shrugging and walking
away. He stuck a toothpick in his mouth and took a closer look at
Michael.
"You from here in town?" Ted asked, making
it sound like an accusation.
"Yeah, moved in not too long ago."
"That right?" Ted had heard stranger things.
He chewed his. toothpick.
"Quiet night," Michael observed.
Ted grunted ambiguously. At that moment
three more young men came into the bar and joined Curly. They
called for 7 & 7, a mix of Seagram's rye and 7-Up that Michael
loathed. Ted started pouring and Michael's eye fell on a card that
said OUT TO A DRINK OF LUNCH! He noticed that all of the messages
ended with an exclamation point.
One of the men at the bar proceeded to tell
a story in a loud voice. It was about a sailor who, after months at
sea, prowled the bars and finally found a prostitute he liked. They
went back to her place, he paid her five dollars and they got down
to it. But the sailor had had too many drinks and he wasn't making
progress~~. Still, he labored on, and at one point asked the bored
girl how he was doing. "About three knots, sailor," she said. The
sailor wondered if she was making fun of him, so he asked her what
she meant by that. Her answer: "It's not hard, it's not in, and
you're not getting your five dollars back." The four young men
rocked on their feet with laughter. Michael smiled. Ted, who had
heard that joke many times before, studied the serial numbers on a
handful of dollar bills.
A woman entered the bar and, after a quick
glance around, sat on a stool next to Michael. Right on time, he
thought. Just as he had cued the arrival of the noisy trio by
remarking how quiet it was, so their little story had cued the
entrance of this shady lady. The only cue in the bar that wasn't
working was the exclamation point: so far it had failed to produce
a single laugh. Ted must have known the woman because he brought
her a rye and ginger without having to be told. Then he stared at a
large jar full of pickled eggs, perhaps trying to guess their
number.
"Hi," the woman said with a smile.
"Hi," Michael said.
"The place is busy tonight."
"Quite a crowd," Michael agreed with a touch
of sarcasm. It was easier and safer to take a look at her in the
mirror behind the bar. She had the bright, artificial face of a
child's doll. It probably took her longer these days to assemble
all the components, but she hadn't reached the stage where no
matter what she did she would always look frayed. That might be the
next comer, but she hadn't quite got to it yet.
"My name is Vy," she said. "Short for
Viyella, as in Viyella
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