Bar Scene

I am sitting in a bar. I haven’t decided yet if it is Dalton’s, Mulligan’s, The Saucer, or Joe’s. I have an ice cold draught in front of me and a hefty shot of Woodford slightly to the left of it. The room is dim at best and when the door opens, a hint of light and the muffled echo of life outside slips in. I am posed in front of the ubiquitous barroom mirror. This helps me keep an eye on myself. It also soothes my paranoid side by keeping in check the things that can go on behind a guy. I see a couple at a high top having a beer and quiet conversation. They are in their thirties. I know instinctively that they are married but not to each other. The woman smokes Marlboro Lights and touches her hair often. Her back is to the door. She has a good profile, a small Romanesque nose. The guy is nondescript and dull. He doesn’t know how to smile. Tables are dotted here and there with folks done with their workdays or avoiding them altogether. There is enough banter and laughter for comfort and I am fine by myself. The beer hits my lips first and is cold enough to make my teeth ache for an instant. After a few minutes I hold the rocks glass in my right hand and slowly swirl the liquor clockwise. I bring it up and take in less than a quarter. It is warm and tastes the way whiskey should. I set the glass down and return to the mirror, studying myself as covertly as possible. I’m not sure whether I like what I see. Since the goal is never to chase the whiskey, I wait a few minutes more before I drink the draught again. I look at the bottles on display behind the bar. I notice photos, and dollars, and notes tacked to the wall by the register. I watch the bartender and waitresses and admire their movements. They are self-assured and attentive. Never overbearing or dismissive. Their livelihood depends upon doing this well. The waitresses flirt just enough so that you presume they aren’t sincere. The girl behind me slides off of her highback chair, leans over to kiss the dull guy on the cheek, and walks toward the restrooms. The mirror and peripheral vision allow me to notice her slight figure. Some of us who are not obvious pigs have mastered the art of looking without leering or offending. Merely appreciating. I drink another quarter from the rocks glass, wait the appropriate amount of time, and then drink again from the draught. The girl with the Romanesque nose and slight, handsome figure returns, catches my eye briefly in the mirror, and sits down. The bartender glances in my direction. I raise two fingers held together, and make a half rotation with them. In the moment it takes to pull a draught and pour a fresh shot, they are there in front of me. The couple behind me stands to go. They leave a five dollar bill on the table. They walk side by side the length of the narrow bar, his hand awkwardly on her shoulder. They open the door and pause. Then they disappear into the bright light and the door closes again. The waitress approaches the empty high top, puts the five on her tray, picks up two empty glasses and wipes down the mahogany table top. In the mirror I notice as she bends slightly at the waist. I move my head toward my beer before she turns around. When she walks by, her elbow lightly brushes my back. She looks at me over her shoulder with a knowing smile and mouths the words, “Excuse me.”