Faraway Eyes and Nothing Quite Right

I am at the Saucer, snug at the bar. 400,000 beers on tap, the rarest being Zap Daddy from Neptune (alcohol content 27%). Beautiful waitresses saunter and rush, dressed provocatively in Catholic Schoolgirl uniforms—tight plaid skirts and formal white button downs. The Catholic Schoolgirl look never did it for me before. Why now? Neither here nor there, of course. I enjoy the Saucer but also nearly always feel out of place here. Maybe I’m most comfortable when I’m least comfortable. There’s a twist of lime, eh? Perhaps I am so forever fucking far from a comfort zone that I adopt any familiarity I can, wrap my arms around it, and bodysurf it to the nearest shore. Perhaps that’s it.

There’s another waitress. She looks younger than she is and wiser than she should be. If she wore a nametag it would read Sara or Helen or Emily. Her button down pulls tight at her breasts and I try not to notice because I’m pretty sure that I am supposed to. The bar mirror is off to my left and what I can make out of her reflection is obscured by pint glasses. The music is loud tonight and The Stones are telling me about a girl with faraway eyes and that makes me think about the jukebox in Tony’s Pizza where, as a child, I used to go with my sister. And I can hear a baseball game going on somewhere but can spot no television. In my mind I see Sid Bream racing toward home in 1991 and the Braves consummating a miracle. That is one of my fondest baseball memories and I gather it with little effort. I wonder what ol’ Sid is doing these days. I am drinking Arrogant Bastard and thinking of moving to Harp. Two Bastards is usually about as heavy as I like to go unless I have the option of switching to whiskey. SaraHelenEmily squeezes in next to me to get change from the bartender. The waitress station at the end of the bar is empty. When she reaches the fifty toward the waiter, her fingers brush my arm. As she awaits the transfer, she apologizes by putting her hand on my shoulder and calling me “Hon.” “You’re fine,” I say, avoiding direct eye contact. My practiced nonchalance is obvious—and effective. I order another Bastard. Patty Griffin follows The Stones. She begins singing Stolen Car better than Springsteen and I smile and give a little inside. I feel the guy three stools down staring at me. He’s been at it for a couple minutes. Finally, I shift and return the favor. We hold it for at least thirty seconds. A Tuesday night Pissing Contest typically reserved for weekends. This fuck could crush me, but I don’t waver. As I am about to fold, he nods to me and tips his pint glass. I turn slowly face front and drain the Bastard, hold the glass at eye level so the bartender recognizes. Peripherally I see the fuck move away. I know that he may or may not be waiting for me in the parking lot when I leave. Why these things occur both repulses and fascinates me. Only rarely do I play along. But when I do, it is for keeps. The bartender knows I am ready to switch and brings me a Harp. A bartender with a memory is harder and harder to find these days. This one will be compensated. My eyes are tired and I know I need to make the whiskey switch if I am to maintain. The Saucer is not big on whiskey but I notice a bottle of Jack next to a token treasure of flavored Vodkas. I order one and then another. I am awake. Sara (I’ve decided) is busy with table after endless table. I watch her openly now. We will never speak but I appreciate the quick brush of her fingers for what it was. I give the bartender a throat slashing gesture and he produces my tab. I pay it and rise to leave. I see the fucker who tried to front near the couches and feel better knowing he is not lying in wait; I watch my back just the same. I’m too old for this shit. And while I’m not lonely, I would like to have talked to someone tonight. If nothing else, just about the Braves or the unseasonably cool weather or Sara or any Goddamn thing really. On the way home, I slip The Chieftans into the CD player. Then David Grey. Then John Prine. Nothing sounds quite right.

At home, where I’ve been all night, I watch Emerson sleep. His is a soothing music. The ice in my glass makes a noise. He doesn’t stir. I’ve let him in my bed tonight. In the empty spot. It is selfish of me. But I need the metronome of his breathing, his comfort, to dictate my own just one more time.

If he were awake, I would tell him that the old jukebox at Tony’s Pizza used to offer House of the Rising Sun too. And then I would play it for him.