The Odd Banter We Share

I spent what there was of Emerson’s college fund on draught beer and Woodford Reserve this past weekend. Dalton’s ought to name a fucking bar stool after me. I go there because it is a comfortable—albeit strange—little place and it’s the closest thing I’ve found to sincere in this little slice of West Nashville. I like walking in, being greeted with a smile, a cold draught, and hefty shot of Woodford without having to ask for it. It’s the little things. Always the little things.

The weekend started Friday at 4:20 at The Saucer with a small after work gathering on one of the front couches. The waitress was not a day over 11 but had breasts to weep over. They rested on her collarbone like safe houses. Between beers I pondered crimes severe enough to send me to such protective custody. I never arrived at the perfect caper and spent the rest of the evening pretending to be clever and trying to convince myself that her breasts were not simply sublime. I make it a habit to not stare and I did a fairly decent job once I allowed myself that she was at least a year too young for me.

Young Master Emerson was in Aiken, SC playing rich at the annual spring Steeplechase. I’ve yet to find that mechanism that allows me to fully relax when he’s out of my sight. Actually, I’ve yet to find that mechanism that allows me to fully relax, period. And so I merely played the part coming ever so close to winding down—which was a good thing for me. As it turned out, Em had a grand time and even won $12 on two races. Yeah, Baby, the college fund is back to where it began. These things always tend to work themselves out, eh?

I ended the evening alone at Dalton’s, people-watching on the sly and wondering just where the years had gone. Whiskey, draughts, and take-out. (Perhaps a side of self-pity.) It all went down relatively well.

Saturday evening found me back at Daltons on a familiar barstool as a sea of people washed back and forth behind me. An elderly woman sidled up to me and asked if I would mind moving down before I had the chance to offer. I did so gladly and she and her husband took the two seats to my left. They were grateful. She ordered iced tea; the husband was presented with his “usual,” which turned out to be a vodka martini. They were pleasant enough, remarking on the crowd and the evening, planning their menu choices. She, I noticed, did most of the remarking. The husband, I realized, was running on an auto-pilot likely installed decades ago and dutifully nodded his head in the affirmative. I doubt, truly, if his head was capable of going back and forth at all. The woman, in that wonderfully unique and vicious Southern manner that takes one a day or so to realize they’ve just been called an asshole, let E. know that she had not received her iced tea. The place was fucking slammed but at that moment she was the only patron. I began to grasp a vibe. Belatedly, as usual. In such moments I have to force myself to pause, reassess, and return to my own business. Her dance or issues had zero effect on me or mine. But I caught myself making value judgments and beginning a slow wallow in hypocrisy. I don’t abide it in others and so must refuse it for myself. I ignored as best I could her calling the proprietor over to personally go and check on her food order. My infamous smirk, I know though, could not be denied and waltzed across my broad face as I watched the basketball game. When a fresh draught appeared in front of me, the woman sincerely intervened on my behalf, leaned in close, and said, “If you drink that, I’m afraid we’ll have to carry you out of here.” She had witnessed me finish the remnants of my Woodford and one beer. E. overheard her comment. Using his bar towel to mop up an imaginary spill, he said, “He’ll be just fine.” He was not curt, but matter-of-fact. He is aware that I am not one who needs protecting; but I sincerely appreciated his taking exception to this superior woman imposing herself on his clientele. Her point was clearly not to show concern but to exert control. I finished with those days a while back and have little interest in revisiting them. I stood for a trek to the restroom, put my hand lightly on her shoulder, and in my best conspirational voice said, “I really think I’ll be ok. But you might want to keep an eye on me just the same.” She agreed. And did.

I finished the night with a couple more beers and a take-out order identical to the one from the night before.

I made it home safely, ate, crashed restlessly on the sofa.

My dreams were peppered with Em’s return and the odd banter we share. And, of course, hugs and kisses. Soon, he will be too big for such. I turn a blind eye to that for now, even in dreams.

In a whiskey slumber, I thought of Friday’s girl and her grand unnatural figure, my perpetual unease, and an unsettling old woman whose husband would likely have killed for a second martini, but who would never dare scandalize his wife by ordering one.