Bluegreen
I needed a watering hole for some time. So I imposed myself upon a hidden cliquish spot in Bellevue. Having long ago shed myself of a number of nagging insecurities, I was fairly certain the awkward vibe was true and not some imagined bullshit of my own making. But I stuck it out. Staked a spot at the bar. Ordered a cold draught.
Shit, give me a barstool with a hint of elbow room and a cold beer and I’ll draw my own comfort with crayons if need be. And so I did. And this hole is like so many others—it is what you make it. And as in most situations, we do make our own comfort. In no time at all it was “Another beer, Ryan?” and “You doin’ ok, Sug?” The bartender, a bit older, lovely, lovely figure, cheekbones to write home about, looked out for me. I did not go thirsty for a moment. Her voice was and is Elizabeth Ashley’s with a fraction only of the rasp or whiskey tone. Just nice. What is it about a woman in a tee shirt and jeans and the occasional ball cap that trumps ten-fold one in a cocktail dress and heels? Perhaps it is relatability that defines sexy for me. I’ve never known really. Haven’t given it much thought. My tastes consistently shift like the wind. But on a still night, I’ll take casual every time.
In the end, a good bar is a good bar and is often essential to good mental health. This one is no different. I go there now from time to time. I keep to myself mostly—as has long been my habit. I drink beer. I glance at women in the bar mirror and appreciate the way they move or carry themselves or flaunt or don’t. I’ve always appreciated. I have no interest in talking them up. I think about writing. Occasionally I relax and allow the meanness of the day to slip from my skin, my bones. I imagine independent wealth and daydream of a house in Naples, Florida where the water is so bluegreen you are tempted to dip from it and drink. I watch baseball, the play-by-play muted, replaced by the din of bar noise. I watch professional drunks with their slack, sad features. I watch the casual drunks who would sell their lonely souls for an ear to bend. I watch the non-drunks, there out of a need to be somewhere, anywhere. I ignore how my knees and back hurt when I rise to find the restroom. I resist the urge to take a woman home. Not because of any lapse into morality; but more of an implied fret that she would not leave soon enough to suit me. I imagine I have earned my multitude of quirks and flaws; and then convince myself I am working to correct the most unappealing ones. This last is most likely untrue. Sometimes I miss camaraderie but then recognize that I really do get enough to sustain me.
Later, I consider what an odd figure I must make sitting alone in a bar, smiling or smirking to myself at the movie playing in my head, complete with soundtrack and brilliantly placed jump cuts. And in those late moments, on my failing porch, I confide to my tumbler of whiskey and slow-burning cigar: I don’t have it half-bad. Not half-bad at all.
Shit, give me a barstool with a hint of elbow room and a cold beer and I’ll draw my own comfort with crayons if need be. And so I did. And this hole is like so many others—it is what you make it. And as in most situations, we do make our own comfort. In no time at all it was “Another beer, Ryan?” and “You doin’ ok, Sug?” The bartender, a bit older, lovely, lovely figure, cheekbones to write home about, looked out for me. I did not go thirsty for a moment. Her voice was and is Elizabeth Ashley’s with a fraction only of the rasp or whiskey tone. Just nice. What is it about a woman in a tee shirt and jeans and the occasional ball cap that trumps ten-fold one in a cocktail dress and heels? Perhaps it is relatability that defines sexy for me. I’ve never known really. Haven’t given it much thought. My tastes consistently shift like the wind. But on a still night, I’ll take casual every time.
In the end, a good bar is a good bar and is often essential to good mental health. This one is no different. I go there now from time to time. I keep to myself mostly—as has long been my habit. I drink beer. I glance at women in the bar mirror and appreciate the way they move or carry themselves or flaunt or don’t. I’ve always appreciated. I have no interest in talking them up. I think about writing. Occasionally I relax and allow the meanness of the day to slip from my skin, my bones. I imagine independent wealth and daydream of a house in Naples, Florida where the water is so bluegreen you are tempted to dip from it and drink. I watch baseball, the play-by-play muted, replaced by the din of bar noise. I watch professional drunks with their slack, sad features. I watch the casual drunks who would sell their lonely souls for an ear to bend. I watch the non-drunks, there out of a need to be somewhere, anywhere. I ignore how my knees and back hurt when I rise to find the restroom. I resist the urge to take a woman home. Not because of any lapse into morality; but more of an implied fret that she would not leave soon enough to suit me. I imagine I have earned my multitude of quirks and flaws; and then convince myself I am working to correct the most unappealing ones. This last is most likely untrue. Sometimes I miss camaraderie but then recognize that I really do get enough to sustain me.
Later, I consider what an odd figure I must make sitting alone in a bar, smiling or smirking to myself at the movie playing in my head, complete with soundtrack and brilliantly placed jump cuts. And in those late moments, on my failing porch, I confide to my tumbler of whiskey and slow-burning cigar: I don’t have it half-bad. Not half-bad at all.
posted by Ryan at 10:20 PM
1 Comments:
This is a great post.
More,please.
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