|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
Rich’s usual happy hour hangout was closed, it being Christmas Eve, which was why he would soon find himself pulling into the narrow lot in front of P.J.’s Pub. He saw yet did not see P.J.’s every day on his way home from his job at Software City, and, although he did not know it yet, his desperation was leading him to the squalid tavern. Fitzsimmon’s was a little out of his way, but they had his favorite brand of cigar--Macanudos--and his favorite brand of whisky--Glenlivet--along with an upscale clientele with whom he felt comfortable. His disappointment at seeing Fitzsimmon’s "CLOSED" sign transformed into panic as he made his way back home in search of some place where he might find an hour’s solace. A light dandruff of snow dwindled aimlessly from the gray clouds down onto his windshield. Rich flipped on the wipers with a careless twist of his wrist and with his silvery eyes scoured the road to home for any lit neon signs.
The light of the day faded by the time he took the last parking place in front of P.J.’s. All the shops around it were dark and vacant, while P.J.’s smoke-tinted plate glass front glowed with the words "PABST," "RED WHITE AND BLUE," and "LOWENBRAU." He pulled the collar of his charcoal coat closer about his neck and stepped out into the air. Rich half-walked, half-slid from his BMW to the salted sidewalk. The gel in his hair began to freeze; he felt almost as if he were wearing a helmet. The pub breathed warm, smoky air into his face as he pulled the door open and stepped inside.
A small bar on his left faced a row of pool tables on his right. Only two men were playing pool, while the other ten or so patrons sat around small square tables between the pool tables and the bar. One man wore denim from head to toe, except for his black leather cowboy boots and wide, silver buckled belt; even his cowboy hat was made of denim, with a dirty, enormous brown feather covering the entire front of the crown. A fellow making selections on the jukebox wore jeans and red and green plaid shirt, along with tattered, dusty brown work boots. One woman wore a Metallica concert T-shirt with black jeans to match. As he realized he was the only person not wearing boots, with the possible exception of the scruffy bartender, he regretted his decision to enter. The only thing that kept him from turning immediately around was the comforting sight of green, brown, and clear bottles that stretched out like sparkling wings on either side behind the bartender.
Rich ignored their apparent surprise at seeing someone wearing a tie approach the bar and spoke directly to the bartender.
"Whisky highball, please."
"What was that?"
"A whisky highball?"
The bartender jerked his thumb toward the blaring jukebox. "I didn’t hear you, son. You got to speak up."
The heehaw tones of some country singer wailed the melody of "Home for Christmas" as Rich tried to yell.
"Whisky highball! Glenlivet, if you have it!"
"What’s that?"
"I said, a whisky highball!" He doubted he could yell any louder without seeming angry.
"Yeah, I heard you that last time. What is it?"
"A whisky highball?"
"Yeah."
"It’s whisky and ginger ale in a tall glass, over ice."
"Hold on. I’m not sure I got any more ginger ale."
"That’s okay, you can just use--"
The unshaven bartender’s face disappeared below the bar. In a moment, he reappeared with a bottle of seltzer.
"This okay?"
Rich nodded.
The bartender filled a glass with ice using his bare hands while Rich gritted his teeth at seeing the dirt beneath the man’s fingernails. After he half-covered the ice with the sparkling water, the bartender pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel's from behind him, but Rich stopped him with a wave of his hand.
"Wait a minute. You don’t have Glenlivet?"
"Glen what?"
"Glenlivet!"
"Never heard of Glenliver. You don’t like Jack? Maybe you want a beer instead?"
Rich’s eyes darted back and forth across the bottles behind the bartender.
"Have you got Crown Royal at least?"
"You mean the soda? RC?"
"No. I mean Crown Royal the scotch."
"Oh, yeah. I got you. I think so. Let me see." He turned his back on Rich and walked up the row. "Here we go."
The bottle had a film of dust on it, and the bartender had to break its seal before filling Rich’s glass, staining the seltzer and ice with a light amber tinge.
"Crown Royal cost you extra."
"That’s okay."
Rich pulled out his Visa and held it out. Before taking it, the bartender asked, "You want to run a tab?"
He hesitated, but then answered, "Sure."
The bartender took his card and placed it on top of the cash register.
A bearded man in blue jeans and requisite work boots approached the bar and sat on the stool next to Rich.
"Get me a Lowenbrau, will you Al," the bearded man said to the bartender.
"You got it."
While Al moved down the bar to open a cooler at the far end, Rich sipped his highball and tried to pretend he was watching the pool players. The last thing he wanted to do was get involved in a discussion with the bearded man. He wore a ragged green plaid shirt, his rough, thick hands poked out too soon from the end of his sleeves so that the shirt looked as if it was a size too small for him. Rich guessed he must have been about the same age as himself, but his features were so weathered from being outdoors he appeared ten years older. When Al brought him his bottle of beer, the bearded man took one gulp from it before turning to Rich.
"I haven’t seen you in here before, fella. What brings you in on Christmas Eve? Wife kick you out?"
Rich glanced over at him as if he had just noticed him and then looked back at his glass while he swirled the ice around by twisting his wrist back and forth.
He half-smiled and replied, "No, just stopping by for a quick drink."
"Good enough, friend. We don’t get too many suits in here. Mostly just road crew fellas like myself, or construction or assembly line. Name’s Phil."
Phil held out his hand. Although it looked as if it had been washed, the lines on his palm were still dark with the dirt of work and the ends of his fingernails were nearly black where they should have been white. Afraid not to, Rich shook his hand briskly.
"Rich."
"So, you a banker or something?"
"No, a corporate sales manager. I sell software to big accounts like Monsanto, AB, what have you."
"Anheuser-Busch?"
"Yes."
"Well, I’m a Lowenbrau fella myself. What software does Anheuser buy?"
Rich took a long drink from his glass before answering. "Nothing exciting. Word processors and spreadsheets mostly."
"Good money?"
"Not bad. Never enough to pay the bills, it seems, but it’s okay."
"Well, I don’t want to seem impolite or nothing, but I’s just curious. How much you make doing that?"
Rich sighed. "It depends on commissions. Somewhere over ninety."
"What? Ninety a day?" Phil finished his beer and set the bottle down on the bar.
"You want another, Phil?"
"Naw, the missus is coming by soon, then we’re headed home." He turned back to Rich and saw his glass was nearly empty. "Get this nice fella Rich another one on me."
"You don’t have to--"
"Relax, I got it."
After Al mixed Rich another highball, Phil continued.
"Ninety a day doesn’t seem like much for a fella like you. How much that come out to a year?"
"It’s ninety thousand. Ninety thousand a year."
Phil’s eyebrows raised as he said, "That is good. So you got a family?"
Nodding, he answered, "Two boys. Seven and two."
"The wife work?"
"At the art gallery. We’d never make ends meet otherwise."
"I got five myself. All girls, each one sweeter’n the next."
Rich could not help himself from saying, "Wow, that’s a big family. I’d be broke." Rich gulped his drink. The second one always went down faster.
"It ain’t easy sometimes, but we manage. It’ll get better ‘fore long, once I get this place’s debt paid off."
Rich stopped his glass halfway to his lips. "You own this place?"
Phil smirked beneath his beard and said, "Not yet, but in a couple of years I’ll be able to quit the road job and just make it off this joint. Got to pay the bank back, but then it’ll be easy sailing. I might even give Al here a raise."
"That’ll be the day." Al’s eyes rolled above his smirk as he wiped off the bar.
"That reminds me." Phil pulled an envelope from his back pocket, checked the name on it, and handed it to Al. "I wanted to give you that now so’s I don’t forget. Don’t open it here, Al, just take it home. You still coming over tomorrow for dinner?"
Al nodded. "Yep. I’m going to see Momma first, but I’ll be by."
Phil smacked the bar and said, "Good deal."
Over the strains of "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer," Al yelled, "Last call!"
"So you’re P.J.? Phillip Joseph?" asked Rich.
"Philo Judaeus. Mom got it out of some book or another and Dad couldn’t talk her out of it. That’s why it’s P.J. or Phil. Last guy called me Philo, I decked." Phil smiled to himself. "That was back in high school, though. The wife’s settled me down."
"So she works too?"
"Well, normally I’d say ‘no,’ but she's supposed to walk through that door any minute, so I’d better say ‘yes.’ She’s what you used to call a housewife, only that’s a dirty word nowadays, seems like. Couple of the girls’re old enough to help out, and she keeps a mighty fine house. Dinner’s there every night. Between working here most nights and my road work during the day, I’d say I almost work as hard as her. She’s a good woman. You say your wife works in the art museum? She a painter?"
"No. Well, yes, actually. She is a painter, but she doesn’t do it at the museum. It’s her hobby. She keeps the books."
"That’s funny. I’m looking for a bookkeeper myself. This place is doing well enough now, and I can hardly keep up. I suppose she’s outside my price range, though."
"Actually, she makes half what I do. But it’s what she wants. She could never stand being in the house alone with the kids, even just for a week. It would drive her mad."
"That why you’re here? Getting some fun in?"
Rich drained his glass and tipped its end up until the glass slid down and hit him in the nose. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
"Could you give me another," Rich said to Al. "Just on the rocks, would you. No seltzer."
Al nodded and fixed the drink.