Legionnaire
With lost marbles over mixed drinks, I stare at the face reflected in the oak bar beside my highball. It looks more real to me, somehow, than I feel.
Everyone on either side of me is sitting at the finish line, racing to the bottom of a glass and tying for last place. Our bellies press up against the metal bar. We’ll never be done or have enough.
The bartender comes over to me. I can see him reflected beside my face. His huge moustache is waxed to slippery perfection. He looks down at me with crossed arms and a scowl. I know what that means. Time to pay up and leave.
I look up at him. I smile to let him know that I’m alright but unfortunately, the mirror behind the bar is a lot clearer than the reflection from the bar counter and I can see that I’m a clown with wide rubbery lips smiling an idiot’s smile. The five-o’clock shadow on my face has turned into a two-in-the-morning carpet.
I’m having trouble balancing on the wide stool that I’m on. He doesn’t even need to say it. The bartender’s right. I’m done for the night.
I reach back to get my wallet. It takes five tries. He’s patient.
I pull out my credit card and lay it on the bar. The bartender picks it up and carries it over the credit card machine. I’m left alone with the last half inch of my martini trying to keep the bottom of the olive damp.
I fish the olive out of the glass but there’s a bit of a miscalculation to that motion and the glass skips away and falls over, spilling the last little bit of gin onto the bar. The glass doesn’t break.
“Oh Jesus, Danny!” I hear from the end of the bar. I recognize the voice. I look up from licking the gin off of the bar to see what the problem is.
It’s the bartender again. He’s looking straight at me. I wonder why he’s doing that until I remember than my name is Danny and he’s probably found a problem with my credit card.
He comes back and puts the card down with the receipt. It’s gone through just fine. Of course it had. This is the magic card given to me by the government after the war. It never ran out. I was determined to drink the treasury dry.
I bring my other arm, the heavy one, up with a clank onto the bar. Its jagged shapes are cornered with rubber to prevent it from scratching furniture or people. Its barrel has been filled and plugged, never to fire again.
It’s too wired into my head to be removed, they said, and this credit card is their apology.
At first I bought a huge house but it was too many rooms and no friends. I threw the keys to some homeless people with a map. When they all left, I sat down where they’d been begging. That was six weeks ago.
“You can’t lick the bar, Danny. You know that.” The bartender says and shakes his head.
”But….I shpilled.” I explain, amazed at the thickness and unpredictable willfulness of my own tongue.
“Come on, Danny. You can’t stay here. Go on. Get out. See you tomorrow morning.” Said Danny, not unkindly.
He took my money. It was a business, after all. He poured me drinks. That was the service this place offered. His hands were tired. He was killing me just as if he was stabbing me with a knife but he was doing it really slowly. I was no different from a half doze other slobs that came here.
I stand up, aim for the door and walk outside. It takes five tries. He’s patient.
I fall over into the garbage in the alley behind the bar.
Home Sweet Home. I’m enjoying the freedom I fought to preserve.
I’ve drunk enough that the faces of the screaming children in a country far away from this one won’t wake me up. That’s the theory, anyway.
I close my eyes.
tags
Everyone on either side of me is sitting at the finish line, racing to the bottom of a glass and tying for last place. Our bellies press up against the metal bar. We’ll never be done or have enough.
The bartender comes over to me. I can see him reflected beside my face. His huge moustache is waxed to slippery perfection. He looks down at me with crossed arms and a scowl. I know what that means. Time to pay up and leave.
I look up at him. I smile to let him know that I’m alright but unfortunately, the mirror behind the bar is a lot clearer than the reflection from the bar counter and I can see that I’m a clown with wide rubbery lips smiling an idiot’s smile. The five-o’clock shadow on my face has turned into a two-in-the-morning carpet.
I’m having trouble balancing on the wide stool that I’m on. He doesn’t even need to say it. The bartender’s right. I’m done for the night.
I reach back to get my wallet. It takes five tries. He’s patient.
I pull out my credit card and lay it on the bar. The bartender picks it up and carries it over the credit card machine. I’m left alone with the last half inch of my martini trying to keep the bottom of the olive damp.
I fish the olive out of the glass but there’s a bit of a miscalculation to that motion and the glass skips away and falls over, spilling the last little bit of gin onto the bar. The glass doesn’t break.
“Oh Jesus, Danny!” I hear from the end of the bar. I recognize the voice. I look up from licking the gin off of the bar to see what the problem is.
It’s the bartender again. He’s looking straight at me. I wonder why he’s doing that until I remember than my name is Danny and he’s probably found a problem with my credit card.
He comes back and puts the card down with the receipt. It’s gone through just fine. Of course it had. This is the magic card given to me by the government after the war. It never ran out. I was determined to drink the treasury dry.
I bring my other arm, the heavy one, up with a clank onto the bar. Its jagged shapes are cornered with rubber to prevent it from scratching furniture or people. Its barrel has been filled and plugged, never to fire again.
It’s too wired into my head to be removed, they said, and this credit card is their apology.
At first I bought a huge house but it was too many rooms and no friends. I threw the keys to some homeless people with a map. When they all left, I sat down where they’d been begging. That was six weeks ago.
“You can’t lick the bar, Danny. You know that.” The bartender says and shakes his head.
”But….I shpilled.” I explain, amazed at the thickness and unpredictable willfulness of my own tongue.
“Come on, Danny. You can’t stay here. Go on. Get out. See you tomorrow morning.” Said Danny, not unkindly.
He took my money. It was a business, after all. He poured me drinks. That was the service this place offered. His hands were tired. He was killing me just as if he was stabbing me with a knife but he was doing it really slowly. I was no different from a half doze other slobs that came here.
I stand up, aim for the door and walk outside. It takes five tries. He’s patient.
I fall over into the garbage in the alley behind the bar.
Home Sweet Home. I’m enjoying the freedom I fought to preserve.
I’ve drunk enough that the faces of the screaming children in a country far away from this one won’t wake me up. That’s the theory, anyway.
I close my eyes.
tags