Storm clouds were a-rising at the Blue Rider one Wednesday night. Not in the meteorological sense perhaps, though it was hard to tell quite what the weather was doing from inside the windowless bar. Spring was delayed by yet another late snowfall, and tensions were understandably on the ups. As I was pouring out a glass of Pabst from the pitcher, I was uncharacteristically longing for a cigarette as Karin and Michelle {and by extension, Phil} bickered back and forth across the table.
“Citizen Kane is an overrated albatross of a movie,” the one was loudly saying, to which the other would vehemently shake her head and spit back, “And you seriously think Seven Samurai isn’t!? You have the artistic tastes of…” And so forth.
I couldn’t help but glare at the flyer that started it all, posted across the door. The old theater was advertising a midnight reel of Casablanca, touting it as ‘the greatest film of all time.’ Inevitably this sparked discussion, already mentioned. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes it lingered on in rhetorical circles, like vultures looming over a very dead horse. Culture-weary, I checked my phone for the time having given up wearing a watch some years ago. Only 10.37 yet. Hours to go before general bar close. It was time to act fast before I got sucked into this endless rigmarole.
Downing my glass and rising to my feet, I took my leave without much of a murmur. The night air was cool and damp and a bit refreshing. The streets in this part of town were deserted, filled with darkened warehouses and grain elevators and serviced by little bars. I’d been to them all at least once, save for the one across the way from the Rider. The pink fluorescent sign out front simply read ‘Judy’s’ in a feminine, cursive twist.
Inside it was your typical dive bar, with the scratched-to-hell pool table, clear plastic box of pulltabs at the counter, jukebox in the corner, and the inordinately large, unmistakably new flatscreen t.v. on the wall above the bar. The smells of fat-fried pollock and cigarettes and stale beer permeated the dimly lit air, and between the surly regulars at the bar and the Willie Nelson droning at the juke a person couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“Pabst, please,” I said to the bartender - a heavyset fella who fancied himself to be Johnny Cash in an apron - when I thought I’d caught his eye. I hadn’t. The regs cut me askance looks and carried on forced conversations about the sport and what, just waiting for a chance to ‘get a load of the new guy’ with earthy, detrimental laughter.
“Oi! Pabst, ma-man and look sharpish.” I could see myself saying it with a commanding glare and a snap of the fingers like Michael Caine, thin glass and such. Could almost taste the words on my tongue, but far be it from me to be the rude one. I instead waited patiently as Willy chunk-a-chunked down to Garth Brooks.
It felt sort of like sitting in the waiting room at a clinic; only here the others all knew the doctor and there’s a chance I wouldn’t get beyond the forms. But I’d got the form betwixt my fingers, a crisp green tenner because it’s the sort of place that hadn’t evolved to the card yet. Which is just as well, I suppose. Creates an added barrier to entry, keeps the kids out and builds up that generational apartheid stuff that seems to define our body politic.
“Pants tight enough there, kiddo?” one gruff seed ventured to ask with a chuckle, and I realized then I’d finally caught the bartender’s eye. Everybody’s, really.
“It’s the fashion,” I shrugged, and I’d wondered why I was there at all. Point of the thing, maybe. Only bar in town I hadn’t sipped at.
“Ho! Ho,” he pantomimed for the crowd’s benefit. “You saying I’m not fashionable?” The man was a flannel bubble with an intentional ‘Cable Guy’ look about him. And truth be told, his pants were at about bursting point in terms of tightness; like corded blue sausage casings ending in pointy leather boots. It was a pot and kettle situation, at best.
“Nah, yer pants are plenty tight,” I told him reassuringly, and I suppose I won a couple of quiet laughs. I was just hoping this was only a bit of a haze, another trial to go through before I’d get my beer. Last thing on my mind was a fistfight with the hulking Enus sitting before me.
But by now the bartender was about his business. “Easy on, Jack,” he says to Enus as he asked me what it was I wanted. “Just a Pabst, please,” I ordered, keeping an ever-loving eye on Jack. He had a none-too-comical look on his face, and I was hoping to just get on and out. The man takes my ten and brings back a beer without any change. Picking up the hint I quaffed back my beer in two or three gulps, gave the boys a nod, and ventured back out and across the street. I’d had my beer at Judy’s; that was once enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment