2007 - Vol. 4, Issue 5

I put my nearly empty glass on the bar, a little light headed as I returned my view to the television. A guy you'd never want to sit next to on a bus wailed, "Get up, c'mon get down with the sickness!"

My head bobbed involuntarily to the heavy beat of the music. Before me, Lenny the bartender appeared, nodding in a way that said, "You look like you're ready for another." Perhaps it's a sign you're spending a little too much time at a pub when the bartender can communicate with you telepathically.

Lenny scooped up my glass and my shrinking pile of money. When he returned a minute later, he put down a fresh pint of amber relief and slapped my change down on the bar. I glanced at my wrist and focused for a second before I could make out the time. I'd put a twenty on the bar a little more than an hour ago; now I was down to four bucks. If I left that for Lenny, I should get one more on the house, and I'd be on my way.

On the TV some blonde with a knockout figure painted in spandex gyrated to music created in a laboratory in California somewhere. I took a long, refreshing pull on my beer. If I thought way back, I could almost remember a time when I didn't like the taste of beer.

Something brushed against my back. I turned, pleasantly surprised to find a barley–haired temptress next to me. I stared a little longer than I should have as she removed an expensive leather jacket and took a seat. After arranging her purse on the back of her stool, she looked up and smiled at me. In that very instant I felt like I'd just been defibrillated and knew I was in love.

"Hi," she said.

Her smile exuded more happiness than I'd felt in the past five years. I intended to return the greeting, but the charming hello I had in mind got caught up in my throat, so what came out was sort of a "hcccckk."

What a dope. I took a sip of beer, forced my brain into second, then third gear. I wiped my lips on my sleeve, put my hand over my mouth, and cleared my throat.

"Excuse me," I said. "You caught me with a frog in my throat. Let me try again. Hi."

A wicked smile grew across her face. "Well, I can think of worse things."

"Amen to that," I said, and took another drink of my beer.

"You almost ready for another?" she asked. We both looked at my half–empty pint. Then I looked back at her.

She was absolutely breathtaking. At least to a guy with three–and–a–half pints and no food in him. Her hair was medium length, and just a little bit tussled. Soft hazel eyes complimented a smile capable of melting concrete. That flawless ivory must be worth a million bucks. True confession time: I have a real thing for teeth. What can I say? I am awed by a nice set of chompers. My shrink, if I had one, would say this dates back to my childhood and my crooked teeth that were desperately in need of braces. For strictly financial reasons, this thought had never occurred to my parents. Fortunately, Frank Thomas knocked my front teeth out in a fight back in high school. The reconstruction wasn't too painful, in retrospect, and now the fakes look pretty good.

The gorgeousness next to me looked like an executive of some sort, probably just left work after a long day. She wore a bright red dress with a lacy, cream colored blouse. Very bold and confident. A sparkling pearl necklace brought my attention downwards. She crossed her legs to reveal exactly what I knew would be there. Slinky red pumps and a slit up her dress revealing just enough thigh to make my spine turn to Jell–O. What incredible legs. A musically oriented guy could write a song about legs like that. Da Vinci would beg to sculpt them.

She interrupted my stupor by asking, "What's a girl gotta do to get a drink in this place?"

I turned, and magically Lenny was there. How does he do that?

"What'll you have?" Lenny queried the newcomer.

She looked toward me, eyes bright, not saying a word.

"How about a pint of Bass," I said to Lenny. "And another for me."

"And a couple of shots of Cuervo Gold," she added.

Ordering up tequila on my tab, are ya? Well, the lady's got brass.

"What's your name?" I asked, removing the twenty I'd been saving for cab fare from my wallet. Guess I'd be hoofing it home tonight.

"Melissa," she said, and I shook her hand. A nice firm grip. Excellent, I like that. Shows good character.

"I'm Joe, nice to meet you."

Lenny returned with our drinks. Melissa picked up her shot glass in one hand, a salt shaker in her other. She looked to me.

"Bottoms up," she said.

I grabbed my shot of the oily gold liquid, but paused as I watched Melissa toss a sprinkle of salt over her shoulder onto the floor, then threw back her tequila. She closed her eyes and raised her chin skyward. She seemed to have a religious experience as the liquor slid down her throat. I stared in fascination, and it was all I could do not to genuflect on the floor and lick up the salt. She came out of her momentary trance and passed me the shaker. I mimicked her gesture, tossing the salt over my shoulder and downing the shot. When I closed my eyes though, the only image that came to mind was my lawn mower. More specifically, pouring gasoline into the open hole of its gas tank. So I returned immediately to the present and washed the nastiness away with another swallow of beer.

We passed the next few minutes with typical bar talk. She was in charge of mortgages at Wesson Loans, liked to mountain bike, and was thirty–one. She looked up at the television where another silicone–engorged stick chick out of that California mold was screeching and moaning about some boy and how she missed him. Melissa scowled as if there was something nasty in her drink.

"Excuse me," she said to Lenny. "Would you mind putting on the football game?"

Wordlessly, Lenny complied, and for a few minutes Melissa sat transfixed to the screen while she waited for the score.

I was falling deeper and deeper into the well. A beautiful woman who likes beer and football? God, are you playing with me? If she's single and likes Monty Python, I might propose on the spot.

Sometimes I think I should just tattoo "sap" on my forehead. A pretty smile, some friendly conversation, and the slightest hint of interest, and I'm a goner. I just can't resist the feminine compliment to the beasts of this planet. Maybe I have overactive pheromone receptors, I don't know.

Of course, I had noticed the lack of a ring on the appropriate finger.

"You're not married?"

She put down her beer, and a delicious little foam mustache clung to her upper lip. Like a kid with an ice cream cone, her tongue streaked across in a flash and wiped things clean. She gave me a mischievous grin, weighing her answer. "Separated," she said, still smiling.

"Sorry," I said reflexively.

"No biggie," she answered with a shrug. "My fault. He caught me sneaking out, so I really can't blame him."

My eyes must have been as big as yo–yos at this point, and it took a second to retrieve my jaw from the floor. Nothing secretive about this one.

"Really? Wow."

After a meditative glance at the bottles behind the bar, she asked, "And you?"

"Me? Ah, umm, no, I'm not married."

She raised her eyebrows. "Girlfriend?"

"Well, sort of."

She just nodded, glanced at the game and finished off her beer. Lenny appeared with two fresh pints, placed them on the bar and said, "These are on the house."

"Much obliged," I said. Through the corner of my eye, I caught Melissa staring at me.

She turned to rummage in her purse. After taking a twenty from her wallet, she removed a sketch pad and two pencils. Adding the twenty to my dwindling pile of funds, she asked, "Do you mind if I sketch you?"

Melissa crossed her incredible legs again, resting her pad on her thigh. For an instant I nearly saw all the way to Christmas. She asked why I was grinning. I had to think fast to tell her I just remembered a joke. "If everything is coming your way, you're probably in the wrong lane."

She giggled. Her laugh was infectious and made me want to hold her, tickle her until she begged me to stop.

"Are you an artist? I thought you said you worked at the loan place."

"No, I'm no artist. I just like to draw. I've been doing it all my life. Mostly I'm just a doodler, but sometimes when I find a really interesting face, I like to draw that."

She turned a little more toward me, her pencil scratching across the paper.

"So talk," she said. "Tell me what you believe in, your take on the meaning of life."

So we talked. I told her of my belief in God, but uncertainty about the true nature of Jesus. She told me how much she loathed Bush, called him the Commander in Cheat. I laughed, insisting the Democrats were no better. We tapped our glasses together and made a pact that in the future we would both vote Green.

Lenny brought us fresh beers, and she told me of her life growing up in Southern Missouri. Wednesday evening Bible study, clumsy boys in baseball caps, and the best peach cobbler in the world. All the while, she drew, glancing up with a look of concentration that only endeared her to me more. I had finished with a quick review of my hometown blues, and we were starting in on possible Super bowl favorites when a large, dark shadow enveloped her.

One of the hugest, scariest people I have ever seen came up behind Melissa. This guy must have been six four, maybe three–hundred pounds. He wore a black biker's jacket, black jeans, and looked like he could easily bench press a Volkswagen. His long hair was tied back in a braid, and a lit cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth. He put his giant paws on the back of Melissa's stool and leaned over to look at her drawing.

I was ready to scream for Lenny to grab the Louisville Slugger I know he keeps under the bar when Melissa looked at the massive creature and cheerily said, "Oh, hi babe."

Babe? Is she familiar with this outlaw?

Melissa turned to me. "Vern, this is my new friend Joe. Joe, this is Vern."

Vern had the eyes of a falcon. His stare made me feel like a stranded field mouse. Without saying a word, his paws still on the stool, somehow he twirled the smoldering cigarette upwards and inwards into his mouth. Just like that — it was gone. As he exhaled, streams of smoke billowed out his nostrils like some horrific, bloody–horned bull from a Saturday morning cartoon.

Melissa chuckled and poked him in the belly with her pencil. "Vern, stop. Be nice, you're scaring him."

With another quick motion of his tongue, the cigarette was back in the corner of his lips, and he grinned at me. He put out a hand that could have palmed my head. I took it hesitantly, realizing he could crush my bones as easily as if they were pretzel sticks.

Vern spoke for the first time since entering the pub. "Ready to go, babe? Show starts in an hour."

"Just a minute, I want to finish this first."

Now over my initial fear that Vern would rip my head from my torso and paint the bar with my blood, I asked if he would join us in a drink.

"I don't drink," he replied. "But, thanks."

Melissa added some finishing touches, then put her sketch pad down and polished off her beer.

"Vern and I are going to see a new jazz group at the Flynn tonight. It was nice chatting with you Joe, thanks for the company."

Gigantor here is going to listen to jazz? I could picture him as a bouncer at a Rolling Stones concert, maybe. But jazz?

I asked if I could see her drawing. She handed me the sketch pad while Vern helped her with her jacket.

On the page was a remarkably good reproduction of me. Not a cartoon caricature, but near photographic quality. The curly hair, the dimple in my chin, even the edge in my nose that resulted from another unfortunate incident with a fist. The eyes weren't quite right though, they were half closed, yet expectant, like a child who's just woken up from a long car ride to find he's at Disney World. Aside from that, it was excellent. The drawing was from my chest up, and I hadn't notice at first, but Melissa had added a flower in my shirt pocket. A rose, drooping limply, like a two–week–old stalk of celery. Somehow she made the petals look as if they were dying, with a single one floating downward on unseen currents.

"That's really good, Melissa. You really have a talent there."

She took the sketch pad back, then surprised me by leaning forward and planting a soft kiss on my cheek. I could smell the vanilla and peach scent of her perfume, and my insides ached.

As I heard the door of the pub close behind them, Lenny came over and picked up Melissa's empty glass. "Thought you were gonna win the lottery tonight, Joe my boy."

I was still lost in the warm feeling her kiss had left on my cheek and the image of that falling petal. I pulled on my coat, retrieved my cane from under my stool and replied, "Guys like me don't win the lottery, Len. We just pay for them."