Beers and Fears

by Tim Meyer

  The tunes start playing and it gives the empty bar some much-needed atmosphere. I saddle up at the corner stool and start swaying to Karma Chameleon. Don’t judge me!

  A door I didn’t notice was behind opens and someone walks in. It’s not the front door that I came in. It’s also not either of the bathrooms that I noted were off in a hall over by the jukebox. I can’t see the newcomer over my shoulder. I can swivel around but choose not to look that interested. Instead, I wait for the stranger to belly up to the bar to size them up.

  ***

  The guy walks past me and steps up to the bar a few stools down from my position. His shirt, a bright powder blue, features the likeness of Mr. T ironed on with his catchphrase, “I Pity the Fool”. He’s sporting a mustache that makes it appear like he’s trying to go for the Tom Selleck look, but he looks more like the perverted weatherman on the 6 o’clock news.

  He orders a drink from the bartender. The bartender shoots me a nervous look, like I know something. I don’t know anything. He turns and fixes a drink for the new patron.

  I sip my beer. It’s getting warm. I put the rest of it back figuring I can get the bartender to give me a refill since he’s in the serving mode again.

  To my surprise, the bartender places the drink he just made for the new patron in front of me. “Compliments of the gentleman over there,” he says, before going back to his business of wiping the inside of mugs with his towel.

  I don’t want to get into mixed drinks. I look over to the new guy to politely decline the drink. He’s already walking over to me insisting, “drink, drink!”

  He’s got an accent. Something European, a bit harsh like Germanic but not as aggressive.

  “Thanks very much but I’m just sticking to beer.” I say to him, hoping I had spoken my protest loud enough for the bartender to hear me so he can just pour me another round of that whatever-the-fuck beer.

  “No, please. Not strong.” the guy says in his accent.

  I surrender. But I don’t take a drink. I’m hoping I can just smile nice at the guy and bail out of the bar. I didn’t want to be bothered this early in the evening.

  “You are new here?” he asks me.

  “Yeah, well, to this place anyway. Its... different here. Do you come here often?”

  “Come. Go. All the time.”

  This guy is really weird. He’s putting me on the defensive and I’m not sure why. His abrupt answers are odd. Even for a guy who is obviously foreign.

  I ask, “Are you going or coming right now?”

  “Going,” he says. His smile is big, a little too big, like Freddy Mercury’s smile.

  “Oh, well thanks for the drink then! If I see you again, the next one's on me!” I tell him hoping that he’ll go wherever it is he’s going to.

  He reaches out and pinches the shoulder of my Members Only jacket, “You are a member, yes?” He laughs at his dumb unoriginal joke, “Members have to open the door for me, please.”

  He indicates the front door, the one I came in.

  Now I get a bit indignant. If this guy thinks I’m his personal doorman, he’s a few power pills short of a Pac-Man game. What kind of weirdo buys someone a drink just so they can get them to do their bidding?

  I snicker at him, “I’m good. You’ve got two arms, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  “Please,” the guy says. He looks a bit worried now, like he is running out of sand in a cursed hourglass.

  Now I’m just flat out annoyed with this guy. “Dude, you need to take a chill pill before I total you.”

  “Totally?” the guys asks.

  “Totally.” I tell him.

  His eyes are darting all over the place. He wasn’t expecting me to be a douche to him about opening the door. I see beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He is getting red hot right before my eyes.

  “Dude, get away from me with your grody ass.” I tell him.

  He looks me in the eyes and screams like a frog in a great deal of pain.

  I jump to my feet. It’s time to total this jerk.

  “What’s your beef?” I ask him, ready for the fight.

  “Where’s the beef?” he asks me. It sounds rhetorical.

  He runs past me and back out through the door he came in through.

  I look at the bartender. He’d been watching in his peripheral vision, pretending not to see the altercation but failing in feigning his disinterest.

  My gut is to blame the bartender because he’s the only one left in the bar besides myself. “What the fuck was that?” I ask him. I sound more accusatory than I had intended.

  “Takes diff'rent strokes,” is all he offers in the way of an explanation.

  It’s more of an explanation than my near accusation deserved. “To rule the world,” I say to him, “Sorry. Guy got under my skin.”

  “Well, at least you got a free drink out of it,” he says, indicating the drink that fucked up guy had bought before he got all weird.

  I don’t want to drink it, but my heart is pounding, and I throw back a big gulp to settle my nerves. It works.

  And the drink isn’t half bad.

  “What is that anyway?” I ask the bartender.

  “It’s called a Demonic Persuasion.”

  “That’s a bad name.” I tell him.

  “I guess.”

  “No. I mean like bad meaning good.”

  “I may be old but I’m hip to your jive,” he says and winks.

  I swallow another mouthful of the Demonic Persuasion and settle back into the corner stool.

  Not only is the Demonic Persuasion a good drink, it’s now half gone and I’m feeling some effects. I slide it to the side and take another pull on my whatever-the-fuck beer before that gets warm like piss. Nobody likes piss-warm beer.

  ***

  The guy sitting at the corner stool is making the bartender nervous. He’s the kind of guy that is going to make his shift a long one. The bartender just wants to fulfill his obligation to them and go home. Just like he has every night since January 1, 1980.

  “What’s brought you here, stranger?” the barkeep asks the guy sitting at the corner stool.

  He didn’t expect the answer, “Would you believe me if I told you gymnastics?”

  “Well, I’d believe ya but I can’t say that was the reason I was expecting. Usually it’s about a girl. It’s always about a girl.”

  “I’d rather not get into the specifics,” the guy at the corner stool tells him.

  The bartender shrugs but the fact that the guy doesn’t want to open up about what sort of trouble has brought him here is troubling. Nobody comes to this bar because they are just out looking for a good time. This place just doesn’t attract that type of clientele. Something about gymnastics is eating this guy up and, if he doesn’t open up, the bartender is not going to be able to help him out.

  And the world outside is going to be doomed, as well.

  That won’t affect the bartender, but he will sure be lonely.

  The keep watches as the stranger at the corner stool takes another sip of the drink that Argonon bought him. Argonon didn’t have much luck but you can bet he’s warned at least a few of the others. The next one will be along shortly with a new tactic. The Demon Persuasion will help but the guy with gymnastics issues is pretty stoic.

  Good thing, because the bartender has no idea how he’s going to warn him yet.

  ***

  A bunch of minutes have passed since the jerk tried to start shit with me. The bartender is being a bit nosey but that’s what bartenders do I suppose. I’m drinking my beer to maintain a light buzz. I’m feeling good. I’ve almost forgotten why I stopped at this bar in the first place.

  I hear the door open behind me and my mood is ruined. That dickhead is back; I’m sure of it but I will not turn around. I half expect he’s going to sucker punch me from behind.

  Instead of getting sucker punched, I hear footsteps shuffle over to the jukebox. I glance over my shoulder. It’s not the sa
me dude. It’s another dude. He looks cool. Just wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. He’s even wearing those cool looking KangaROOS sneakers with the Velcro straps. Anyone wearing Velcro sneakers is okay in my book.

  One of my tunes is still playing on the jukebox. I have no idea if I’ve got any songs left. I just hope the guy’s taste in music is as good as his taste in clothes. I sip my beer and wait to hear the verdict.

  I hear a succession of quarters plunk into the machine. The sound makes me hope he plays some Joan Jett. I know that song is like two years old, but it still sounds radical.

  Instead of Joan Jett, Air Supply comes on. Gag me with a spoon, like, totally.

  I can hear the tap, tap, tap, tap of the guy punching in more numbers on the jukebox to songs I’m certain I will dislike as much as Air Supply. When he’s done, he sits at the bar to my left, leaving one stool between us. The guy looks at me and gives me one of those guy nods, a curt jerk of the chin in my general direction. Too cool to say hi but still civil enough to acknowledge my existence.

  I guy nod back.

  The bartender approaches him. The guy gives the bartender a guy nod.

  The bartender guy nod’s back.

  We’re all dudes and we’ve all affirmed one another’s existence.

  The dude orders a beer. He named one of the ones on the beer board without looking up. He’s a regular.

  The bartender slides a frosty mug of suds in front of the new dude with the Velcro KangaROOS and an affinity for Air Supply.

  “What they got you in for?” he asks without looking at me.

  “I’m a free man.” I tell him. What the heck is it with everyone wondering why I’m here?

  He snickers at my answer before pulling a sip off the head of his beer. “No man is free. Especially not in this place. This is the kinda place everyone spends their entire life trying to escape from. Of course, there’s always one sure way out.”

  I get the reference. The guy is playing the James Dean version of Piano Man. “I can walk out of here and never come back friend. I’m just passing through.”

  “I’d love to get out of here. Been trying to get out of here my whole life. But here I am, once again,” he says toward the bottom of his glass. “Hey, I’ll get the next round. You tell me how it is you get out of here so easily.”

  Air Supply ended. Olivia Newton-John followed. How could a guy rocking the new wave look pick out such crumby songs? I’m going to need to take this guy up on his offer just to stomach the music. Plus, I’m interested in where his line of jive is going. He’s a man looking for answers. Maybe I can get some myself with a little drunken bar banter.

  “Sounds good,” I extend my hand over to him, “I’m Dusty.”

  He snickers again, taking another drink from his mug instead of returning my handshake. “Snake.”

  “No, I’m on the level, man.” I say, jumping on the defensive against his sudden accusation.

  Another snicker, “No, I’m Snake.”

  “Oh! Well, good to meet you Snake.”

  We both throw back the last of the beer in front of us.

  “Whatcha drinking?” Snake asks me.

  “Fucked if I know. Just give me one of whatever you’re drinking.”

  He snickers. He throws up two fingers to the bartender. The bartender jumps into action.

  “What’s with these weird beers anyway?” I ask, figuring he’s got the scoop on the lack of Budweiser.

  Before he can answer, the opening riff to Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock n’ Roll” belts out of the speakers on the jukebox. Instead of answering, he holds up a finger at me like he just put the world on pause. He gets off the stool and steps back behind it assuming the air guitar stance and begins to play along.

  I smile.

  I get up myself as the bartender is pouring our beers behind the bar. While Snake plays on his invisible Les Paul, I begin to sing along as if I have the signature Joan Jett scratch in my voice. I don’t but I’m still feeling the buzz.

  On the final “Yeah, me!” Snake joins it and sings out as loud as he can. We’re the only people in the bar besides the bartender so it’s easier for me to let loose even with the buzz. Snake taking the lead on just rocking out also helps.

  We go on like that through the first chorus and saddle back up on our stools when the bartender places two cold ones at our spots.

  “I fuckin’ love this song! I was hoping you were going to play it.”

  The oddest thing happens. Snake smiles at me and there is something very serpentine about his smile. “You were?” he asks, the python grin never breaking as he speaks.

  I pause, the smile takes me off guard. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. Love Joan Jett. What gives with all the Air Supply junk though? Sounds like the kind of stuff they’d play in—”

  “Hell,” he finishes for me.

  A tingle freezes my spine. “Yeah,” I say and a nervous chuckle escapes my mouth.

  “Hey. Take a pull on that beer so you can show me how you get out of here, hotshot.” Snake says.

  The serpent smile is gone in an instant. He’s normal again just like that.

  “What are you in for,” I ask, “that you need to escape?”

  He bites. “I’ve done bad things Dusty.”

  Jesus, I wasn’t expecting this guy to tell me he’s a criminal or anything like that. I’m thinking I’m going to get some sob story about a poor choice in career paths and a history of being unlucky in love that have left him stuck in the never-ending loop of living life at the local tap room.

  “Having a hard time coping with that?” I ask. I’ve crossed a few people in my time on this Earth that have done some shitty stuff and they’ve turned to the bottle to deal with things they’ve done. Beer is the cheapest therapy I know.

  Snake looks at me, looks through me, “Yeah, hard time coping with that.” His focus snaps back on my face, “Open that door for me, and I’ll be able to cope much better.”

  “God helps those who help themselves.” I say, being a bit of a wise ass.

  I wasn’t ready for the level of reaction my snide remark earned.

  “Fine! Who needs you anyway! Go to Hell, Dusty. Go! To! Hell!”

  Snake bolts up, knocking his stool over onto the floor with a bang that reverberates loudly in the mostly empty bar. He spits at my feet, turns on his heels and walks back through the door he’d come in through in the back.

  Obviously, he has no trouble opening a door for himself. Jerk.

  ***

  The bartender busied himself by washing a few mugs that were clean already. He didn’t want to make it obvious to the guy at the corner stool that he was trying to keep tabs on him. He didn’t expect the second demon to give up that easily. There was blood in the water, however, and another would be along soon. In fact, he’d be surprised if it was only one that showed up now.

  The guy had handled himself well so far. The guy didn’t know he was handling himself well, but he definitely wasn’t a sucker. The others were going to have to put some more work on him if they wanted to get out.

  Still, there was the gymnastics thing. Dusty, as he overheard him when he introduced himself, still hadn't come clean on the gymnastics stuff. He was going to need to let that out before the ones from the other door got it out of him. Before any more showed up, the bartender tried to dig at him like toenail dirt.

  “Don’t let ‘em get to you. The regulars tend to be a little tense around here. I can see you’re kinda tense yourself. Is it that gymnastics thing?” the bartender asks Dusty.

  Dusty jolts, surprised by the bartender, as if he’d forgotten he was there. “A little tense? My gymnastics issue makes me a little tense; that Snake guy is about as tense as a rubber band ready to snap.”

  “Gymnastics. Sounds like a sport loaded with tension if you ask me. Are you good at it?

  Dusty chuckles. “Yeah, I’m good at it. A little too good.”

  “Oh, a rivalry is it?”

  Before Dusty can answer, the back do
or opens. Dusty turns to look at who’s coming in through the portal. The bartender curses under his breath. They are moving quick and in numbers now.

  ***

  I must have parked in the wrong spot. Everyone is coming in through the back door. I got nervous thinking I had really set off Snake and he was coming back in with a crowbar to take care of me.

  Instead, it was a group. Like, a music group. Survivor specifically. I know because I just saw them play Eye of the Tiger on American Bandstand this past weekend. The first dude through the door is wearing jeans, a white shirt with black suspenders and a beret. The guy through the door behind him wears a bushy mullet and big wire-rimmed glasses. The next two guys in sport button up black shirts, one in a leather vest, the other has two thin ties around his collarless shirt. The ties are sharp.

  Bringing up the rear of the fivesome is a chick. She looks good. Her hair is teased up with bangs curling like Niagara Falls over her forehead. She’s wearing enough rouge to make her cheeks look like burning suns. Her delicious hips are poured into a spandex leotard and pink knit leggings.

  I know they know I’m sitting here but they ignore me in a collective act of cool. Suspenders and Mullet walk over to the billiards table. Vest and Tie sit at a high top near the pool table to watch. The Olivia Newton-John look-alike saunters over to the jukebox.

  My eyes are magnetized to her posterior as it sways. She leans over the jukebox far more than necessary, choosing to intoxicate me with her curves instead of worrying about bad posture. She’s aware I’m leering at her. I should be worried one of the guys from Survivor is her boyfriend, but my libido is not allowing me any level of tact whatsoever.

  Her ass gyrates to Hall and Oates playing at random while the jukebox awaits more coins. I’m transfixed on her ass, praying she plays “Let’s Get Physical”. It’s an awful pop song but her posterior is built to move to that particular song.