AuntShecky
12-30-2007, 06:02 PM
Downhill
So this guy walks into the bar. It was not just any bar, not the generic setting for a minister-rabbi-priest joke, not your seedy dive, not your trendy, fern-invested “in” spot -- it was my bar. I mean, I don't actually own the place –- I'm just the bartender. It’s called the Tamarack Inn, named after the variety of larch that looks like an evergreen but loses its needles once a year like your foliage in the fall. We usually get good people – the year-round locals of course, plus the fishermen in the spring, tourists in the summer, outdoorsmen during huntin’ season - all the sincere sort of folks who would never judge you by what you wear or how you much dough you have or the way you talk (but might scratch their heads if you use trendy buzzwords or started a sentence with the word “so.”)
Comes the snow and it’s a whole different story. We get your snot-nosed snowboarders and ski bunnies whom we instantly card. With their shady I.D. in my hand, I'll ask “How old are you?” “Twenty-one?” they'll answer. “Is that right? What year?” Then a look of confused panic will cross their faces as if you asked them to define Jeremy Bent ham’s theory of utilitarianism. Or the tables and booths get overrun with families -- the kids still red-cheeked and hyper about the fun they'd had that day with their bone-weary Mom and Dad, trying to mask the aches and pains in muscles untaxed since the previous year’s ski trip – who don't care what you serve them so long as it’s pizza. Then there are the few who arrive each year just like the cheap calendar sent by your friendly insurance company. Derek was one of them. I was wrong when I said that he “walked” in the bar; actually he made an “entrance.”
“Lenny! How’s it hangin’ ? Long time no see!”
“Yeah. Except with you it’s long time, no tip.” Except for the outfit – the very latest in ski wear from Abercombie & What’s-it’s-face – Derek hadn’t changed a bit. Same store-bought tan, same $200 haircut, same obnoxious swagger.
“Where'd ja dig her up? Some time warp from the Forties? “ He jerked a thumb over to the piano, at that moment fully-engaged in a sparkling rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” played by the lovely Arlene. “Who opened for her? The Andrews Sisters singin’ ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ ?”
I shrugged. “You don't like it, g’wan over to the Dew Drop. I hear they've got a Devo tribute band.”
He sat down at the stool at the end of the bar. I put a longneck and a frosty pilsner glass in front of him. Not two seconds later he began trolling, the antennae shot up as he scanned the entire room. He'd always believed in keeping one’s options open, even though Derek – so he said - had some “action” already scheduled. As a matter of fact, the lucky young lady in question was to meet him in this very establishment ‘ere the evening grew long.
“So what’s it going to be this year, D? Cross-country or downhill?“ ”Downhill” –that’s a funny word, j’ever notice? It can mean one thing and also its opposite. It’s good when it comes after a long, hard climb – “After that, it was all downhill,” meaning easier. Smooth sailin’. But it can also mean something really bad: “My stock was rising there for a couple of weeks, but afterward starting going downhill-” meaning a big dip. Goin’ south.
Meanwhile the place was filling up and pretty soon every stool at the bar was occupado. The customer sitting next to Derek ordered a whiskey sour. Damn. First instinct is to say, “What do I look like, a mixologist?” But what the hell, the guy was new, and maybe there'd be a tip in it somewhere.
“What kind of girlie man orders a whiskey sour?” Derek boomed in a bad Schwarzenegger imitation. Oh no, methinks: social gaffe at best; beginning of a brawl at worst. Turns out that the newbie and Derek knew each other. It was like old home week.
“Jeez! Wreck, Is that you ?”
“Stewball! You ol’ son of a –“ The guy snapped his fingers and did an elaborate hand signal which Derek reciprocated. Oh great. Just what the Tamarack needed – a frat party. (Apparently the actual Greek letters for their chapter were different from the ones to which they called it: “Zeta Omega Omega” or to us unschooled civilians – - “ZOO.” Derek told me once there was a sorority house on campus which they referred to as “Mu Mu” because the sisters all looked like cows.)
“Can't forget those college days, huh, Wreck? Hey, remember ol’ Hatchet Face? And that juicer? What was his name? That guy never saw a sober day in his life. I wonder what ever happened to him?”
“Eh, he’s probably lyin’ in a gutter somewhere.” With that Derek took a healthy swig of his brew and pointed the neck of the empty bottle toward me. One more, coming right up. “Gee, Stew, how many years has it been? You haven't changed a bit!” he lied. I personally have no way of knowing, but this Stew probably looked a lot different back in their college days, for this guy was showing the beginnings of male pattern baldness , along with the mid-section paunchiness that indicated one of two things: either the guy was successful or he was married. It was a sign of the times that at any given moment every male in the place –not counting Derek of course–had been married at least once.
“Ya know what we used to say about cha?– ‘Ol’ Wreck is going hit on every last female undergrad. You single-handedly put a whole new meaning to Working your Way Through College. Nowadays I've got my own little ball and chain,” Stew was saying, “ Two screamers already and another on the way. But how ‘bout you? Ever settle down?”
Had I myself been drinking at that moment I would've done a spit-take. Derek “settling down” would be like free national dental care – it ain’t never gonna happen.
At this point I found myself rushing around like mad – taking care of customers packing themselves two or three deep at the bar, not to mention covering the service bar for the dining room waitresses. So for most of the evening I could only pick up snippets of the conversation between Derek and his long-lost fraternity brother:
“So, this one tonight, a natural blonde?”
Derek shrugged. “I don't know but I'll soon find out! You know, the other day I met this other skank. . .”
Another set up for table three: a pitcher and – wouldn't you know it, a frozen daiquiri. The Fancy Mixed Drink: the bane of a bartender’s existence. My life would be a whole lot easier if the entire world would develop a taste for simple draft beer. Hell, I'd even stick little paper umbrellas in the glass if that would help.
“I told her that my name was John Longfellow and she was so freakin’ stupid she bought it. . .”
Two Heinekens, one plain ginger ale for the back booth. For table six: one pitcher, four glasses.
“She goes ‘I've never met anyone like you before, John,’ and I'm like, whoa. . .”
The more crowded the Tamarack got the noisier it became: the buzz of a hundred conversations like the hum of a factory. Thank the good lord the band was acoustic and playing soft tunes, or I'd never hear myself think let alone the orders. I wished I could leave the bar and give the lovely Arlene a kiss in gratitude. But Derek was bragging about his latest exploit so loudly everyone could hear him above the din:
“ She’s like ‘Oh, John! John! I've never had it like
THIS!’–"
The frat boy, humoring him, was laughing, but whatever his true feelings about Derek were, I doubt that envy was one of them.
The joint was really jumpin’. I was handing glasses across the SRO crowd in front of the bar like a alt-rock fan in a mosh pit. But I did have just enough time to put another longneck and a fresh glass in front of Derek.
“Thanks, Lenny, but I'm not done with this one yet–“
I shook my head. “Compliments of the lady. Standing right behind you.”
Derek turned around, and in the shock of recognition his chin nearly hit the floor.The elegantly-dressed young woman saluted him with her glass, but the expression on her face could've curdled mother’s milk. She had heard every sleazy, locker room word. “Ohmygod! I'm so sorry, Honey. Let me explain –“ But she left faster than American Express had turned me down when I applied for a platinum card.
I don't know if he even considered for a split-second of running after her. What he did do was shrug and turn back around to finish one brew and start on the second. While it may be true that a guilty conscience makes cowards of us all, hey, a free drink is a free drink.
All Rights Reserved.
So this guy walks into the bar. It was not just any bar, not the generic setting for a minister-rabbi-priest joke, not your seedy dive, not your trendy, fern-invested “in” spot -- it was my bar. I mean, I don't actually own the place –- I'm just the bartender. It’s called the Tamarack Inn, named after the variety of larch that looks like an evergreen but loses its needles once a year like your foliage in the fall. We usually get good people – the year-round locals of course, plus the fishermen in the spring, tourists in the summer, outdoorsmen during huntin’ season - all the sincere sort of folks who would never judge you by what you wear or how you much dough you have or the way you talk (but might scratch their heads if you use trendy buzzwords or started a sentence with the word “so.”)
Comes the snow and it’s a whole different story. We get your snot-nosed snowboarders and ski bunnies whom we instantly card. With their shady I.D. in my hand, I'll ask “How old are you?” “Twenty-one?” they'll answer. “Is that right? What year?” Then a look of confused panic will cross their faces as if you asked them to define Jeremy Bent ham’s theory of utilitarianism. Or the tables and booths get overrun with families -- the kids still red-cheeked and hyper about the fun they'd had that day with their bone-weary Mom and Dad, trying to mask the aches and pains in muscles untaxed since the previous year’s ski trip – who don't care what you serve them so long as it’s pizza. Then there are the few who arrive each year just like the cheap calendar sent by your friendly insurance company. Derek was one of them. I was wrong when I said that he “walked” in the bar; actually he made an “entrance.”
“Lenny! How’s it hangin’ ? Long time no see!”
“Yeah. Except with you it’s long time, no tip.” Except for the outfit – the very latest in ski wear from Abercombie & What’s-it’s-face – Derek hadn’t changed a bit. Same store-bought tan, same $200 haircut, same obnoxious swagger.
“Where'd ja dig her up? Some time warp from the Forties? “ He jerked a thumb over to the piano, at that moment fully-engaged in a sparkling rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” played by the lovely Arlene. “Who opened for her? The Andrews Sisters singin’ ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ ?”
I shrugged. “You don't like it, g’wan over to the Dew Drop. I hear they've got a Devo tribute band.”
He sat down at the stool at the end of the bar. I put a longneck and a frosty pilsner glass in front of him. Not two seconds later he began trolling, the antennae shot up as he scanned the entire room. He'd always believed in keeping one’s options open, even though Derek – so he said - had some “action” already scheduled. As a matter of fact, the lucky young lady in question was to meet him in this very establishment ‘ere the evening grew long.
“So what’s it going to be this year, D? Cross-country or downhill?“ ”Downhill” –that’s a funny word, j’ever notice? It can mean one thing and also its opposite. It’s good when it comes after a long, hard climb – “After that, it was all downhill,” meaning easier. Smooth sailin’. But it can also mean something really bad: “My stock was rising there for a couple of weeks, but afterward starting going downhill-” meaning a big dip. Goin’ south.
Meanwhile the place was filling up and pretty soon every stool at the bar was occupado. The customer sitting next to Derek ordered a whiskey sour. Damn. First instinct is to say, “What do I look like, a mixologist?” But what the hell, the guy was new, and maybe there'd be a tip in it somewhere.
“What kind of girlie man orders a whiskey sour?” Derek boomed in a bad Schwarzenegger imitation. Oh no, methinks: social gaffe at best; beginning of a brawl at worst. Turns out that the newbie and Derek knew each other. It was like old home week.
“Jeez! Wreck, Is that you ?”
“Stewball! You ol’ son of a –“ The guy snapped his fingers and did an elaborate hand signal which Derek reciprocated. Oh great. Just what the Tamarack needed – a frat party. (Apparently the actual Greek letters for their chapter were different from the ones to which they called it: “Zeta Omega Omega” or to us unschooled civilians – - “ZOO.” Derek told me once there was a sorority house on campus which they referred to as “Mu Mu” because the sisters all looked like cows.)
“Can't forget those college days, huh, Wreck? Hey, remember ol’ Hatchet Face? And that juicer? What was his name? That guy never saw a sober day in his life. I wonder what ever happened to him?”
“Eh, he’s probably lyin’ in a gutter somewhere.” With that Derek took a healthy swig of his brew and pointed the neck of the empty bottle toward me. One more, coming right up. “Gee, Stew, how many years has it been? You haven't changed a bit!” he lied. I personally have no way of knowing, but this Stew probably looked a lot different back in their college days, for this guy was showing the beginnings of male pattern baldness , along with the mid-section paunchiness that indicated one of two things: either the guy was successful or he was married. It was a sign of the times that at any given moment every male in the place –not counting Derek of course–had been married at least once.
“Ya know what we used to say about cha?– ‘Ol’ Wreck is going hit on every last female undergrad. You single-handedly put a whole new meaning to Working your Way Through College. Nowadays I've got my own little ball and chain,” Stew was saying, “ Two screamers already and another on the way. But how ‘bout you? Ever settle down?”
Had I myself been drinking at that moment I would've done a spit-take. Derek “settling down” would be like free national dental care – it ain’t never gonna happen.
At this point I found myself rushing around like mad – taking care of customers packing themselves two or three deep at the bar, not to mention covering the service bar for the dining room waitresses. So for most of the evening I could only pick up snippets of the conversation between Derek and his long-lost fraternity brother:
“So, this one tonight, a natural blonde?”
Derek shrugged. “I don't know but I'll soon find out! You know, the other day I met this other skank. . .”
Another set up for table three: a pitcher and – wouldn't you know it, a frozen daiquiri. The Fancy Mixed Drink: the bane of a bartender’s existence. My life would be a whole lot easier if the entire world would develop a taste for simple draft beer. Hell, I'd even stick little paper umbrellas in the glass if that would help.
“I told her that my name was John Longfellow and she was so freakin’ stupid she bought it. . .”
Two Heinekens, one plain ginger ale for the back booth. For table six: one pitcher, four glasses.
“She goes ‘I've never met anyone like you before, John,’ and I'm like, whoa. . .”
The more crowded the Tamarack got the noisier it became: the buzz of a hundred conversations like the hum of a factory. Thank the good lord the band was acoustic and playing soft tunes, or I'd never hear myself think let alone the orders. I wished I could leave the bar and give the lovely Arlene a kiss in gratitude. But Derek was bragging about his latest exploit so loudly everyone could hear him above the din:
“ She’s like ‘Oh, John! John! I've never had it like
THIS!’–"
The frat boy, humoring him, was laughing, but whatever his true feelings about Derek were, I doubt that envy was one of them.
The joint was really jumpin’. I was handing glasses across the SRO crowd in front of the bar like a alt-rock fan in a mosh pit. But I did have just enough time to put another longneck and a fresh glass in front of Derek.
“Thanks, Lenny, but I'm not done with this one yet–“
I shook my head. “Compliments of the lady. Standing right behind you.”
Derek turned around, and in the shock of recognition his chin nearly hit the floor.The elegantly-dressed young woman saluted him with her glass, but the expression on her face could've curdled mother’s milk. She had heard every sleazy, locker room word. “Ohmygod! I'm so sorry, Honey. Let me explain –“ But she left faster than American Express had turned me down when I applied for a platinum card.
I don't know if he even considered for a split-second of running after her. What he did do was shrug and turn back around to finish one brew and start on the second. While it may be true that a guilty conscience makes cowards of us all, hey, a free drink is a free drink.
All Rights Reserved.