c. 2001–2002 · Short story — a bartender, his room, and his regulars.
I’m standing here in this alternate universe—the one I call home when I get in my car and leave the place where I sleep. The sun is about to go down, meaning it’s nearly six o’clock. Of course, in this alternate universe, six o’clock is really thirty past six. Where I stand now I am God. This is my universe, this twelve by six foot corner of Barbarella’s Lounge. For the next eight hours I am total salvation for those who seek put their dreams through booze and beer. I tend the bar here, and that makes me this ship’s captain. My name is John Duncan, and I’ve worked this joint for the last seven years. I’ve got no real family, not really. You see, the only people that really matter to me are the ones who frequent these sacred walls. I never would have thought I’d be here this long, but this place has become my home.
Across from where I stand, four circular tables sit along the far wall, each with its own burgundy velvet sofa hugging the half closest to the wall in a crescent shape. Candles burn brightly on each table, providing most of the illumination for Barbarella’s Lounge. I always prefer to keep the place dimly lit, since I feel that it complements the mood most people are trying to achieve. Farther along the wall, to my right, a railing separates the main area from the game room, where two pool tables offer patrons a way to gamble for money, booze, or to simply sharpen their skills. Across from those pool tables stand yet three more circular bar-tables, each of which has its own two stools.
The walls of Barbarella’s Lounge are made of solid concrete, originally painted gray. However, when I took the bar over, I had them painted black, so that when I looked out from behind the bar the room seemed to continue on without boundary, almost as if the tables were standing against a great void. If it weren’t for the myriad posters that I tacked on the walls—placards that depicted nostalgic black and white movies, as well as paraphernalia of the music industry, especially those that looked best under black light—then I might actually believe that this place stood against the void. Sadly, for some people, this place really did.
As I make sure everything is ready for tonight, I flip the switches to the lights, and immediately several black lights along the walls flicker on. Track lighting along the ceiling and around the pool tables illuminates their vicinities in tight little beams of white light. Of course, at my bar, I’ve got my trusty Marilyn Monroe lamp standing next to my old-style antiquated cash-machine, complete with its brass closure lever. And above the bar itself are dim incandescent lights that give the bar’s surface a warm glow. “Barbarella’s Lounge” is written in fancy cursive behind the bar in bright red neon lighting, and between that and the bar itself stands old John Duncan.
It’s that time again, and I turn on the backlit signs that advertise my presence and unlock the front door. As usual, Joe Hardy is waiting outside the door with a cigarette in hand. Hi Joe, I say and hold the door open for him. Joe walks in and takes his seat at the end of the bar closest to the entrance. He’s been coming here for five years, longer than anyone else that I can remember. He still works at the post office, sorting people’s mail, and since his sister died last year, receiving none of it himself. Joe had lived a hard-luck life. He was born and raised in Colorado—dropped out of high school when he was sixteen and worked in the steel factories until he was twenty two. Then he met his future wife Barbara and moved to Philadelphia when she accepted a position teaching at Philadelphia Regional High School, right outside of Chinatown. She had died in her classroom four years ago; an aneurism kept her from concluding her lesson on photosynthesis. She had been a biology teacher. He and Barbara never had any kids, and the only family Joe had after Barbara died was his sister Kate, and just last November she had done herself in with a handful of sleeping pills. She had never been able to reconcile herself for being the only survivor in the house fire that had consumed her parents and her two younger brothers Mike and John.
I walk from the entrance to my position behind the bar and fill a tall one with the stout brew Joe favors. I was reading in the paper that they’re going to be picking up pieces of the World Trade Center Buildings for the next ten years, says Joe. I acknowledge him by shaking my head morosely, and wipe down the bartop, as is my habit when I’m not pouring drinks. The counter’s surface is worn and smooth. No carpenter, no matter how patient, could have smoothed its surface the way seven years of moisture and the superfine sanding properties of a terry cloth have. I watch the clock turn over to five past seven. In walks Paul Harris, another man who has patronized Barbarella’s Lounge for over four years. Paul is a diabetic addicted to Diet Coke. He lives off the government and royalties earned off his patent on a utensil-dispensing device. Hi, Paul, I say. Joe swallows from his glass and mutters they’re gonna be picking up pieces of the World Trade Center Buildings for the next ten years. Paul clicks his tongue and accepts the glass of Diet Coke I offer him. I can feel it in my bones, you know my knees. These old knees of mine never lie. Paul amuses me with his bantering, and I find myself wiping down the counter again.
Composed 2001 · part of the Short Stories collection · authorship documented on the Provenance page.