Take Away the Saints

Smoke 'Em Up : Bar Room Mirrors || Ian R. Cooper

I'm standing across from Stanley's Diner--the one that serves English muffins--when a neon light goes off in my periphery. Those little brightly contoured filaments, they call my name with the debauchery that is promised inside. This one in particular should be innocuous. It just says 'Open'. But the scene illuminated behind is what strikes my interest: shelves of liquor, and a string of taps across a bar.

I glance down at my watch. It's eleven fifty-seven. The clock in the joint must be a few minutes fast. In three minutes I could be inside of Stanley's, standing at the counter and placing Lisa's order before breakfast stops being served. I check my phone. There are ten missed calls already, all from my wife. There's only one voicemail, which I delete unchecked.

As if prescient, the phone starts buzzing in my hand. The screen says 'Lisa' in big, bold letters. I thumb the button that sends the call to my answering service. Instead of crossing the street to the diner, I head into the bar.

"What can I get you?"

The voice comes from a petite brunette, her back to me, facing the register as she does the opening count. Her hair is almost down to her ass, where the slick silver of a stainless-steel bottle opener sticks out suggestively from the pocket of too-tight jeans.

"Just a Bud," I answer.

When she turns around, there's a flicker in her eyes and she turns on a smile that seems to hint that she's chasing more than just a good tip. "Oh hey! You want me to keep putting them on your tab?"

"My tab?"

"Yeah, you left your card here last night. I didn't close you out yet. Figured I'd let it ride since you're in here all the time."

I've never been here before. Hell, I never would have walked in here if I wasn't looking to commit marital suicide. Nonetheless, I take out my wallet and check for my credit card. Sure enough, it's still there. Whatever. I'm not gonna turn down drinking on some other schmoe's dime.

"Yeah, my tab," I say with a little more confidence. "And let me get a single malt. On the rocks."

She bounds over to the rows of bottles to make my drink. Her eyes cast quick glances at me in the reflection from the bar's mirror. "Long night?" She asks.

"How's that?"

"You're usually so....." She gestures about her figure, "fashionable."

I look down at my just-south-of-casual ensemble. "Yeah, these passed the smell test."

"Nice to know you're human like the rest of us."

My fingers pick at a bowl of salted peanuts. The air inside the place signifies that it's one of the few places you can still smoke indoors. "What else would I be?" I pop one of the peanuts into my mouth.

I hadn't realized how hungry I was until just now. I take turns eating more peanuts and fidgeting with a straw from the holder in front of me. The phone in my pants begins to buzz, reminding me about breakfasts, broken rubbers, and impending arguments. I hold a small side button and the ringing stops for good.

The bartender swings around and places my drinks in front of me. "Well, you have a reputation for being a bit of a dog." Her eyes narrow as she sidles up to the bar across from me. Her smile stays predatory.

I laugh around a mouthful of peanuts. "I promise I don't bi-"

Before I can finish my sentence, my jaw drops open. I'm pretty sure I lose a couple of peanuts.

The man that just walked in, his mouth is agape as well. He pulls a pair of shades from his face, slowly, like a TV detective. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."