Man Walks Into A Bar
Short, ill story number two.
The scene: a quiet bar in Stornoway, Isle of Lewis. Outside, a storm is raging and noone has ventured beyond their warm, twinkling windows, noone that is, who isn’t a scone-faced plonker. A few old duffers are sitting nursing whiskey and grievances in their oilskins and the kind of jumpers that tell you someone at home loves them, even if they are difficult arseholes who’ve died inside years ago and have inconvenient food allergies. The kind of jumpers with creases down the sleeves.
Suddenly the door bursts open and, sillhouetted against the lightning and the roaring gale outside, stands the figure of a man. Quite a fit man, the barmaid, Molly, notes with approval – a quick mental calculation of all things considered helping her decide that yes, yes she rather thinks she would, if he asked.
Crisp packets and seagulls are blowing into the bar from the black wet street outside, breaking her reverie, and Molly screams at the man to shut the door for Gawd’s sakes. (She says this, despite being from Ness and therefore not a Cockney). The man obliges.
Turning again, he staggers a little and everyone can see he’s drunk. Old Tom goes back to dozing in the corner by the fire. Molly adjusts her ample bosom a little, finds an unexpected wine-gum in her cleavage which she pops in her mouth, and flounces up to the end of the short bar. “What you ‘aving, mister?” Again with the cockney accent – Old Murdo shrugs at Ancient Alec and they settle back to watch the only piece of action in the pub all night.
“My love has left me for another!” cries the man. “Right now I need a love song and a vodka-based poison to further emphasize for me the bitterness of love!”
“Won’t that make it worse?” asks Molly, all soft, round concern. “How about a nice Manhatten instead? That’ll soon put the roses back in your cheeks, ducks. You’ll feel better in no time, luvvie. Or a sex-on-the-beach?” She’d being practicing new drinks to try an lure in a younger clientele and replace the current ones, many of whom, she thinks ungenerously, are well overdue to die. She has big plans for a black and cerise colour-scheme once the last of them has croaked, with velvet banquettes and a glitter ball.
“Are you mad? Have you sheen de beach? Shex on the beach at the moment would be more like death on the rocks,” the man cries. “No! Look, I just want to lishten to some Chris De Burgh and drink a last whishkey before I shoot my face off widdis gun.” From out of his pocket he pulls a gun. Everyone gasps. He puts it back.
“Where’sh your duke-box?” he shlurs.
It’s over there by the Gents,” says Molly, shaken but not stirred. She’s a Hebrideanonian barmaid after all, and sees this type of thing a couple of times a year.
The man lurches over to what looks like a badly wired fridge in drag. He peers through the old, yellowed plastic to browse: “Bye-Bye Miss American Pie,” “Donald Where’s Your Troosers?” “Rage Against The Machine,” and ah, here it is:
Lady in Red by Chris De Burgh.
Stuffing some coins into the slot he turns, tears pouring down his face like water in a broken urinal. “Who can know the mysteries of the heart?“ he wails, waking up Old Tom, who doesn’t know. “Why must woman be so cruel and fickle? She’s tormented my soul ’til I can take no more. This night will be my last on earth!”
“is dancing with me, cheek to cheek,” warbles the juke-box. And something pings in Old Murdo’s heart.
“Here Murdo, man, you’re crying! What is it, old pal?” cries Ancient Alex. And then he feels it too.
“This beauty by my siiiiide. I’ll never forget the way you look toniiiiiiight.”
The tears come slowly at first, and then faster and thicker, and pretty soon every man in the small bar is bawling. Really sobbing their hearts out like, using their ancient tweed caps and abominable hankies to mop up the great salty teardrops streaming down their ruddy life-beaten faces. Molly is on a stool behind the bar, filing her nails.
*
Morning: white light streams through the net curtains and a curious ray sidles up Old Tom’s face to see if anyone can really be that wrinkly. Old Tom opens his eyes, noticing right away the fire has gone out. Shivering, he rises and gets ready to head for home. He wonders, briefly, if he should wake his friends but they look so peaceful, all passed out like that, on and under the tables, and Decrepit Angus there on the bar is snoring gently, so he thinks not. Besides, Molly will be back at 10, after she does her morning messages.
The low sun hurts his pale, watery eyes as he exits the door to the street. Branches are down all over and somebody’s washing-line is wrapped around the statue of Lord Leverhulme, bloomers covering one eye rakishly.
“Aye, it was an great night, right enough,” he thinks to himself as he walks through the town on his way home to Bellina, the paper and a fry-up.
April 25th, 2007 at 8:53 pm
kind of jumpers that tell you someone at home loves them, even if they are difficult arseholes who?ve died inside years ago and have inconvenient food allergies.
I think I have one of those.
Except leave out the “difficult dead inside arsehole” part.
Cheers.
April 25th, 2007 at 10:36 pm
Even illness can’t keep you down, girl! What happened to the quite fit, but sad man?
April 25th, 2007 at 11:56 pm
Rand’, I know you’re not dead inside. I was round Ivan’s all these times you confessed your French maid outfit purchases for the EMBLOS, remember. The frisk is most definitely still with you, my friend.
Carolyn, For a wee while this morning I cornered Illness, pinned him down in the laundry room and had a productive couple of hours. I made a cake, some appointments and a story. Then Illness wriggled free and jumped into my head again via the ear. I don’t recommend the sensation.
The quite fit but sad man went home, as he always does after his waily binges, and was arrested 3 days later for stalking the girl of his dreams. Unluckily for him, she worked in the primary school canteen so most of his stalking was done in bushes near small children. Consequently he’s up on being-a-pervert charges as well, despite all protests to the arresting officer that “I’m not a pervert, I’m just a harmless stalker!”
April 26th, 2007 at 4:12 am
She?d being practicing new drinks to try an lure in a younger clientele …
Years ago, my local drink-smith set about replacing some of the Guinness taps with larger ones. His explanation: Not enough of yez in the bar, too many in God’s waiting room.
April 26th, 2007 at 7:22 am
Chaps OK, ?.
A lovely lead in to a post-Beckettian scenario, then C de burgh. I was getting all angsty, what with the black roads and flying crisp bags, all ready for Molly to sharpen a Bowie, chef-like, stroking the steel downwards. When C. d’Burgh, from then on I could not keep a grin from my face.
Your the twisty-turny wan.
April 26th, 2007 at 8:52 am
Lovely story. I’m a bit saddened that the fit young man is a stalker. Shouldn’t he actually be the young, rebellious son of an ancient royal family, in disguise, after being turned out of his ancestral home for falling in love with the chamber maid? Then he could be comforted by the ample barmaid but only for a few (albeit quite steamy) chapters, before finally falling for the cool and beautiful local doctor who probably doesn’t like him at first, but then maybe they are stranded on some remote shore and have to spend the night together in a tent where they both realise that they have been struck by the arrow of true love.
Or he could stay with the barmaid, you continue the steamy theme for another eight chapters and then sell it as top shelf porn?
April 26th, 2007 at 4:15 pm
Women, you’re all poison.
April 26th, 2007 at 5:09 pm
I feel more sorry for the barmaid than the broken-hearted man. It’s not right to ignore a woman when she adjusts her bosom, however low you’re feeling.
April 26th, 2007 at 5:42 pm
Sneezy, sometimes I prefer an old man’s bar to the smoked glass and brushed steel tube affairs. Sometimes I like a bit of posh.
It’s harder to turn a buck from the old steady sippers, though. A bar needs the young and gulping to remain viable. I am such a young gulper. Bet you are too.
Vince, You’re the twisty-turny wan
That’s just what my mother screamed as she birthed me.
asym, I don’t think women can really write porn. Not for men anyway. And dammit if your story isn’t better than mine!
Docs, you’re not supposed to eat the whole woman, man! But if you do, by accident like, then a dose of charcoal after a woman, and you’re just fine except for a headache and a mild sense of loss the next day. The mild sense of loss might increase after a few days as you realise you have no clean socks and have been eating pot-noodle for the last 14 meals. And have noone to rub your back and tell you everything’s going to be all right.
Nanas, that was the defence I used after I shot a man in Reno. Folks say it was just because I wanted to watch him die, but no, that wasn’t it at all. He flagrantly ignored all my bosom adjusting at the blackjack table and, frankly, that was making me feel bad. The judge wasn’t buying it and i was looking at a ten-stretch. Then I mumbled something about low self-esteem and alakazam! I got off with a dozen hours community service pushing the elderly around the supermarket for their messages. That only got me into more trouble though, because not all the ones I pushed were in wheel-chairs. The experience taught me that good people just can’t win in this world.
April 26th, 2007 at 7:17 pm
A chara
Odd really, but your mother might not have meant it as a compliment, I did.
While as to you having the bad sniffels. I would have ‘alcohol of choice’ in my recipe and included freshly ground pepper, had it been directed at you. Ya big s…
April 26th, 2007 at 8:32 pm
mmm idon’t understand, i was expecting a punchline…..
April 26th, 2007 at 9:53 pm
Fucker deservees what he gets for putting on Lady In Red. I fuckin’ HATE Lady In Red. I had a girlfriend in secondary school who decided that was OUR song because I was so desperate to get into her knickers that I asked her for a slow dance to that song at the local disco. I was successful and we ended up snogging and ultimately going out with each other. I should be grateful to C De B, but she crossed the line by going out and buying the damn record. THEN when I couldn’t stand hearing it anymore, and was about to break up with her she breaks up with ME! Grrrr, mutter mumble.. ”
“Another scotch barkeep, make it a triple”
April 27th, 2007 at 12:56 am
Funnily enough I was brought up near Stornoway in a little fishing/sheep town of Ullapool. See you didn’t know that! Great writing that by the way…
April 27th, 2007 at 10:11 am
More stories please!
Hope the snot fairy has finally left you alone…
April 27th, 2007 at 5:32 pm
Hope you and the weans are all better.
This a cracker, an every day story of Lewis folk right enough.
My Dad had a pub, he couldn’t understand why he found muddy foot prints on the pan every night at closing time, till he followed a shepherd into the loo, and caught hoim climbing up – he said he pee’d off dry stane dykes on the hill and couldn’t get out of the habit of peeing from a great height……..
April 27th, 2007 at 6:17 pm
I empathise with the wine gum bit. Only this evening I felt something cold yet moist on my upper tum and on investigation found a morsel of lemon risotto. How did it get past my bazoomahs you may ask – with my sturdy bra and all and it is a puzzle. But I didn’t pop it in my mouth. After all I am a laydee!
April 27th, 2007 at 8:27 pm
We’ve been having internet connection problems today with our router and are using an older one which is apt to crap out at any moment. I have to go and get the kids now but I’ll be back to respond properly to you lovely commenters, tonight. Toodle-pip!
April 28th, 2007 at 2:48 am
Internet connections, my arse. You’ve just been avoiding us.
And after I posted a call for Scots — Stat!
I’m so disappointed.
I suppose I’m on my own tomorrow trying to find the perfect set of pipes.
Yours in high dudgeon,
R. Sherman
April 28th, 2007 at 4:26 pm
Molly adjusts her ample bosom a little, finds an unexpected wine-gum in her cleavage which she pops in her mouth
Bosoms and food. Are there any finer combinations?
April 29th, 2007 at 3:11 pm
Oooh! Sherman said arse!
She was lucky it was an unexpected winegum. I have on occasion felt a little uncomfortable, scrabbled around down there and pulled out a shrivelled-up ex-boyfriend I’d always badmouthed around town for leaving me unexpectedly.
April 29th, 2007 at 6:07 pm
I was well too drunk the other night to make a comment because then I got it into me head to look out my Chris De Burgh boxed set and had a good cry to ‘Don’t pay the ferryman’ , that furry little man has found a weakness in real men.
April 29th, 2007 at 11:09 pm
“scone faced plonker”
My favorite descriptive phrase. May I use it?
April 30th, 2007 at 5:42 am
Vince, add pepper to our awesomely strong sickly sneezes and Chaos Theory would dictate a typhoon in Hong Kong. I would be the perfect precipitatory sneeze storm.
Wee bro, it’s not a joke, doofus, it’s a tragicomic tale of liquor and longing in Lewis. Which really happened. It was in the Criterion. You know it’s true!
John, damn right, that was a line crossed! You should have sent her packing before she could get the cellophane off the album. I’m sure C de B has been the pox on many a hopeful relationship. They’re not love songs he’s singing, they’re anti-love songs. Or aunty lovesongs. Aunties love him at weddings, throwing defiant glances at the uncles as they dance to Lady In Red with another. In fact, they probably wore red just in case, they played the song. Aunties are cunning.
Hi Manuel, thanks for saying hello. Ullapool! By God! How many times have I sat at the harbour with my fish and chips (which are brilliant in Ullapool, as it happens) freezing my bum off waiting for the ferry. My friend got married in Ullapool and had the reception in the Ceilidh Place. It’s a great wee town. All the benefits of island life, looks like, without actually having to live a 3 hour ferry ride away. It’s genius! Ullapool is genius.
Birchsprite, see, I thought that the fairy in green I saw was Tinkerbell, so I let her in. She showed me Disney credentials and everything. You can’t be too careful these days. Keep a chain on the door, that’s what I’ll be doing from now on.
Apprentice, ha! I love it! I bet that wasn’t your dad’s only one. He probably saw the whole rich tapestry of life in his line of work. People watching at its finest.
Pat, lemon risotto is the very devil. Gets everywhere. I think your’s was clearly too saucy. I’ve heard that using a wee bit less lemon works wonders. That should slow it down. Or at least stymie its progress at the bazoomahs.
Rand, hun, I’m sorry about the height of your dudgeon. Remember, if it persists for more than 4 hours you should seek medical attention. How was the pipe-buying? I’ll be over at your’s in a bit to find out.
Kim, bosoms don’t really do it for me but hairy fore-arms and liquorice is the best combination I can imagine. That way lies nirvana.
Ha! Aunty M, you made me giggle. There’s a place one can put one’s dessicated old boyfriends now for reconstitution but most people just call it the House of Lords. Despite the risks though, I reckon there are suitors a-plenty lining up to dive into your magnificent bosomage. You’re carrying round a miracle in your blouse, Auntie M. There’s not a plastic surgeon in Hollywood that could best your’s as Nature made them.
Old Knudsen, he found a weakness in me too: my ears. Traitorous ears were taking a tea-break, one day, and let the works of De Burgh in without check. I had my ears into my office about this, but only a week later they’d let Feargal Sharkey in too. I’d fire them, but you can’t the the help these days.
Joel, be my guest. I made cranberry scones today and i think I saw the face of Jerry Springer in one of them. Or it might have been Jesus, but he didn’t have a beard, so I kept the ebay description of it as Jerry Springer and his studio audience in scone-relief.
April 30th, 2007 at 9:03 am
“asym, I don?t think women can really write porn. Not for men anyway. And dammit if your story isn?t better than mine!”
I’m flattered, but i owe it all to the “Barbera Cartland School of Novel Writing”. Six months and three hundred quid wasn’t wasted after all…
April 30th, 2007 at 2:13 pm
I.
Love.
Your.
Writing.
The description of the pub took me there like a M.C. Beaton novel. Great stuff, mamma!
April 30th, 2007 at 7:19 pm
When I’m ill I eat toast and watch Cary Grant movies in sequence by year released and only leave the couch to get the phone if it’s ringing…on occasion. But look at you. You aren’t real. You just can’t be.
May 1st, 2007 at 7:57 am
A visit to cal wineries page, the section learn, might amuse.
May 1st, 2007 at 9:18 am
I thought Ullapool looked lovely as we wandered up the coast. And can you get a boat there to Lewis? I must get me to a map. Skye’s no more alas. They are going to end up like the Welsh ( the Scots)!
May 2nd, 2007 at 12:46 pm
DAYS! DAYS! It’s taken me to get in here properly. Anyway I’m in, how are you? Recovered? Still poorly? Are the babies better? Gummy eyes dry? Answers on the back of a postcard please. Or blog form will do.
FMC X
May 2nd, 2007 at 9:15 pm
just checking in again, and realised i forgot to comment. duh. i blame the drugs. they’re harder and harder to get.
bloody brilliant post, pb.
May 2nd, 2007 at 10:25 pm
Just checking in to see if all’s well.
Cheers.
May 3rd, 2007 at 3:37 am
Asym, I think I remember you! Wait! Aren’t you George Plum of 63 Pudding Wynde in Custard-Upon-Cake? ‘Cos you owe me a fiver for notes from that week you missed. It was the “Down To Brass Tacks In Bedroom Scenes: The Writer As Evoker Of Passion” week. I don’t believe I ever got these notes back either, did I? Damn you, Plum!
Jali, you’re a doll, a very kind and sweet doll, m’darlin’. And me and M.C, we’re like that. ((Does crossedity fingers thing.))
Kara, next time I’m ill I’m driving up to Portland; your ill rituals sound a lot better than mine. I just wave limply from the sofa and beg passers-by for sympathy and any spare bread-crusts. I put my sofa at a busy interchange for more drama and to increase my bread-crust yield.
Vince, I’ll be off for a look directly.
Pat, Ullapool is lovely and it has the best fish and chips in the Highlands. The seagulls there are still bastards though.
fmc, I don’t know what’s up with my blog. Maybe you didn’t say the double secret extra-secure clandestine, private password? It’s GORGONZOLA. Sssh. Don’t be telling anyone now! The girls and Dave all had their birthdays yesterday. Great fun it was and the girls were better enough to enjoy it. I think I’ve caught a compounding cold now, though. I grow throatier and snottier by the hour. Don’t get me started – I could moan non-stop for hours you know and I’d scare your lovely self right away with my pitiful whining.
Sal, tell me about it. The drug situation in California is shocking. I had to sell my body for a paracetamol last night. Nobody wanted it, on account of my face leaking so much, so I was forced to sell my cat to an animal testing facility instead. The children cried a bit, of course, but they have to learn about the real world sooner or later. I did tell them though that the cat would only suffer for a few months before its little body just gave out and gave it eternal peace. I know, I know, I’m a big sugar-coating softie, me.
Rand, thanks hun. All is well. Yesterday was great – a birthday party for the girls who’re 5 now, inexplicably (how the hell did that happen so fast?), But it meant a good few hours over the past few days in the kitchen baking for it, which was fun in itself but kept me away from th’ould blogging. Today, the bloody sniffles are back. I might try something warm and alcoholic in a bit. Nothing else is making a blind bit of difference.
May 4th, 2007 at 7:13 pm
Since it was Christy Burke on the jukebox, I presumed there would be a mass suicide. What else could you do if Christy Burke was moaning at you?
Happy ending after all. Sort of.
PS Fascinating to see that Scots folk also have “messages”.
Is it a Celtic thing or what?