We chose the bar because it had no windows. It was close, too – stumbling distance from the hotel. Whatever it was, wherever it was, we needed a bar and we needed a drink and we needed it fucking now.
***
In the last six months I’ve spent a month in New Jersey, two and a half months in New York City and going-on-two months in Long Island. I’ve seen a hurricane, two blizzards and a man pissing on Madison Ave at 1pm on a Sunday. Cigars in basements. Scotch on rooftops. Debussy in the square.
Long Island is what you’d expect. The sky is grey and the beer is stale. Seeing a grown man rip off his tank-top to display a dripping-new full-back tattoo in a bar is a regular, if not expected, occasion (wings are still in). And the accents – fuck, the accents. Imagine visiting Texas for the first time and discovering that everybody really does ride a horse to work and carries dueling six-shooters. It’s that bad.
The big city is another beast; one that deserves more thought and words and eloquence than a drunk, belligerent Astros fan can offer. So I’ll leave that to chuck. He’s not an Astros fan.
But New Jersey, man, I could get into New Jersey.
Astros (1-5) @ Mariners (3-4)
Monday, April 8, 2013, 9:10pm Central
Humber (0-1) vs Saunders (0-1)
Opening Night Magnet, Potential OSF sighting, just sayin’
Tuesday, April 9, 2013, 9:10pm Central
Bedard (0-0) vs Maurer (0-1)
Wednesday, April 10, 2013, 9:10pm Central
Peacock (0-1) vs Beavan (0-0)
Grand Slam Family Night Somehow Not Sponsored by Denny’s
We chose the bar because it had no windows. It also had cold beer and baseball on TV. The jukebox sat idle in a dusty corner; Madonna and Billy Joel and Jock Rocks v2 momentarily hushed. The bartender (Nick) inherited the joint from his father (Nico) and his father’s-father (Big Nick). Naturally the place was called Danny’s Pub. Danny’s remained cash-only through the years, and you never really wanted to hang out there past 11pm. But it was dark and small and never-crowded. It was perfect.
A cadre of pharmaceutical saleswomen scattered when we opened the door, like rats from an attic light bulb. We chose a table with a TV view and ordered two draft Buds. Trevor and I had been in Morristown for a couple weeks and tired of our clients’ companionship. We needed to drink unsupervized and air our many grievances. We needed a drink.
The group of saleswomen drew back together, this time as far away from the bar as possible – all backs and hushed conversations. They weren’t interested in us and they couldn’t care less about baseball, but they wanted the fuck away from The Man At The Bar, who we quickly learned was a man named Jack.
Jack was a frail man in his 50s or 60s or maybe even 70s. He wore a bowl haircut of sandy brown hair, narrowed bloodshot eyes and a semi-toothless grin. Gnawed-off fingernails. Slight limp. He came to our table.
“Mind if I sit? Is it ok? I’m quite the ladies’ man but those little things in the corner couldn’t handle my charm. Mind if I sit? Is it ok? You two seem like rock stars. Is it ok?” Yes, it was ok, and yes, he could sit. I assumed my suit and tie outed me as a rock star.
Jack liked to talk. A lot. About the same thing, often verbatim. He was, or is, a librarian. He hasn’t talked to his daughter in three years, despite her monthly phone calls. He loved Texas. He thought we were tall – giants – and good, smart folks who told it like it is and picked up on all the small details. Didn’t take shit from nobody. Kicked ass and didn’t care about the names. I felt like a regular Woodrow F. Call.
After a few rounds, we were delighted to learn that we earned Simple Jack’s utmost respect and trust, and he asked us for a favor. Turns out, the night before, Jack was at a bar near the airport, where he charmed the pants off a pretty young couple (“like always”) and took them both home. He didn’t remember what happened when they got there, but the next morning he woke up naked and $1000 poorer. His last $1000. And now he wanted us to track down the perpetrators and get his money back. Tonight.
Injuries
Astros
Blackley – jetlag
FeMart – awful nickname
White – Arias Syndrome
Mariners
Kinney – typhoid fever
I know you’re never supposed to go to a second location with a hippie, but I was unclear on the rules of engagement with drunk librarians. Jack seemed like a simple man who managed to fuck up every single decision he ever made. He didn’t ask for much from life and he never got it. And upon further prodding his robbery story blurred, like a collage of memories assembled in a drunken interrogation. But he seemed desperate and, shit, we didn’t have anything else to do. And we didn’t want to give the Good State of Texas a bad name. So, sure Jack, we’ll track down these thugs for you. But first – dinner.
The Famished Frog was bustling. Trevor and I grabbed a table in the corner of the bar while Jack stared blankly at an ATM near the bathrooms. I drained a glass of Yeungling and contemplated exit strategies. Play the work early card? Start acting tired? Surely we weren’t going to spend the rest of the evening tracking down Bonnie and Clyde with an idiot who couldn’t figure out the ATM in 10 minutes. And, I mean, I did have to work early and I was getting tired, so….
BANG. Our heads jerked to the bathrooms, where the ATM lay on its side. Fuck. Jack was squirting through the crowd towards us, then to the front door. “It’s them! GET ‘EM!!!!!” As we looked past him, a man and a woman snatched their belongings and fled the Frog. Bonnie and Clyde in the flesh.
Trevor dropped a twenty and we shot to the door. We followed Jack’s hysteric squeals of rage and delight towards the center of town. Far ahead, the bandits skipped across streets and vanished into the square. Jack moved quickly for a guy with a limp, and he wasn’t far behind.
We made it there a minute later, but the commotion was gone. No sign of Jack, Bonnie or Clyde. A piano sprung to life nearby, its tune familiar but strange. We wandered to the sound of the jukebox draped in eerie moonlight, unaware of time and space and thought. There, clad all in white robes, danced eight women in perfect unison. Debussy in the square.