Bar Keeper – Part VI
He saw a man holding a cardboard sign that read “The End is Near.” What a tease. The same man trades off one cardboard sign for another every few days–the other is “Jesus Saves.” Does it still count for an immortal? What good does salvation do a man who can never die to enjoy it? That’s the point of salvation–avoid hell at all costs.
He sighed bitterly and tried to change his thinking from eternity to the present.
She’ll be here, he thought, feeling slightly anxious. She’ll be here.
He wiped down tables and the bar as people began coming in. The acoustic musician for the night was setting up on stage, freeing his evening of musical obligation. He would only have to leave her if something happened–something big. His staff, although small in number, could handle nearly anything.
“Testing,” said the musician while her help adjusted the soundboard. “Testing. One. Two.”
He checked the bar supply and made mental stock of what needed refilling.
“Are you nervous or something” his curious bar back asked.
“Why? Does it show?” he smirked.
“Just a bit. You’re doing my job for me. That’s all.”
He playfully raised both hands. “Sorry. It’s all yours.”
The bar back laughed. “So what’s the count?”
“No sweat. I’ll get it. I need to stay busy.”
He walked into the storeroom and grabbed several bottles without really reading any of their labels. He thought about several things at once–the woman on her way to his bar (or, perhaps, not on her way–but he wasn’t going to let that kind of negativity in), his future that was endless, and the books in his office that hadn’t been balanced in six months. He thought about those cardboard signs again. He thought about how he wanted a guarantee that he would end up peaceful and happy.
There are no guarantees.
Well, except his absurd age. It would only increase. That was a safe bet.
He brought his bar back several drinks and mixes and left him to sort through it all. He listened as the musician began playing the opening chords of her first song. He hoped for a simple, quiet evening–almost like a normal date. Sure, the meeting place was his bar, but normalcy may still be achieved. He was going to take what he could get.
“She’ll be here,” his bar back said. “She’s not the stand-up kind.”
You sure? he wanted to ask out loud. He politely smiled, hating how nervous he felt and how apparently transparent he was. It wasn’t like she was the first woman, and, thanks to his incessant aging process, she probably wouldn’t be the last.
He wasn’t a player. He didn’t just date a woman because of superficial and fleeting reasons. He still firmly gripped his monogamous beliefs thanks to his religious upbringing. But knowing that he would probably encounter several women who would somehow gain his interest, he winced at the naked truth of it all.
He was overreacting. Nerves make the thought process go awry.
He rested his elbows against the bar, conveniently in full view of the front door while under the guise of the nearby stage and the act performing there.
“So are you going to buy me a drink or what?”
He perked up only to find a strange woman in her little black dress batting her eyes his way as she approached the bar.
“That would be very nice to the rest of the lovely women here,” he benignly replied.
“I’m sure we could work something out,” she persisted. The thick, sultry cover in her voice was like nails on a chalkboard.
The front door opened. The night’s breeze rushed in and livened his warm skin. It was her–the woman he was waiting for, shy and beautiful. She had arrived.
Albeit unwittingly, he rudely left the strange flirtatious woman who unabashedly fought for his attention. He felt his feet move him toward the one he really wanted to talk to.
“Hey,” she shyly smiled.
“Hey. You’re here.” Really smooth.
“You’re very perceptive,” she joked. She looked at her hands, which were fussing with the cuffs of her jacket sleeves. She was adorable.
“Let’s sit,” he invited, gesturing to an empty table for two.
He heard her exhale slowly when she saw the secluded spot, but she managed her composure as she sat. Could she be nervous at their exclusivity? He surprised her when he held her chair and slid it beneath her as she sat. He was still a man from a different time, and old habits die hard.
He kept his opinions to himself (mostly), but he had never fully grasped the women’s liberation movement. What Women Say vs. What Women Do. Women want an equal playing field socially and economically, but they are ready to put out a man’s eyes when said male neglects to open a door for any woman. Women want to be treated like men, but they want to be treated like women.
All of this coming from a man who was still accustomed to women in dresses with no voting rights. He kept his self mocking chuckle inside as he sat opposite his date.
Date? Did she think this was a date? She was dressed fairly casually, but he couldn’t let clothes reveal truth. Women wore pants now, even to fine events like dates.
“There is a question I’m dying to ask you.” He tried to hide the self-appreciative smirk related to his unabashed pun.
“Shoot.”
“What’s your name?”
She laughed. Her laugh was wonderful–enthusiastic while enjoyable, bold but still feminine. “Charlotte.”
Charlotte. He pictured southern plantations and fields of dancing grain in summertime. “I’m James.”
He wasn’t sure why–maybe he was seeing things–but her body seemed to relax completely.
“It’s nice to meet you, James.” She said his name with a softened J, not hardened like most Js most people say. It was smooth, quiet, like her demeanor.
“And you, Charlotte.”
He read an expression on her face. She seemed curious but too shy to satiate her inquisitiveness. “So–”
“So–”
They laughed awkwardly at their simultaneous attempt at breaking the silence between them. She looked down at her hands and he watched her blush.
“You go first,” he said. “I’m terrible at initiating conversation.”
“You seemed fairly adept with taking the first verbal step this morning.” She smiled slightly still looking at her hands. “I was going to ask you where you’re from.”
“All over, really.” That didn’t even resemble an answer.
“Am I getting too personal?” she asked quickly. “That’s the sort of thing people say when they don’t want to answer.”
She, too, was prone to defining, analyzing, and even naming the typical.
“Biloxi, Mississippi. That’s where I grew up.”
“You don’t have the accent.”
“I haven’t lived there in many years. I supposed I’ve lost it.”
“Except when you said my name. It was almost there.”
“Well, a southern name like Charlotte, rich with dignity and charm, should only be said with the truest of southern accents.”
“Actually, my name is French. I suppose the south adopted the name thanks to the infusion of French culture in Louisiana.” She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I was rambling. I’m a nervous rambler.”
He wanted to reassure her and tell her that she shouldn’t be nervous, but he couldn’t in good conscience. His own nerves were going to send him through the roof.
Did it show? Were his boyish ticks and sweaty palms blatantly obvious?
He nonchalantly rubbed his palms against his jeans. One down. Several hundred more to go.
