The Regular
Monk piss. Shot of Christian Brothers and a Yuengling, and he doesn’t give a damn he’s not supposed to use that name. Son says it’s offensive to Catholics or Christians or whoever. But the bartender still gets the caramel-colored glass bottle off the back shelf. Knows where it is, even though bar’s a dingy cave and the only one who asks for it is the regular in his seventies who wears a bolo tie. He sets the shot glass down on a soggy red napkin. Old guy takes it up in his wrinkled hand covered in purplish, translucent skin, and lets the brandy burn his calloused throat. The twentysomething runs a rag over the chestnut bar and slings it over the shoulder of his beer-stained Uncle Mike’s t-shirt.
“Fourth time I’ve seen you in here this week, Plops.”
Old guy scratches his bald head, with the pocks and softness of an overripe orange.
“Don’t your family miss you any, what with you wasting every night here?”
“Wife’s dead. Both of ‘em.”
“Any kids?”
He snorts. “Son studies dragonflies out west. Daughter’s telling docs I’m losing it. Now shut the hell up.”
A microphone shrieks in the corner of the bar as the 1-am show steps up. A hoard of drunk bikers shout and whistle and slap the table till it’s covered in peanuts. The woman gives her leather jacket to a bearded man with a silver nose-ring, starts wailing in a nasal whine. Plops swivels on his barstool to get a look. She shoves bleached crimped hair off her shoulders.
Plops grips the stool with a shaky hand to steady himself and shuffles toward the tipsy dancing mob. Singing girl put the microphone down when the lyrics all slur together. Now she laughs and lurches with the crowd to wordless music. Old guy wobbles over, not bothering to ask as he grabs her to dance. She laughs even more at the bold old boozehound, setting her own drink down. He reaches for her hand, the slightly stunted fingers that end in cat-like, crimson nails.
Plops feels a heavy hand come down on his narrow shoulder, and turns away from the swaying singer girl. The bearded nose-ring guy—the one she gave her jacket to—looks down at him with narrow, bloodshot eyes. The girl flips her hair and giggles. It takes her three tries to coordinate her lips and her brain, but she finally asks nose-ring why he don’t want her to have no fun. Nose-ring shoves the old guy with his leather-gloved hand. Old guy swings at empty air as he stumbles to the sticky barroom floor.
The door behind him swings closed, shutting out the off-key guitar and chinking glasses and uninhibited shouts, leaving Plops alone on the illuminated cement island floating in a black sea. He sits down on his scooter, the one he rigged-up with a motor after his cop buddies told him they couldn’t get him out of it this time and he lost his license. Hopes the bitter night air will keep him from nodding off.
The twentysomething bartender steps out the red side door, dragging a greasy Hefty bag that clinks like bells as they go over the threshold.
“See you tomorrow, Plops.”
Plops yanks the cord that was once attached to the lawn mower. The scooter jerks and settles into a tired rumble.
“Shut the hell up.”
