Until
she
wrecked it, I used to go to this bar on outskirts of my neighborhood a couple of times each week. It's not a classy place but it doesn't quite qualify as a dive. The front is windowless, and the interior is kind of dark and non-descript. It's a long, narrow space, with the bar running along the right wall down about two-thirds of the room. The last third has some tables, a dart board, and the door to the "beer garden".
My routine there was pretty much the same. I'd come in and sit at the end of the bar near the door (and away from all the action). I'd nod and the bartender drew me my beer. I always got a twenty-four ounce "domestic lager". In that place, it was usually Miller. It came in a tall thin-walled glass. It's not that I don't appreciate different sorts of beer, but when that glass was set down before me, with the sides all frosty and just enough foam at the top, that moment of anticipation was perfect. I would sit there and sip just that one beer and watch sports on the TV.
Like a lot of bars, this one has a number of TVs. The one over the end of the bar where I always sat is usually tuned to some regional sports network or one of the higher numbered ESPNs. I'm not much of a sports fan, so I don't really care that much what it is. I wasn't maintaining a rooting interest in those days. Maybe I'd pick a team to root for that day or maybe I wouldn't. So, like if it's baseball season and the Mariners are playing the Marlins, well, I don't care. Maybe one week I'd pick Seattle and the next I'd go for the Fish. The same goes for other sports. However, this TV is rarely on whatever "The Game" of the moment is. Instead, it'll be something quirky, even downright weird. Did you know there's a professional league for tag? Go figure.
Anyway, the point is: I drink my beer and watch some kind of sport for that tiny break in my day in that one place. And it is perfect because for that short window nobody wants something from me.
If I'm coming from work, I'm coming down from being a "captain of industry" all day. I'll be dressed in a nice shirt, spiffy shoes, and wool slacks. I'll have shed the tie and coat, but they're in the car. This sets me apart from the other clientele. They are mainly captains of HVAC repair, dry wall installation, or plumbing. Which is great: I don't have to work at making conversation. Occasionally I'll come on a Saturday afternoon, if the wife is off doing something, I'm still not on the same wavelength as everyone else.
On this particular Thursday,
she
was sitting down at my end of the bar. It's not like there were never women in the bar: wives and girlfriends were often yucking it up down at the other end, particularly if there was a big game on. Girls watch sports too. But she was different, and she was sitting down at my end.
She was of average height. Thin, but not emaciated. Her skirt showed lots of leg, coming down only to her knees, and that night she was wearing a thick rust-colored knit sweater with one of those roll top collars. Her hair was dark colored, with a slight curl, about shoulder length. If she had boobs, they weren't large enough to test the sweater much. Anyway, no big deal, right? This place doesn't really get bar floozies and I was very married.
I nodded to the bartender for my beer. It wasn't clear what sport I'd be watching tonight--the channel was on commercial. I glance left and she's looking at me. I gave her the flashbulb-no-teeth smile that says "friendly but not sociable" and went back to looking at my beer. Don't get me wrong: she had a pretty face. But a woman alone at the bar like that? That's trouble.
"Hi, I'm Veronica," she said, "What are we watching tonight?"
I looked up at the TV. It looks like their wrapping up coverage on sailing and about to switch to the Western Regional Finals of Women's Log Rolling. I suppose those are both water sports?
"Apparently some form of forestry-related aquatics. Do you favor," I say, glancing at the graphics for some help, "Livi Pappadopoulos or Maddy 'Tipsy' Lyons?"
"I'm not sure. It's my first time log rolling."
I avoid the obvious comeback. "I must say I haven't followed the season closely--or at all. I wonder if 'tipsy' is a good thing in log rolling?"
"I suppose it's a question of whether one is the tipper or the tipee. Taking a break before you go home to the wife?"
"Something like that. It's nice to have a time when nobody wants something." She laughs. It's a cute laugh, slightly demure.
"I'd like to have that problem someday. Although, the crazy cat lady path is open, if only I had a cat. You have kids?"
"A daughter, Jessica. She's just gone off to school on the other coast."
"No! You can't be old enough for that!"
"You flatterer. But we were quite young. It wasn't a shotgun wedding, but there may have been small arms fire at the reception. Literally: Claire's beloved daddy puts the 'industrial' in Military Industrial Complex."
"Sounds dangerous."
And just like that, we're off and running. I'm guessing she's about thirty, so maybe ten years younger than me. When I finish my beer, she's about done with her vodka with cranberry and soda. We get up to go and she has a firm but feminine handshake ready to go. "Maybe I'll see you around, Veronica."
"I hope so," she said, "This was fun."
When I get home, Claire interrogates me about the day. I'm able to report that the Americans are still having trouble foiling their boat and that, apparently, tipsy is a bad thing in log rolling. I don't mention Veronica.
That night, I reach for her in bed and she laughs, "Oh! That beer joint of yours makes you frisky. You really should cut back. Don't forget tomorrow that we've got cocktails with the Muni council and Saturday the reception with the Smiths."
The next Thursday, Veronica isn't at the bar when I arrive and a tiny part of me feels let down. But I get my beer and settle in for some Major League Lacrosse. But she bustles in five minutes later.
