It is an unseasonably warm fall evening. The near full moon hangs low on the horizon, casting an eerie glow upon the earth. Long strange shadows dance about as a cool gusty breeze rustles the leaves in the trees. I am walking briskly to my car, hastily removing my camel hair sport coat and loosening my tie in an effort to bring closure to this hideous day.
I unlock the car door and toss my jacket in the back seat over my bulging brief case. The car purrs to life. The clock reads 7:37 and REM comes over the radio like a phone call from an old college friend. I pull out of the parking lot and try to unwind. I vainly attempt to erase from my mind all the crap the day has thrown at me; pointless meetings, numerous meaningless phone calls, a few irate clients who complained about nothing in particular, followed by a mandatory charity dinner, which my boss was kind enough to inform me of this morning.
The function du jour was for some cause that really has nothing to do with our firm, but the boss felt "all the right people will be there, so we must be there too". By we he meant all the junior associates. Yippee fucking skippe. All day I dreaded an evening of idle chitchat, small talk and "How have you been" conversations. Once I got there is was as expected only worse thanks to a meal consisting of "rubber" chicken served ala room temperature with mushed mixed veggies and rolls hard as hockey pucks. The entire affair was made tolerable only by the open bar; that and a gorgeous woman in a black velvet dress that I mentally made love to from across the room until she disappeared before dinner was served. The second highlight of the event came in the form of an emergency phone call, which forced me to miss dessert and the evening's speaker. Truth be known, the call came from a friend of mine, just as planned, at 7:30 p.m. on the dot. He owed me a favor after I bailed him out of a nightmare date just a week ago using a similar planned phone call. We both ended up having ill relatives; go figrue?
My car heads for downtown as if on autopilot as I softly croon, "This one goes out to the one I love" along with Michael Stipe. For a split second I try to imagine a sauce that could have made the vulcanized fowl the least bit palatable, but I draw a blank. Then I remember the woman in black, she was average height a bit curvy and her devilish grin, which she displayed most of the evening, made me long to know what was going on in her mind that was hidden nicely beneath shoulder lengthy auburn hair.
I slowly feel melancholy, as the loneliness of my existence settles in as it does most every evening. I have no wife, no kids, no girlfriend to speak of for going on more than nine months, no dog to greet me when I come or a cat to ignore me except at feeding time. I have my friends, my parents who live just far enough away so I see them when I can, or have to. My only sister, three years my junior, longs to set me up with every friend she has regardless of the females mental well-being. I gave my sister three chances and all were unmitigated disasters of one variety or another and well, three strikes and you are OUT! Sorry sis. I also have my career as a banker turned law-school graduate turned in house lawyer for a trust company at a different bank, which, at presents sucks only slightly more than a terminal case jock-itch. Hundreds of times I have asked myself: Did I really bust my ass working and attend law school at night for fouryears to get a law degree to do this?
As I drive my mind wandered from the office and the reams of paperwork waiting on me and the wealthy clients who need their egos stroked or conscience eased, to my condo, to who was hosting poker night this week, to the landscaping from summer that is nearly dead, but I kept coming back to the woman in black and, more precisely, what lucky soul left with her. She was mid-thirties at first glance, maybe forty, but no more. Her soft creamy skin was a stark contrast to her black dress and her wavy dark hair. Her coif was perfect allowing one full view of her hauntingly green eyes and perfect smile. Her curves were plentiful but all very delicious, much more so than any of the hideous fare served at the benefit "dinner", if you could call the food they presented a dinner, that is.
I glide to a stop at the first of a maze of traffic lights that serve as an informal welcoming committee to the now deserted downtown. Three blocks ahead on the right I notice an ice blue neon sign that simply proclaims - COLD BEER. I have driven this route dozens of times in the past few months since I started at the new bank, but have yet to notice this tiny bar on the corner, probably because of rush hour traffic or the fact that I usually made the drive in daylight. Whatever the reason, a cold beer sounded really good right now. I ease into a curbside metered parking spot in front of the pub. I click off the radio as the nighttime DJ rambles on about some local band playing at a joint I had never heard of before. I lock my car-door and hastily search my pockets for change until I notice no money is required for meters past 6:00 p.m.
A short blast frigid wind blows from nowhere in particular, sending a shiver up my spine. The heavy wooden door of the pub is thrown open as three inebriated guys stumble out. I shut the door against the strong gust outside. The tavern is long and narrow and dimly lit by a rainbow colored jukebox and a rectangular lamp hanging above a lone pool table. The rectangular barroom is simple in its design. A long wooden bar that runs the length of the near wall and a pool table is tucked in the back corner not far from the jukebox.
A middle-aged guy is seated at the bar near the doorway. He is smoking a cheap cigar and swirling ice cubes in a near empty rock glass. The guy has on blue jeans and a golf shirt; he appears to be a regular given the way he and the barmaid are chatting at ease with one another. They both pause from their dialogue and glance at me as I pass by. I take a seat on a barstool just out of earshot in the center of the massive wooden structure across from a huge mirror. In the reflection I see four round wooden tables with tall stools and the dim glow of jukebox emanating from the far corner opposite the door. In front of the mirror are perched dozens of bottles of booze just waiting to be emptied and replaced by another like bottle.
The woman behind the bar takes a break from her chat with Joe Regular and greets me with a damp rag wiping the bar and a round cardboard coaster. She looks to be in her early 30's with shoulder length red hair pulled back revealing a plain but not unattractive face. Her make up is barley noticeable, but it highlights her otherwise plain features. She is dressed like she should be behind a bar; comfortable blue jeans and a white oxford type shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a few of the top buttons undone which nicely displays her modest figure.
Red, as I have mentally nicknamed her, asks me " What'll ya have," in a voice denoting impatience.
"Give me a tall glass of your best draft beer."
She raises her eyebrows at me. Her look is one of well who the hell are you, Mr. High and Mighty? Apparently I am not your typical customer, who gives a fuck, I just want a beer. Red strolls to the far end of the bar and grabs a long, refrigerated, pilsner glass and draws me a golden hued beer with a nice head on it. Near where Red works the tap I see the woman in black feeding quarters into a box perched on top of the bar. She is even more gorgeous than I remember from the gala. Red finishes pouring my beer and brings my Moosehead or Molson, or whatever she selected; she sets it in front of me on the cardboard coaster. I smile in an effort to ease her harsh manner toward me and hand her a $20 bill. I ask for a few quarters in change before she can tell me what I owe for the brew. She returns with a crisp $10, a wrinkled and few tattered singles, and seven quarters, which I promptly scrape off the bar with one hand into the other.
I stand up and the lady in black gives me a quick glance. I smile and she flashes a warm inviting smile back. I slip four quarters into the jukebox and start looking through song titles.
The lady in black turns and ask no one in particular "What U.S. state was a debtors colony during the late 1700s."
I reply over my shoulder "Georgia."
The lady in black hit a button on the machine and say "Hey, thanks."
"No problem", I say as I make my first selection.
I enter my last two music selections in rapid fashion as the first few notes of Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison plays. I walk around the pool table, which guards two doors in the back of the bar. I open the door marked GUYS and rid myself of the open bar beverages. I smile to myself as I think of all the people stuck at benefit dinner, that I have the good fortune of missing. My grin widens as I think about the lady in black sitting at the bar alone.
I walk to my bar stool and sit down and begin to mentally undress the lady in black once again. I imagine her sitting naked in my arms with my lips pressed firmly against her stiff pink nipples. I ponder this marvelous scene as I take a swig of beer.
