"They are real!" Harry said emphatically, glaring at the drunken brothers sitting across the bar from him. Billy had fallen off his stool, assisted by the wildly flailing arms of his larger brother; but Billy usually did anyway; and Bob, trying to keep from falling was holding tightly to the bar, tears in his eyes, howling with laughter.
"So faggots are trying to take over the world?" Bob gasped trying to catch his breath then exploding again into alcohol assisted howls of amusement. Harry sighed and lay his head on his arms crossed on the bar and spoke from their shelter.
"Not faggots fool, fairies and they're everywhere. Everything on this planet except for Man and ape are fairy folk. Plants, birds, insects, animals, and fish are all fairies or fairy related with kings, queens, princesses, princes, and noble, or gentlefolk that rule over each family or clan. He turned to call the bar- tender. "Sandra, when you get time, three more beers please." She nodded.
He turned back to brother one, who was pouring the rest of his bottle down his bucket mouth; he was getting most of it in too. He smacked his lips, whacking the empty down on the bar top, wiping his chin. He sat for a moment then started laughing again; wiping his foam filled face, then his eyes.
"So a fish fairy could tell me where all the big bass are, maybe a big suckerfish." He bellowed between gusts of laughter.
"It's possible Bob, but tell me," he paused "what's in it for the suckerfish?" Bob started choking out sounds. Harry could not tell if it was laughter or indignation. Hopefully there would be fresh beer soon. Maybe he could deaden the noise with alcohol. He was not hopeful of that though.
Sandra walked over to the corner of the bar, fine boned and fair skinned; she had fresh beers. Her long hair, that was not quite red or brown, fell down to the collarbones showing in the v of her blouse. Slim, with upturned breasts, a small waist, and healthy buffed arms, Harry thought she must be about the tastiest morsel of womanhood he knew. She might be in her late 30's Harry thought; but it was hard to tell.
--Too young for you. Spoke the voice in his mind that he called the Oldman.
She did not wear an excessive amount of make up; but he was damned if he could tell if she wore makeup at all. With her flawless, slightly olive complexion, it was hard to tell. There was a small scar at the corner of her right eye. You would miss if you were not paying close attention; Harry always did. Skynard played on the juke, "The Four walls of Raiford". She looked in his eyes. 'Oh Jesus save my soul,' Skynard sang. Amen, he thought as he looked in hers. They were a pale frosty blue and seemed to reach to the bottom of his soul, laying bare all his lusts, secrets, and dreams along the way. His heart beat faster as she moved to the corner, with the bottles of beer held by the necks.
"Are you telling those fairy tales to them again"? She said double knocking his bottle like a judge's gavel as she set it before him. Order in the bar, he said to himself. She looked at Bob then Billy, who sat up a little straighter under her disapproving look, as she deposited their bottles before them. Then her attention turned back to Harry and held his eyes; one eyebrow arching, and those eyes became a bit sharper as she waited for an answer.
"I should know better by now." He said tearing his own eyes away down to the beer. "Buy you one?
"Mmm," Sandra considered for a beat. "Only if you tell me a bedtime story"
--Innuendo, I like that, Oldman declared.
Her eyes captured his as he looked up, startled surprise, shock, and wonder on his face. Oh, man! This was new. Sandra never played games and was usually sparse with her conversation. He struggled against the paralyzing pin of her gaze like a butterfly prepared for study.
"Ahh," Brilliant conversation he thought. Those eyes damn it! "Ahh, you don't look sleepy."
She looked away, something like embarrassment or frustration on her face. Checking the few other patrons in the place, she saw that all were busy, content, and well supplied with drink. She returned her appraising gaze back to him and began addressing the points that brought her to this conversation.
"You come in here twice a week, never on the weekend, always when I'm working. You watch me more than the wide screen but try not to let me see it. I don't miss much do I Bob?"
"Just me when I'm gone." Bob said with a grin. Billy smiled at the bar top, avoiding her eyes.
"Bob we miss you when you're here." Her eye had not moved from his during the interruption; they were still captives, willing captives as she chastised Bob then turned her silken voice back to him.
"You are always polite and quiet except when telling your stories. You're good looking in a kind of old man way and you smell okay." She looked at him with her appraising eyes.
"Thank God," escaped from his mouth before he could stop it. Her eyes became filled with mirth.
She laughed, musical laughter that ended when she picked up his beer and drank, draining a large portion. She carried the money and his beer to the till. Turning her head she hit him with those incredible eyes once again that tore his from her sweetly filled jeans. She took another pull of his bottle and placed it back in front of him, lounging on the bar top close to him. Her scent was sweet.
"Well? Are you afraid your story telling skills aren't up to it or is it something else? Do you have problems with some other skill?" Picking up the bottle, looking full in her face, he drained it in three long swallows. How erotic he thought, drinking from the same bottle as a beautiful woman.
--Are you going to answer that question? Oldman asked.
--Which one? Shh, he answered the inquisitive nagging thought.
No, my skills are adequate, I suppose. It's been a while since I've used them. Do you believe in fairies?" He asked suddenly; painful tension played in his eyes. Again the amused appraising eyes searched his.
In answer, she looked to see if anyone was listening or watching; then, she brought her leg up to the bar top. Wow, was she ever limber. She looked again, pulling up her jeans leg to expose a tattoo on her ankle. Tinker Bell, he saw, looking closer. One finger crept out to caress the saucy cartoon. Little fists were on her slim hips, her chin upraised with a defiant expression.
--Tattoos tell a lot about a person. What does that tell you about her, Oldman asked.
"Nice work." He said as his finger continued to trace the lines of the tat. Sandra shivered and removed her leg to the safety of the floor. He frowned as his fingers slid off her ankle.
"Bye Tink," he said looking back at Sandra. She flushed, color spreading from cheeks to shoulders, glanced down the bar and left to chat and fill glasses and drinks. Left by himself with no beer and no distraction, he pondered just what and how much to tell her. He was still deliberating with himself when she came back with beer.
"On me." She said. Harry couldn't help it.
"Before the bedtime story?" The look came again, searching.
"No such luck; gimmie your spiel." Her eyes were a bit speculative though.
"O.K. long before written history..." He started. She shook her head in negation.
"No, no, no," Sandra broke in." Wrong story; tell me your story. I want to know about you." Her eyes had gone serious now. There was no trace of the playful banter from before. He held her stare for a moment then took a monumental drink, then another. He began babbling out his life to her.
"I'm an old guy. I smoke; drink, but not excessively. I have a hard time sleeping at night. I don't hear particularly well; there were too many years of loud music, motorcycles, and guns. I lost my job about a year ago; my wife left two days after that. There's been no one since. I've almost gotten over the hurt but...I'm so..."
He paused. He had started to say lonely but it was more than that. Heartbroken came to mind but that would not be accurate either. It was like a bruised muscle that hurt every time used, so you tried not to use it. He glanced up, shrugged and then continued without an explanation.
"I haven't found a regular job. I work at my shop at home doing a little leatherwork and woodwork, but it's not commercial type stuff. It's more artsy higher end stuff. I've just started getting my disability from social security 'cause I'm an old beat up guy. She laughed.
My appendix burst back in. ...'68? I didn't have a clue that it had happened. The doctor I went to see told me I had the flu, so I ate aspirin and Alka Seltzer and little else for five days. After screaming in pain most of the fifth night my friends took me to the emergency room. The doctors took a blood count then carried me straight to surgery where they sliced my beautiful young body from navel to sternum. They said that they used 'buckets' of saline to wash me out and that I was extremely lucky to be alive." He drank again eyes focused on the past, silent.
"Shit, I miss the good old days when you could smoke in a bar. So ...months in the hospital while recovering, enough antibiotics to cure most of Africa's illnesses, and a scar that reminded me of an ass crack where my six pack used to be. Then there were the wrecks."
She placed a hand on his forearm at a call from down the lightly peopled bar and said.
"Wait." Then she left to circuit the bar again.
--She escaped just in time. Oldman said.
"She asked." Harry replied to himself, looking quickly around to see if anyone heard him.
He wandered over to the pool table and shoved in quarters. Bob stumbled over to rack the balls and gossip as Harry shot making a solid ball on the break then looked for other opportunities.
"I haven't seen Sandra talk to anyone that much in a long time," Bob said. Harry made two more balls, saying nothing. His mind more on his own internal conversation, missed, and then lost interest as Bob cleaned the table off. Billy came over with two fresh beverages and more quarters. Harry left them the table and returned to his stool. Sandra came back.
"Another beer?" she asked. She leaned on the bar, closely. Her scent was as intoxicating as drink.
"Nah, Got any coffee back there? I could live on the stuff if it was possible."
