“It’s just common sense, Morrison. An alcoholic shouldn’t own a bar.” Dave was sharing his wisdom with the newly sober heir to forty thousand dollars.
Dave Gleason and Bruce Morrison met last summer in the filthy locker room of a swanky restaurant called “Top o’ the Town” where they worked making Caesar salads and Crepes Suzette at the table sides of the young and beautiful couples they envied. The two quickly learned that they shared a proclivity for all sorts of vices, and they reveled in their mutual self-destruction-by-proxy. By April they were unemployed.
“I’m not an alcoholic,” Morrison answered.
“Oh no? Well I am, and I had a hard time keeping pace with you. So why did you spend the last three months doing Alcoholics Anonymous?”
“Listen Dave, the definition of an alcoholic is somebody who can’t stop drinking, right? So I proved I’m not one by spending two months in AA without a drink.”
“And how do you feel now?” Dave asked.
“Thirsty.”
Above the back door an ancient iron bracket protruded perpendicular to the brick wall, under which a circular metal sign hung on two ‘S’ hooks so that it squeaked a bit when moved by the wind. The sign read, “Bluebird Tavern” in white and indigo enamel, but the bird in the center looked more like a purple crow. The tavern occupied the ground floor of a four-story walk-up that also housed six apartments, which unlike the Bluebird, had been renovated when Murphy beds were installed in 1947. “Now listen,” Dave said. “The owner is going to ask for a lot of money, so play ‘hard to get’. Talk the place down, Tell him how much it will cost for repairs.”
“You’re not the only Rhodes scholar here, Dave. I know a thing or two about negotiation.”
Dave and Morrison entered through the back door which collided with the bathroom door if both were opened at the same time. The bar was a narrow railroad setup with wooden booths on one side and bar stools on the other. The white oak looked like mahogany and the chrome like gold; everything in the place had a brownish tinge and a sticky feel from decades of cigarettes, cigars, and pipes. All surfaces that could illuminate the place—windows, mirrors, globes over light bulbs, light bulbs themselves—were tobacco-tinted filters that made the place perfect for serious drinkers: a timeless sepia snapshot that promised here, nothing would ever change.
“My god, Morrison. This place is worse than I imagined.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It will take us a month and a hundred gallons of Pine Duty to get this place clean!”
“Why would you do that?” Morrison asked.
“So you can attract the hipsters and beautiful people and make some money on your investment.”
The real estate agent pretended to admire the grime on the wood bar while he eavesdropped on the two.
“You’re out of your mind! The seediness is the attraction.”
“What are you hoping to attract? Sewer rats?”
“Don’t be so negative. Once we reopen this place the regulars will pile right in. We won’t need the hipsters.”
The agent held up a wine glass to the brown light; it was etched from decades of bad Chianti and lazy dishwashers.
“Forget the bar, Morrison. Do something interesting with your money.”
“Like what?”
“Travel, that’s what. Listen, we’re getting old. I’ll be twenty seven next month, and you’re already there. Let’s get out of this rust-belt cow-town and see the world. Five years ago I backpacked all over Europe on three hundred dollars. Think of where we could go with forty G’s!”
“We?”
“Oh come on now, Morrison. We’re a team! I’ll be your tour guide in Paris and London.”
“It’s all the money I’ve got, all I’m worth!”
“Sure. But remember how I took you to the Egg Palace for breakfast after drinking all night at Captain Frank’s?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“So I spent the last of my money, all I had in this world, on that breakfast.”
“Oh please, Dave. That was chump change.”
“The widow’s mite was probably chump change too, but Jesus didn’t think so.”
“Sweet Baby Jehoshaphat! Don’t talk religion to me, I’m a better Catholic than you are.”
Dave acts hurt and talks slowly and gently to Morrison.
“I’m talking about generosity and giving, Morrison.”
“No, you’re talking about my forty grand, my investment in my future! Grandfather left that money to me. Do you know why, Dave?
“Haven’t a clue. Do tell.”
“Because he knew that I always get a raw deal, the short end of the stick. My brother got scholarships to Columbia; I got kicked out of Holy Name High School.”
“Maybe that had something to do with that fifth of whiskey in your locker.”
“Really, Dave, you know it’s true. Grandfather knew it too. That’s why he left me this money, to give me a new start.”
“Hey, I’m all for a new start; there are lots of women in Paris you could get started with.”
“I’ll make you a deal, Dave. When I reopen the Bluebird, you can be my bartender.”
“Get thee behind me Satan!”
The real estate agent took the quiet moment to clear his throat. Dave and Morrison had forgotten he was there.
“Have you guys made up your mind?” the agent asked.
“This place needs a lot of work,” Dave said.
The real estate agent shrugged. He knew he had a fish, and it’s name was Morrison.
“Don’t blow this for me, Dave!” Morrison whispered to his friend. “I like it just the way it is.”
“I’m sure your credit is good, or you can get a co-signer for the loan,” the real estate agent said, “and you’ll need a cash down-payment, of course.”
“Of course,” Morrison confirmed. “How much?”
“Oh, shouldn’t be more than say, forty thousand dollars?”
“That’ll be fine,” Morrison said.
Dave slapped his forehead, squashed a cockroach on the floor, then picked up a towel and began polishing the mahogany.
~