American Pastime

The stench of cigarettes and stale beer seeps from the walls of Thirsty's, but tonight there's something else in the air. Trouble. I can smell it soon as I walk in. Broadcast of the big game's winding down, and the mood of the boys gathered 'round the bar is ugly.

"Up 3 to 0 they were..." roars Jimmy Mimmix," and then they blow it. I don't believe it. I DO NOT believe it!"

"Yeah, the biggest game of the year and they go an' throw it in the trash." Jess Owens makes no attempt to swallow his belch.

Yep. Trouble for sure. There's gonna be some furniture needing repairs by tomorrow morning.

I'm Jack Gangarosa. Been working here since before my Maude passed on nigh on twelve year ago. I'm told I'm something of an institooshun around the place, whatever that means. All I know is I'm grateful for the job because there's no point being retired if there's nobody home to chat to no more.

Tom's my associate at the bar, and he takes more than his fair share of the load. Got himself a good education, Tom did, before he went to mixacology school, but you'd never know it because he acts just like normal folk.

Anyways, back to the point. I do that a lot these days - wander from the point.

More folks drift in, clamoring for service. They aren't happy because the homeboys have lost the game and they're not gonna make the playoffs. The reg'lars that watched the game on the big-screen tee-vees that was brought in special aren't giving up their stools for nothing. A few look like the only thing holding them up is the bar, but they aren't ready to stagger home yet because they aren't through discussing things. There's complaining and plenty of pushing and shoving. None of the clientele is paying attention to the stranger sitting on the end stool until Tom, ignoring the reg'lars for a beat, slides another pint to him down the length of the bar. There's grumbled protest, but the stranger pays the reg'lars no mind, just concentrates on his beer.

Tom pulls the tap, and plunks a foaming mug in front of Jimmy before he can blow a gasket.

"About time," snarls Jimmy.

Ron Nichols lists slightly to starboard on his stool. "That Spike Miller better not show his face around here in a hurry. Calls himself a coach does he?"

This threat isn't usual coming from the normally mild-mannered Ron, and I glance at the clock to see how long to closing. Too long.

The doors swing open again, and a woman walks in. This diverts everybody's attention because women don't generally frequent Thirsty's. It's not that they aren't allowed - it's unusual is all. There's nothing particularly remarkable about this lady, or even very interesting - other that the fact she's in here at all. I figure her for thirty or so, and not a bad looker.

Anyways the noise level subsides as the guys gawk. She peers around, then threads her way through the crowd to the stranger in the corner.

"Come along now, Dad. Time to go home."

"Okay, Meghy. I'm about ready. It was a good game."

On hearing that, Jess Owens can't contain himself. "What d'ya mean a good game?" he bellows. "You a spy from over Fairport or something? If you are, yer got yer nerve coming in here."

The stranger makes a sort of placating gesture with his hands. "I'm no spy. I just happen to like football. And even though your guys lost, that was a good game, and I know a good game when I see one. Your lads have nothing to be ashamed of."

"What makes you an authority?"

"Used to play a bit myself way back."

Jess and his cronies are impressed in spite of themselves. "You used to play football? Who did you play for? You any good?"

"Oh, no team you'd recognize around here." The stranger moves to get up from his stool, reaching for the cane that's hung from a nearby window ledge. He misses the cane and would have toppled excepting the woman grabs his arm and steadies him. It's then that folks notice he's toting an artificial leg.

Jess isn't exactly your sensitive type. "What happened to yer leg then? Was it football did it?"

"No, not football. I lost the leg in 'Nam. Look, I'm really sorry your lads lost the game, but they'll get another chance. Good day to you all." The crowd parts, so the stranger and the woman can make their way to the door.

Thirsty's is quieter for maybe five minutes after they leave, then the noise level rises again, more folks drift in and things return almost to normal. I say "almost" because, though I can't put my finger on it, I sense something's gone from the crowd. Maybe some of the hostility. I dunno. Anyways I can tell no fights are going to break out tonight after all, and given the day's events I'd call that a miracle.

© 2005 Margaret B. Davidson