BAR BABBLINGS
© Stu Shames 1993, 2001

The Man looks at the Woman with bumble bee eyes and scans the skin of her bare arms with micro-proficiency. The Woman lifts the glass of amber liquid to her chapped lips and accepts the burning medicine. A bead of amber sparkles on her Cover Girl lip gloss while her other limp-wristed hand dangles a smoking clove cigarette.

Smoke rises and hangs in the air like roach fogger, gently touching the tops of heads. The bar buzzes and roars like a Varese composition. Empty promises of love masked behind aching genitalia, the endless stream of one liners titillates the hearts and passions of lost women.

The Man pauses to throw down a shot, slams down the sturdy glass and picks up a lemon. He sucks the sour fruit and drops it into the glass. Looking desperately for a napkin, he cooly tries to find a place for his lemon soaked fingers. Without dropping his masked composure, he slips them silently into his Old Navy Dockers.

The Woman accepts another drag of her sweet-smelling cigarette and blows a stream of smoke upwards. The smoke attacks the Tiffany light fixture and explodes against the neon SAM ADAMS display.

A young, slick, Versace pushes through the crowd and puts his hands on the slick and sticky bar top, ordering another White Zinfindel for his yawning date.

The Fat, Dirty White Apron makes a rustling  sound as it leans over the bar to light the Cocky Youth's menthol.

An ash falls from the Woman's burning cloves onto her fishnetted leg. She lets out a shriek. Eyes dart toward the Woman.  Embarrassed, but not wanting to let down her aplomb, she cooly flicks an ash on her other leg. The Man fills with passion and awe, sticky fingers in his pockets.

The Fat, Dirty, White Apron continues to lean over the slick bartop to light the Cocky Youth's smoke and loses his footing, slipping silently over the bar and under the legs of the Beautiful People like a wet seal.

The cicada-like buzzing of conversations prevail.  Laughter rises and falls like a power mower on a roller coaster.  One-liners are signed, sealed, licked and delivered.

A Couple Of Coeds giggle, hot alcohol breath mixing with sarcasm. Their dry-mouthed dates shift from leg to leg,  wet palms sealed against crystalware.  Not hearing a word, they both fear and hope for Later.

Knowing that one time is a mistake, twice is an accident and three times is intentional,  The Woman opts to flick her last ash on her leg and puts her cigarette out on her foot.  Rising silently, she gets up and cooly limps to Graduate Hospital.  There, unbeknownst to the very-much-alive Woman, her organs will be given to the homeless.

The Man smiles, asks the Fat Dirty White Apron to save his place, calmly goes to the men's room and throws up the Alfredo Clams and Julienne carrots.

Outside the Bar, in the warm, balmy night air, a UFO swoops down emitting a  Beam of light the color of orange Pez.  It illuminates an alley cat.  When the beam clears away, the cat is gone.  Life in the City is rough.

Inside the bar, emotions heat up like Irish Whiskey in the throat of a GERD victim.  Two plaid construction workers exchange words.  Then exchange insults.  Finally, they exchange vows.  Before the fight ensues, they exchange clothing.  A fist is shot from the hip and kisses the other man's cheek.  This is not a metaphor.  It actually grows lips and kisses his cheek.  The kissed man is outraged.  He tries to kick back but finds that his shoes have been bolted to the ground.  Obviously,  he is sparring a formidable opponent.  Feeling beaten,  he concedes the fight and offers the other a drink.  A trap door opens and they are both transported to a place where you can never find your car keys just when you're trying to take home some drunk and stressed-out co-ed;  perhaps Hell.

Somehow, somewhere, perhaps in another place or time or galaxy, there is a World.  A world where men and women and animals can live;  free of war,  free of poverty, free of pestilence;  perhaps, even free of dirty dishes.  

But there is an old saying.  I can't think of it at the moment,  but it's a good one.  

I do know that sometime later, in that warm summer night,  it begins to rain on that little bar.  The rain falls in an odd way, though.  Instead of the rain falling over a period, in little droplets, it falls all at once in a huge splash.  

Deep, inside the bowels of that bar, however, Cool prevails.  
Men score .  

Women scorn .  

And outside you can hear the  meow of an invisible cat.

Stu Shames