“Make it without — I was going to say ‘without the whiskey and cream,’ but I know about bosses and I’m no wiseguy.” She looks at me as if I am. I look at the mirror and see her still looking at me. A sign on the mirror says Guinness is good for you. “Good, that’s what I want to be and the weather and your business to be like — so a Guinness please. It’s supposed to be healthy besides.”
“Ad’s an antique, and as for the medicinal qualities, all the health Guinness gives is the runs. Closest thing to any brew Irish or English we have is Molson’s Ale.”
“Then, Miss, after you give me some jukebox change, I’d say you’ve made a sale.” I give her a dollar.
“Hurray. And the place even makes extra cash from you too.”
She gives me four quarters and steps on the pedal to open the lowboy refrigerator. Light-blue light illuminates her body when she squats to get the bottle out. Thin, tall, too-tight shirt to cast aspersions, I mean call attention or dramatize her very large compared to her tiny waist and nearly nonexistent hips, breasts, or why ever a woman would wear a shirt so tight with no garment beneath that the color and contour of her aureoles show and nipples push through and is probably unhealthy besides. To sell more drinks and get bigger tips, but doesn’t excite me, I think mainly because it looks so damagingly tight. And somehow, in recent years, two…three, and I don’t believe because of any libidinal decrease, the breasts of strangers even with the nipples erect and whatever age and size…I prefer the woman I love or am in the process of or think I will when she’s taking off her clothes and making no show, except maybe a parody of one, but just those.
She pours my ale. I taste, say “Ah, real great,” put a five-dollar bill under an ashtray in case someone suddenly comes in with the wind and go to the jukebox at the end of the bar. “Brahms Intermezzo,” it says, but not who’s performing which one. I stick a quarter in and press “Slow Movement Mozart Concerto,” figuring it’ll be piano and the romantic movement used as the musical theme for a popular Swedish movie years ago, but it’s violin and Prokofiev.
I try opening the door to the men’s room near the jukebox; it’s stuck or locked. “Excuse me,” jiggling the doorknob, “anybody in there, and going to be long?” No answer.
“Is there someone in the men’s room,” I yell to the barmaid, “or do you keep it locked for your own reasons?”
“Is this fiver minus your drink all for me?”
“No why, how much is the ale?”
“Two.”
“You being funny then? Take a dollar. But the john here?”
“Probably the clean-up man. Give him a good knock. He could sit in the shithouse all day.”
I knock, not good, and a woman says “Please, I don’t feel too well. I won’t be out soon. Go next door.”
“This is the men’s room, ma’am. You can’t use the ladies’?”
“It’s too filthy. Please, nothing I can do now, and I won’t talk anymore.”
“How filthy is it?” Doesn’t answer. “Mind if I use the ladies’ room?” I say to the barmaid. “Men’s is being used by a woman and, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go bad.”
“She’s in there? Wondered where she went. Thought she ducked out on the check when I was doing my nails and I truthfully didn’t care she looked so sad. Be quick, will you? Not just the boss but the whole city health force frowns on the mixing of washroom sexes. And the mayor himself still keeps his rent-controlled apartment around here and a minimum of twice has stopped in to hear.”
“What’s he drink?”
“It was only told to me — probably to hype business — never seen.”
