almost okay

ANOTHER DAY IN THE LIFE OF MARTY SHERMAN
It Happened In March

I pulled into the bowling alley parking lot around seven-fifteen. It was Saturday night, and warm for early March. The town was still pretty quiet, and only a handful of cars were huddled around the long box of a building, most of them parked near the entrance to the lounge, which served up beer to the bowlers and hangovers to the other pitiful souls who were trapped in this god-forsaken place. A back-lit sign with a weathered plastic face announced 'Gypsy Room - Grille & Saloon', the name larger and in a pink script against a black background. On either end of the sign were clumsily rendered pictures of a mug of beer and a crystal ball. I had already driven by the only other joint in town, Bone Island Bar, found it to be brightly lit inside and teeming with young people - too many for my mood. I was hoping the bar at the bowling alley would provide a drinking experience with a smaller crowd and more cave-like conditions.

I swung open the door, made my way down the dark hallway and turned left into the lounge. There was nobody sitting at the bar. “Perfect,” I said out loud. On my way in I passed a dark jukebox on my right and a small elevated stage wrapped with a waist-high horizontal chrome railing to my left. I dropped into the first seat at the bar, nearest to the door and right by the cash register, while I tried to get a feel for the place. There was a pool table in the far corner of the room, an exit to a hallway where the bathrooms were and an entry onto the bowling alley, plus two windows with small counters where bowlers could come to fetch drinks directly from the bar or where waitresses could place orders with one of the bartenders. I could see bowlers milling around outside, two lanes with people rolling balls at the pins, but the sound was muffled nicely so that the noise of their games was barely a whisper. There was a television hanging above the other end of the bar to my left showing the History Channel, of all things, and the sound was turned up loud enough to be annoying. The room was dark except for some bright spotlights above the pool table and near the stage, a few dim bulbs shining weakly down on the bar and on the tables. At a table to my left sat a pair of couples waiting for their lanes and to my right, across the room sat a lone young woman, blond and chubby, but with a cute face, decked out in a brightly-colored floral print outfit with matching top and slacks.

The 'L' shaped bar was made up of a black fomica top, trimmed with pine, painted forest green instead of stained, the paint peeling slightly and worn through in places revealing raw wood. Mounted to the face of the bar and wrapping around it was a chrome rail that matched the one that surrounded the stage. It was held in place by a series of silver fixtures, lion heads with the rail running through their roaring mouths. The stools were made of wood, with padded seats covered in black vinyl.

Two women wearing red shirts and black pants were working away behind the bar making everything look like more of a chore than it should have been. Another woman, apparently the manager, wearing a white shirt and carrying a large loaded key ring, was scurrying back and forth to make sure they had everything they needed for a busy Saturday night - fresh keg on the Miller Light, another bottle of sambuca. None of them were under forty. Waitresses, most of whom were much younger and also wearing the red and black uniform, were bombarding the flustered bartenders with orders, neither of them seeming sure what the other was doing. I sat patiently while they all ignored me.

The bartenders looked like older female versions of Abbott and Costello. The one nearest where I sat had a Dutch boy hair cut, her straw colored hair gone halfway gray. She had a bony, wrinkled face, a flat chest and not a hint of ass inside her black slacks. She reached for bottles with arthritic claws, packed ice into special pitchers with stainless cups built into the bottom to keep the beer cold, screwed caps on the cups with apparent difficulty. Her mouth sagged in a constant frown as she toiled, the corners puckered with tiny folds of skin. Her co-worker was short and fat, had dirty, shoulder-length black hair, a bulbous nose and blotchy skin. She seemed to sweat as she moved around, confused, her cheeks turning pink from the exertion.

“She wants to order one of these,” said the fat one as she held up a laminated menu to the manager. “I don't know how to make one.”

“Is the recipe book back there?” asked the manager, non-plussed.

“We can't find it,” said the tall one.

“It must be in the office. I'll be right back.” The manager walked quickly down the hall past the restrooms. Abbott and Costello continued to ignore me. When the manager returned she handed Costello a thin spiral-bound booklet, then stuck around for a minute to make sure everything was going to run smoothly. Costello grabbed a blender, put on a pair of reading glasses and started making the concoction, their signature 'Special Margarita'.

“What's ...Grand ...Mar...Neer?” said Costello, stumbling over the syllables as she struggled to understand the recipe.

“Grand Marn-Yay,” the manager corrected.

“Grand ...Marn ...Yay ...” repeated Costello, still confused. “What's that?”

Finally, Abbott came over to me. “What can I get you?” she asked with little enthusiasm, as though she'd worked the entire night and was exhausted. It felt to me more like she'd said 'What can I get YOU?', as though I was yet another thorn in her forlorn side.

“Do you have Blue? Labatt Blue?” I asked.

“In a bottle,” said Abbott.

“I'll have that.”

Abbott popped the top off my bottle with an opener, banged it on the bar top without offering me a glass. “That'll be three-ten,” she said. I pulled out a five.

“Can I get a glass of water, too, when you get a chance?” I said.

Costello continued to fidget with the drink she was making, eventually got all the ingredients in and thumbed the switch on the blender. She stood back as it swirled, the motor kicking up a lot of noise, took off her reading glasses and heaved a sigh of relief.

“You look cute with the glasses,” said one of the waitresses.

“I look like a dork,” said Costello.

The two of them went back and forth, tripping over themselves and confusing each other with half finished orders. “She needs a pitcher of Bud Light!” barked Costello to Abbott.

“I just got her one!” Abbott said impatiently.

“But she needs another one!” said Costello, even louder than the first time.

“I thought you were getting that one!” yelled Abbott.

Directly in front of me a young man appeared at the window onto the bowling alley and waited to get noticed. He was wearing a baseball cap and a tank top. One of his arms was gnarled and scarred, as though he'd been in a serious car accident or was a soldier who'd been hit with shrapnel. It was lean and muscular, the wounded arm, hung like a piece of meat from his shoulder, and was much shorter than his other arm. Both of the arms were covered in poorly executed tattoos. The young man stood there patiently as Abbott and Costello methodically ignored him. After a few minutes, he moved to the other window to get in line behind one of the waitresses.

A very young couple, man and woman, both with military hair cuts, came in and sat to my left. They ordered beers and began to smoke. My casual observation categorized them as being on leave from the army, maybe army reservists. Both wore camouflage baseball caps and the woman seemed very butch, even though she appeared to be wearing a wedding band. When she saw the guy standing in line she put her cigarette down and shouted: “There's One Arm!” She got up and ran around to the bowling alley side to hug the guy with the wounded arm while her husband sat there and watched. After a brief catching up conversation, the young woman returned to her seat and continued her beer drinking and smoking. One Arm got his order in and the chaos began to subside a little.

“Pitcher!” yelled a waitress at the window.

“I'm getting it!” said Costello.

“No, I mean you need to turn it off,” said the waitress, pointing.

Costello turned to see that the pitcher, propped under the tap, was overflowing out into the sink. “Oh, shit!” she said.

The young couple left and a middle aged guy with short-cropped gray hair came in, sat where they had been and turned his attention to the television. The chubby girl who was sitting over to my right walked up to the bar, smiled at me and waited for Abbott to look her way before ordering. “I'll have a pitcher of Diet and a glass with ice.” she said sweetly.

“You want ice in the pitcher?” asked Abbott crabbily. “And ice in the glass?”

“Yes, please,” said the chubby girl. Abbott testily stuffed ice into the stainless cup at the bottom of the pitcher, screwed on the cap. The girl took her drink back to the table and I noticed she had been joined by another young girl, a slim mousy thing with straight blond hair and wearing glasses with black plastic frames. I had finished my first beer.

“Want another one?” Abbott asked me.

“Sure,” I said. “Is that jukebox working?”

“Yes,” said Abbott.

I paid, dropped a buck on the bar, scooped up my change and headed over to the jukebox, beer in hand. I expected to find it loaded with young country music, but was pleasantly surprised at the selection, noticing several of my favorites including Al Green and Bob Marley's 'Legend' CD. I fed the thing a couple of wrinkled dollar bills and the red LED told me I had five credits. I pushed the buttons to select 'Waiting In Vain' and the disc dropped. When the music came on it was barely audible, even to me and I was standing directly in front of the speakers, so I walked over to Abbott and asked if she could please turn it up. She toweled her claws dry and walked stiffly around the bar. I followed her to the jukebox where she sat on top of a table right next to it with her back to the wall and reached behind for the volume control knob.

“We have it turned down because it's Karaoke night,” she told me. I saw no evidence that anyone was going to be singing in the room anytime soon. “That loud enough?” The music was still very low.

“I don't think I'll be able to hear it over there,” I said pointing a thumb towards the bar.

“Don't you want to listen to it over here?” Abbott asked.

“No,” I said. “I want to sit where I was sitting.”

Abbott gave up and turned the knob more. The song swelled to fill the room and she hopped off the table and limped back to the bar. “Thanks,” I called after her. I picked a couple of Al Green's greatest hits ...'Tired Of Being Alone', 'Still In Love With You', another by Marley and 'Red House' by Jimi Hendrix. The two girls were sitting just around the corner from the jukebox and the mousy girl stood up and asked me something which I couldn't hear because I was standing right in front of the music.

“What?” I asked her, backing up a little.

“Did you play this song?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Good choice,” she said with a smile.

I went back to my seat and was a little disappointed that the music wasn't louder, but it was better than listening to the History Channel. I took a piss and when I came back, the guy at the end of the bar had the television remote in his hand and was flipping through the channels, every other channel being loud enough in volume that it could be heard even above the music. I came very close to asking them to mute the sound on the fucking thing, but he eventually left it on 'Cops' and lowered the volume. Abbott and Costello continued to bump into each other and get frustrated.

“I forgot what goes in a Manhattan!” said Costello.

“I can't remember anything right now,” said Abbott. “The music's too loud.” This last comment obviously directed at me, the new guy, the stranger who'd messed up their routine.

“I think you guys want me to leave,” I said seriously.

“Nooo,” said Abbott. “You stay right there. I was just joking. Can't I joke?” She flashed a practiced frozen smile. It was hideous.

“It didn't sound like a joke,” I said.

“You want another one?” asked Abbott.

“Sure,” I said. “I want to listen to my songs.”

Since she was being such a bitch, I decided to spend a couple more bucks and torture Abbott with more music. I also decided that I'd tipped her enough for the night. I took my two remaining ones over to the jukebox and played five more, four Stevie Ray Vaughn rockers and Prince's 'The Beautiful Ones'. I knew when Prince came on it would be time for me to go. I sipped at the bottle slowly, made it last until the piano intro on my final selection... 'Baby baby baby ...What's it gonna be? ...' Prince crooned as I poured what was left of the beer down, made my way to the head and pissed one last time. When I came out Prince was shouting now ...'What's it gonna be, baby? Do you want him? Or do you want me? Cuz I want you...'

I strolled through and past the jukebox without even a passing look at Abbott and Costello, smiled at the girls and was out into the fresh night air. It was almost nine o'clock and the sky was clear and filled with stars. It felt much cooler, my breath trailing vapors that rode the breeze as I walked to my truck in the parking lot. Yes, it was almost cold compared to the temperature when I went into that place, I thought. The Gypsy Room. The worst fucking bar I'd ever been in my entire life.