I walk the same quarter mile every night. Roughly five hundred steps from here to the bar. A thousand, round trip, and the strangest thing happens each time that I leave; on a scale of one to ten, a seven, at least.
Five hundred steps, then down a flight of stairs. Like subway stairs, and the bar’s at the end. Name of the bar? Can’t tell you that. I don’t mean it’s a secret, I mean I don’t know. Place doesn’t have one, far as I can tell. No sign or anything. I found it one day by pure serendipity. Had to see a man about a horse, as they say.
Gabby’s there soon as you walk in. Wears a gabardine coat, so I call him “Gabby.” He sits on the bar stool closest to the door, and he drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon. Gabby looks like he’s older than fire. He watches the TV that’s mounted on the wall, or he watches Billygoat wipe down the tables and the naugahyde booths. I call him Billygoat ‘cause you ask him a question, any question at all, stopped beating your wife or got any beer nuts, and he will, without fail, respond in the negative–but he always says “naaah” instead of just “no.”
So he’s there, and Gabby. And a girl I call Ava who drinks Aviations. Creme de violette and maraschino juice. Pretty drink. Pretty girl. Ava’s easy on the eye.
I have no idea what their real names are. Gabby or Ava, Billygoat either. Or if they have kids or they’re dog people or God people or whether they like black jelly beans or not.
I don’t know their names and they don’t know mine. I don’t go there to chat. No one goes there to chat. Ava’s there to drink cocktails, Gabby, to drink beer. Me, I drink scotch. ‘Cause I like how it sounds when I say, I drink scotch.
I walk the five hundred steps each time, the quarter of a mile, and hope when I get there the bar is in flames. Smoldering, at least. Black-orange embers and the three of them there at the bottom of the stairs. Ava and Gabby. Billygoat too. Sticks in their hands and toasting marshmallows.
That way I might start all over again. Rise like a Phoenix out of the ashes.
Hasn’t happened so far. But I go on walking the quarter mile each way, so I can pretend I’m not drinking alone. I put ice in my scotch and drink myself cold, then I make a promise I know is a lie. And I'm on my home when the strangest thing happens.