Sixty Five, All Day
Illustration by tomjulio
Our first date night took us into the city. A concert at Turner Hall with the same old faces out once a month when the sitters are available, and a shit load of weekend rock stars. Local bands reuniting from the ’90s. Hairlines failing, bellies bulging. Sugar-free music at its finest. Always a time and a place and it proved rather fast that this scene wasn’t it for either of us that night. Out the door with a million and one half-hearted hey see you laters.
…we wanted something different, but the rain-soaked city just couldn’t hold our interest. A moment of new intermingled thoughts … ‘Stallis? yeah. ‘Stallis.
Edie grew up in a small Midwestern town, as did I. Corner bars and taverns that are the epicenters of all malcontent. True character spectrums. She feels just as at ease talking to the rich North Shore Nancy as with the neighborhood toothless guy sitting next to her playing video poker. In fact, it’s the latter she craves. As do I.
The place on Hawley Road just south of 94 used to be a true biker bar. Hole in the wall defined. A space no bigger than a living room. Bras from overweight exposed titties hung from the ceiling. Hundreds of them. smoked stained lace from years of drunken dangling. Decor for the masses. Bands would play on a plywood sheet atop the corner pool table. She had to see this joint. Surely, I would gain first date bonus points with this little gem. Surely.
You think it’s one of those places that judgment will rain down upon you with fire and brimstone. In reality, that’s not the case. The ten or so people at the bar did fixate upon us, but with a silent come drink strangers glare. We mutually nodded … let the games begin.
The bras were gone. So were the bikers. A new 4 foot-by-6 foot crude painting of Pamela Anderson hung on the back wall. Created on a discarded warped wood plank from the previous bar. Next to the restrooms hung a neon chalkboard with the handwritten phrase “Glitter: the herpes of arts and crafts.” Fucking genius.
Two empty stools awaited, the equivalent to winning the musical chairs of a pull tab lottery. Dirty, greasy post work hands greeted us from out of the blue. Knew his name instantly from the zero to sixty conversation about the cover up tattoo on his left bicep. A heart turned menacing wizard. Artfully done by his cousin Drew. Short for Andrew. Kelly had a way with names. Later when he tried to remember mine he asked innocently, “it’s Tom with an M, right?”
Julie, a young girl of twenty-five going on forty, was our bartender. Polite in all the right things to say. “She’s pretty, you’re handsome,” she giggled with a buzzed crooked smile. She easily could have just said “you’re not from around here are you?” She would have been dead on.
A look into the cooler and we ordered a bucket of iced mini High Lifes for five bucks. The wine coolers in the upper right were definitely next. A splash of grenadine and you have our past underage drinking adventures in a bottle.
The jukebox was the bastardized version of anything goes. Sabbath, Cheap Trick, Motley Crue, Katie Perry. Pumped a few bucks in and we scrolled through the selections. A silent test in compatibility. I slightly fell in love when Edie knew word for word the lyrics to the Kiss song “‘Strutter.” Classic chick here. I grabbed her and pushed her mouth into mine. Devoured. A slight “awww” from the onlookers. I told them that I really liked my sister, a lot. The off-color joke didn’t go over as I had planned. Instead there were few nods of “yeah, we can see that.” Awesome.
The talk meandered from here to there, from them to us. A few games of bar dice with Julie yielded the revelation that the folks ’round here like their Jamo’ cold. Edie and I both agreed afterwards that room temp whiskey is still the only god we will kneel before.
The next few rounds took us from the brown stuff to the classic cherry bombs. Red Bull and cherry vodka. A mixologist’s worst fucking nightmare, an alcoholic’s training wheels. Ironically it was Julie who suggested the switch as she was now becoming doe eyed and shit faced. For every one shot with us, she was doing two playing a simultaneous game with another couple at the other end of the bar.
WHAM!!!
…instantaneous chair to ground speed of the guy sitting to the left of us. Usually the first sign that it’s past one. The talk turned to gibberish mush everywhere. We resorted back to the jukebox on the wall and a carefree make-out session.
Pretty positive we said our goodbyes as we stumbled out. A hand shake here, a handshake there. A few crumbled pocket dollars left on the bar as a last minute thank you to Julie. She slurred quite politely that we should come back for Free Taco Mondays, or even better, Men’s Night Tuesdays with free beer. Edie and I smirked and knew that we would actually make it back.
…had almost made it to the front door when Kelly half shouted over the music,”see you later Tom with an M!”
Yes, Kelly, you will see me later … you will.
(Last Call is a weekly column that, starting next week, will appear on Thursdays on this website.)
This was awesome and Julio is genious.
Well written, I felt as if I was there – so on the mark.
Now I HAVE TO go there.
What a winner!