You open the exterior door of the bar’s “lobby” and then the interior one, a touch of New York City in North Carolina. It’s a Thursday night, that dead time between the businessmen having their three-drink “business dinner” and the night-folks looking to watch any game that might be playing. Or maybe they just want to start drinking a little earlier since it’s closer to the weekend …
That dead time of the night meant that finding a seat at the bar became like an unspoken physics experiment. Occupied barstools divided unequally by introversion and desire, over the square root of the quiet nod to the bartender’s suggestion of “Another one?” Basically, you wanted at least one stool between you and a stranger, if for nothing else but for the buddy on his way or the wistful hope that a pretty woman may sit next to you.
Seeing the back of your buddy’s head who’s already strategically placed himself at the corner of the long part of the L-shaped bar solves that particular equation. You slip through the two- and four-person tables and grab the opposite chair at the corner of the short part. The bartender walks over with your drink; you’ve been coming here long enough – not to mention tipping well enough – you don’t even have to order any more. You clink glasses with your buddy and start the usual conversation of catching up and talking shit.
Two or three drinks in, and the conversation has died down enough for you to switch between watching the game on the TV high up to your left and checking out the rest of the patrons. People-watching at a bar can be hit-or-miss, depending on the crowd, but if you do it long enough, you can start to pick out the archetypes.
Tonight, it’s the “fuck or fight” couple; these two have a rough, world-beat-them-down look already that fits perfectly with the argument they’re having and not hiding very well. He’s sporting a worn checkered button-down shirt with the top button undone and blue jeans; all you can see of her is the T-shirt so faded you can’t quite make out the band’s name (or is it a restaurant or tourist spot?) on the front. Every few minutes, one of their voices rises loud enough for a few people to look over.
“I’m not telling you again … stop bitching.” The guy slaps his hand down on the bar, making their glasses rattle, which makes the bartender look over with a neutral face.
“All I’m saying is …” Her voice drops into a whisper and you turn your attention to the game on the screen to the right over their heads. The Braves are losing … again … and your brain shuts off a little as you watch the rout.
“What’s your problem, buddy?”
It takes you a couple of seconds to realize the guy is staring at you, his hostility redirected for the moment.
“Pardon me?” In your peripheral vision, you note that your buddy has put down his cell phone.
“Fuck your pardon. What are you looking at?” The alcohol combines the second and third words of his question into one long syllable.
“I’m just watching the game, man.”
“Fuck you, look higher.” The woman touches his arm, but when he shrugs her off, she is quiet and stares at her drink, shoulders hunched and head bowed.
“Excuse me?” Ignoring the game now after that ridiculous statement, you notice the slight unfocused look in his eyes and the warning siren rings a little louder in your head.
“You fuckin’ heard me … look higher.”
“He’s just looking at the TV, dude, chill.” You tilt your head a bit in your buddy’s direction, but you don’t want to lose sight of the guy even for a second.
“I don’t give a shit. Your buddy needs to mind his own fucking business.” The guy takes a huge gulp of his beer and wipes his mouth. When the woman touches his arm again, he doesn’t shrug it off, but turns to her and starts muttering.
You turn away from the guy, still not enough to lose complete sight of him, but enough to shrug at your buddy. You realize that the bartender has moved closer to both of you and is washing glasses. He gives you a “what-you-gonna-do?” look and goes back to rinsing the glasses and stacking them on the drip tray.
Deciding it’s not worth the trouble, you start to watch the Hawks-Bulls game on the other side of the bar. About ten minutes later, you hear someone slap something – hard – on the bartop. You look over to see a small stack of cash in front of the two of them and their empty beer and lowball glasses.
You watch the guy stagger a bit as he gets off his barstool and the woman slip her arm around his waist. He doesn’t return the gesture – his right arm sandwiched between their bodies – and the two of them walk through the entrance doors, the cold wind blowing through for a second and making you shiver.
As you watch the two of them turn left and walk past the bar’s plate-glass windows, you wonder which will happen tonight – fuck or fight? You drain the last of your drink and tilt the glass at the bartender, catching his eye. As he tops you off, you turn back to alternate between watching the Hawks/Bulls game and the two-fewer clientele.
Image courtesy of http://www.brianboggschairmakers.com/collections/river-arts/
