Simon on An American Bar. "I have always loved America and her bars, having drank in a few of them and made friends in some more. They have always held an interest for me and we have always been made to feel welcome.
Now some may say that my grammar isn't particularly correct in this piece, but having read a few contemporary American works lately, I kind of like the raw feel to it and so yes, the grammar was deliberate. I hope you like drinking in An American Bar."
The lights flicker on but not all the way up, just up enough that a man can see his beer.
The boy says, “Can I get a beer.”
The bartender says, “Well that’s original.”
From behind a door at the back, a small dude arrives slinging a guitar. He surveys the crowd. The crowd is the boy and his friend.
“Two,” says the small dude. “Guess things are looking up.” Small dude gives the boy a nod. The boy nods back. The boy’s friend does nothing but try to look cool. It doesn’t work.
Small dude bursts into Springsteen’s Glory Days. The boy lets out a whoop.
“Hey! I love Springsteen,” says the boy.
“No shit,” says the small dude.
Small dude takes an obvious look at the boy’s T-shirt. The boy’s eyes follow his.
“Oh right. I walked into that,” says the boy as he reads the T-shirt’s writing upside down.
‘Springsteen’s The River Tour’.
“Hey!” says the boy to small dude.” What’s your name man?”
Small dude replies with neither friendship nor fierceness. “Riff.”
“Oh yeah?” comes back the boy. “Why so?”
Small dude looks down at his guitar and back at the boy.
“You really need to stop doing that,” says small dude, otherwise known as Riff.
“He is right you know,” says the boy’s friend.
The door opens and in walks a gaggle of geese. Well, ladies really but the way some of them stumble on wobbly legs, well maybe ladies is a stretch.
“Jesus,” says the bartender.
“Jesus,” says Riff.
“Jesus,” says the boy but for different reasons than the first two men.
The walkers and the stumblers are the hens although they don’t know they are known as that. They just are.
“Three,” says their apparent leader, holding up four fingers.
“Which is it to be honey?” asks the bartender.
“How the hell would I know?” replies the apparent leader. “I’ve been drinking by the pool since nine am.”
“Yeah? asks Riff, who has since stopped playing. “They put water in that thing yet or do you all just haul pails to it from your trailer?”
“Screw you,” says the apparent leader.
“Would if I could but I can't,” replies Riff as he burst into Blinded by the Light.
The hens stumble to a table and light up.
“You know you can’t smoke in here,” says the bartender.
The apparent leader nods to Riff.
“And he knows he can’t play but it don’t stop him trying does it?” she replies.
Behind this soiree more lights light up, brighter than the lights that lit up before.
The boy, the friend, the hens and the bartender all look to the source. Riff does not.
A DJ spins his tracks and from the shadows, people emerge and dance. The DJ’s entourage whoop and holler as his beats drown out Springsteen.
“You gonna let him do that?” the boy asks Riff.
“He has connections,” is Riff’s less than enthusiastic reply.
“Cool,” says the boy. “Like the kind that can get you a record deal?”
“Like the kind that can get you killed,” replies Riff with less enthusiasm than his last reply.
The hens rise as one and join the busy dance floor. “I remember when those chics used to have loyalty," says the bartender.
“Yeah, and you remember when those chics were too young to be called chics and rode bikes with stability aids,” says Riff.
He cranks up his amp and turns his attention to Hungry Heart.
“You only know how to play the Boss?” asks the boy.
“Sure, that’s all I know who to play,” says Riff and immediately turns his attention to Summer of 69.
"Cool," says the friend and nods his head, but nobody is sure if it is to the beat of Bryan Adams or the DJ, who by the way, is now scowling at Riff.
For good measure two of the DJ’s entourage are offering the same scowl to the bartender.
“What did I do?” the bartender offers.
Riff shrugs his shoulders.
“What does anyone do around here? Give them a round of club sodas. On me.”
The door opens for a second time and two burly, shaven-headed men walk in.
“Hey, the black and white team!” shouts Riff.
The boy looks up at the men. This time he neither asks nor states the obvious.
“So Riff, you want me to go talk to that dude?” says the large black bouncer, nodding at the DJ.
The large white bouncer laughs. “You want to sleep safe in your bed tonight?” the large white bouncer asks the large black bouncer.
“Guess I’ll leave it.”
“Guess you’ll leave it.”
The friend peers behind the bar. “You do food in this place?” he asks the bartender.
“No,” is the reply as the cook in the back kitchen fires up the fryers.
“Thought not,’ says the friend. “I’ll just take a burger and fries and the same for the boy here.”
“Why didn’t you just say two burgers with fries?” asks Riff. “And why don’t you change from Canadian to your very own American dude, dude?”
“He has a point,” says the large black bouncer.
Riff sighs, re-tunes his guitar and changes his tune. The hens turn to listen and as one (or three, or four, we aren’t really sure) burst into song.
“Born in the USA, we were born in the USA.”
And the night went on and on and on, as did nights before and as will nights after. It was that kind of place. For two youths travelling abroad for the first time, the evening would be one they would remember forever. For Riff, maybe not so much.
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