Tallboys #1 was (surprisingly!) well-received. Thanks to those that read, commented, liked, restacked, etc. You don’t necessarily need to read #1 to understand #2, but it be a lot cooler if you did.
This is an original work of fiction. It should go without saying but won’t: these characters (including the narrator) and stories are fictious. Similarities to real people or events are either coincidental or a huge mistake.
Tallboys #2
I was going to tell you the saltshaker story next, but that involves expanding our cast of characters…
I mentioned Gregor before; he was third or fourth generation Russian. Which is to say that he was either from Russia or one of those countries around Russia that technically isn’t Russia anymore unless of course you ask the Kremlin, in which case: definitely still Russia. Gregor was a family name that he Americanized to “Greg” with some success until high school. He had a promising goaltending career – or so he claimed – before blowing out one of his knees. Regardless, the hockey boys Hockeyized “Greg” to “Gregger” making a moot point of the whole name thing and beginning his gradual decline into fatalism. He worked as an accountant for some company in the city; the perfect career for someone who’d been wrung dry of ambition.
Gregor was also called Chicken, as in Chicken ‘Tender. Those of us who didn’t come predestined with animal names would eventually have them bestowed upon us. But we’ll get to that.
Gregor was sitting next to Walshie. You could tell Walshie was bald before he ever took his hat off. He was one of those guys you’d say meant well or had his heart in the right place. It was his mouth, more often than not, that was misplaced. He worked in a kitchen or construction or a factory line; some job that made you hate being on your feet is you weren’t getting paid. Over the course of an evening he’d gradually become less upright, taking the form of affable gargoyle perched over his protectorate of the bar. Everyone who entered his watch-area was greeted with a “Look at this motherfucker!” or “Look what the cat barfed up!” or “Oh shit! I thought you were dead!” and so on. If you weren’t noticed, you weren’t important.
Last, there was Girl-Casey which is to say there was Girl-Casey and Boy-Casey. Sometimes one of them would be there alone, sometimes they’d be there together, and sometimes they’d both be there, but not together. It went like that off-and-on, hot-and-hot for my whole tenure. At this point in time The Caseys were separated but relations were warming back up. Boy-Casey was sitting on one side of the service entrance, Jackie in the only seat on the other side, next to the wall, her spot. I was on the corner next to Boy-Casey; Walshie and Gregor a few seats up the bar.
It was between periods when Casey walked in, so everyone noticed her. In her defense, she was worth noticing. It wasn’t the first time she’d pinged my radar, but that night she was dressed to be somewhere that wasn’t here. Black heeled boots, black dress, probably even matching underwear. Her dark hair wavy and down, instead of pulled into a messy bun. The choker and the short leather jacket are what did it for me. The catcalls started with good humor. Boy-Casey took a drink and found something interesting on the floor. He wasn’t looking when she was and vice-versa.
She got her shine and we were coming off it when Walshie wolf-whistled.
“Hey-hey, Casey! How much?”
“Fuck you, Walshie.”
Few of us knew when to stop, that’s why we were where we were.
“That’s the spirit, girl. How much?” Girl-Casey’s patience wearing visibly thin behind an upraised finger. Me and Boy-Casey trying to get Walshie’s eye, failing. Gregor watching the TV, trying to will a Toyota Tacoma into a hockey game. Walshie looking for his shine. Doubling down.
He locks on Boy-Casey, but before the telepathic link can get established Walshie asks, “What’s she charging you these days?”
Girl-Casey grabs a saltshaker off the bar. The blush hasn’t even reached her cheeks before it’s airborne. Pedro Martinez velocity. Walshie’s head still turned away but turning back like a tracking shot. Heading right for his baby blues as we brace for impact.
Gregor’s glove hand in a sweeping motion, the saltshaker thwacking into the pocket of his palm, a tinkling snowfall of salt along the bar. He places the shaker on the bar, slides it down toward me.
“I’m just happy she didn’t pass them as a set,” he deadpans. “Bad manners.”
In the quarter-inch of space between Walshie’s eyes and Gregor’s hand, we glimpsed the frailty of our universe. That delicate equilibrium that kept all us punks, drunks, fighters, fuckers, bartenders, goaltenders, writers and wrong-ers carefully orbiting each other without ever crashing. Glove save and a beauty.
In order to maintain that egalitarian order, we had to laugh it off. A norm was nearly shattered, but wasn’t. Close call. There’d be more of them, and of course, Gregor wouldn’t always be there to catch us coming through the whiskey or the rye. But for at least one more night, we were free of consequences and Gregor got his shine, and a couple of free drinks, for that.
Then the game came back on, and we shifted back into the flow of time.
* * *
In a different time and place, I asked her if she remembered the saltshaker incident. Casey exhaled a thin trail of smoke into the dark and said, “who the fuck is Gregor?”
“…writers and wrong-ers carefully orbiting each other without ever crashing. Glove save and a beauty.” Awesome
This was awesome. I could almost smell the stale beer. Really sharp characters and setting!