Chris Daly

Bink in a restaurant vest was pouring and the waitresses in tutus were lined up.

            ORDER PLEASE.

            Jesse and Dotty, cocktails only, were the two pros and he liked them for that. Jesse was first.

            “Tall scotch, two gin, one’s a marty rock, very dry, and a Maggie.”

            Bink had set up the glasses as she called the drinks left to right in the well.  Now he slammed his scoop into the ice.

            “…well what did Kristy actually see?”

            “She saw them out together last week.”

             Bink caught fragments of conversation as the waitresses came and bottles banged in the well and cash registers rang.  Today they were all talking about a certain Annie Jones, currently having lunch in the dining area, who was co-respondent in the double-timing of Jess. To Bink’s right was a blender.

            “I can’t believe she came in when she knows I works here. I mean I draw the line somewhere. Who’s that she’s with today?”

            “I heard he’s…”

            rrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRR( a dirt field, lsd, some great rock bands, inconvenient but interesting, everything in play, including creative dress. What happened? ) RRRRRRRRRrrrrrrr. 

            Lift arm. Pour. Replace blender. Ring check.

            “Yes.”

            “Um, um, two scotch, scotch fashioned, vodka rocks and a spritzer, that’s one spritzer, honey,” said Dotty, tray poised.

Sean, the other bartender, walked his hands across Bink’s back going by.  Sean was nicer, faster, had a better memory, was taller, and uninterested in the antipodal. In him the waitresses had a higher degree of trust.  Bink pushed the glasses across the bar, banged a check, laid it down. 

            Two gentlemen in shirts and ties were at the bar, one ordered an old fashioned, the other “bubbles.”

            “Hey,” said the old fashioned to the bubbles guy, “this is it for me at lunch. Tell you who’s something, Ralph Reese from up the office? I was in here with him the other day, he has first of all a couple of these, then a lunch of stuffed crepes, with a brandy, and tops it off with peaches and ice cream with chocolate syrup. And he’s what? Sixty-two? And slim. He’s one of those guys with the magic metabolism…”

            ORDER PLEASE.

            “Perfect Man, gimlet up, and a daiquiri.” 

            Jess with the boyfriend problem was very pretty and very slim. Her eyes were ugly today. Dottie was right behind her, adding checks as she talked.

            “Do you know what actually happened?”

            “He went to Thanksgiving with Annie and her family when I was out of town. I just called him at the office and he said he went because her parents are old friends of his parents. Which he had mentioned. I’m just trying to find out if it was only the one time.”

            rrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRR( Jess and Dotty, like the advanced amateur ladies who worked the lunch crowd in the next room, were  flirtatious on demand, settled into an older script…the girls in the field with the music were opened up, less reliable, truer, funnier, and represented a chance of connection) RRRRRRRrrrrrrrr.

            ORDER PLEASE.

            “Shot of Jack, draw two.”

            Dotty had been sick for a week and her eyes were glazy blue and set in large dark circles. She had the healthiest of haunches, and thick, untouched blonde hair, a certain creamy skin quality, husky voice, no tits (as she sometimes self-announced.)  A sleazy ex-friend with crony slouched in at the tail end lunch business and squatted at the bar, a bad dream that wouldn’t end. Beer and beer.

            Dotty was counting checks as she argued.

“How’s the circus today, did enough suckers show up?

            “You’re so sarcastic, Jason, who cares?”

            “Dottie, I remind myself that you’re a waitress.”

            “There was a time when you didn’t mind.”

Jason didn’t push it, just sneered for his crony. Donnie had her head down, hair covering her face, juggling figures. Sean walked his hand across Bink’s back.

“Can you handle it for thirty minutes?”

            “No sweat.”  

            “Soon as we’re caught up, I’ll put in my order. Hello, Mr. Shep, what’ll it be. Hum a few bars and I’ll see if I know it.”

            “Gray dog, Sean.”

            Shep was a kindly thirty-year-old gentleman who often looked shitfaced when he wasn’t. Bink waved and asked how everything was. Grinning like an idiot the salesman recited a fragment of the lyrics of a current hit that Bink didn’t recognize till the last two words. A few minutes later the exchange was repeated word for word. Shep was longing for his private bayou.

            “Ok, Binkster, ready to take over?”

            “Sure.”

            ORDER PLEASE.

            “Perfect Man, gimlet, are you leaving, Sean?”

            “After I get these, Jess, and then only for this many minutes. I’m here till 4:30, then I pick up my bike in Torrance, then a friend of a friend’s dropping by to teach me a new way to play backgammon.”

            “I’ve always wanted to learn to play.”

            “What are you doing tonight?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “I do. You’re learning to play backgammon at my place. Really. I mean I’d love to have you.”

            “Why not? I seem to be a free agent again. But I might not be any good at it.”

“That will not be a problem.

            “Excuse me just a minute, Sean. Burt, how are you?”

            Burt was wearing a suit and the suit was wearing him and Jess and Sean.

            “Jess, nice to see you.”

            “Well, hello, Burt. What’ll it be, hum a few bars…”

            “Beefeater Marty. Looking good, lady.”

            “What brings you to town?”

            “Laying over for a couple days between trips. Had some free time. You still seeing Ron?”

            “I’m free tonight.”

            “I’ll pick you up around 7:30.”

            “I’ll bring the address to your table.”

            “Glad I stopped by.”

            “Me, too. Oh, I’m sorry, Sean. I forgot. I’m sorry.”

            “No problem, Jess. One Beef Marty. Well, you got it, Bink?”

            “Got it.”

            “Does he ever talk?”

            “No.”

            “Why not? Who ever heard of a bartender who doesn’t talk?”

            “I don’t know, Jason. Maybe he doesn’t feel like it.”

            “Does Johnny know you got another ticket before the car broke down?”

            “I don’t know, Jason. Why don’t you ask him?  You’re over often enough.”

            “Oh, now you mind that? I’m going to stop visiting my friend because you’re there?”

            “Jason, I don’t care what you do.”

            “That’s a good thing.”

            “There’s a place down the street with a mud-wrestling pit.”

            “What did your weird bartender just say?”

            Dottie laughed. “You heard him, he talks fine, and unlike certain people, he’s funny. And you’re getting faster, sweetie.”

            “Dottie, you’re service personnel. When evaluating your sense of humor, that has to be considered.”

            “Fuck you, Jason. Draw two.”

            ORDER PLEASE.

            “Maggie.”

            Jesse, alone at the station with Bink usually meant no conversation. In ten seconds he was ready for the blender.

            “You are getting fast.”

            “Ye…”

            rrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRR (Bink hadn’t developed the chit or the chat, and he’d written only one story about the joint:

            Perfect Man: An Idle Theory

                        By B.T. Bink

“Everybody in the goddamn world…”

            “There’s nothing you can say about EVERYbody in the goddamn world except that they pick em up, put em down or leave em alone. Some go up, some go down, some stay in the box.”

            “You know what I was gonna say?”

            “No, but I hope it’s: let’s have another.”

            “You got it, but then you’re going to listen to me. BOCK!”

            It was not his favorite feature of the new job for Bock McGrain to hear his name sounded across the room by drunken salesmen. One of the two at the bar made a twirling gesture with his hand. Bock iced two highball glasses, gave each a shot of vodka, added bubbles from the tower, gave each a twist, new coasters, punched another two-fifty on the check, set it back down. Behind the drinkers was a larger window through which could be seen, down a mangrove slope, about fifteen feet below the establishment, the San Diego Freeway. 

            “I refer to the fact that everybody in the goddamn world is removed from everyone else by no more than seven persons. Or maybe it’s six. I know somebody who knows somebody…and so on. Henry Kissinger. Indira fucking Ghandi. The pope. The Fonze. Out billions of people it boils down to six or seven at the most between any two.”

            “What about back of the bush, whatever the fuck you call them?”

            “That’s the one exception. Isolated tribes completely outside the sweep of civilization. People who NEVER see anybody else and never have. Not many of them left.”

            “If I don’t negotiate my ass off the last half of this goddamn month I’m going to call the Shah direct and tell him to forget the other six goddamn people.”

            When they left Bock took their glasses and wiped the bar. It was slow-time between lunch and dinner and the lounge was nine-tenths empty.  Contrary to recent comments, he was having trouble getting up to speed, but the idle time could be worse, he might be forced to converse without faux pas with the clientele.  Luckily all it took was one waitress in one short costume, usually Minnie the cocktail back-up to engage the room’s attention. Meal-times were better. The lounge filled with nooners waiting for tables and a river of alcohol was poured by Bock and Shawn from the bottles behind the bar. Bock had a certain amount of sympathy for EVERYbody who partook, and there was some satisfaction in looking out over a hundred or more people all getting buzzed on his drinks, like the merry prankters used to do with other substances. If it got fast enough they all blurred into one large farmyard animal, then nothing more than martys, marys, daniels, cuttys and jb’s.  In the middle of the afternoon things became a little too clear for Bock’s liking. 

            “Ooooo,” said Minnie, “how can anybody go out in public like that? If it was up to me I’d eighty-six him right out the door.”

            “You would?” said Bock, before even looking to see who she was talking about.

            “Durn right I would.  This is a nice place. Those kind of people, who don’t care what they look like, have their own places to go to.”

            The guy she was talking about wasn’t wearing a business suit, but he wasn’t that bad if you overlooked the somewhat ratty hair.  He looked like a guy who’d been working, probably respectably, at some shitty job or other. He sat down at the end of the bar.

            “I’m getting the manager,” said Minnie, and took the long way around. Bock hustled over and got the guy a drink, bourbon and water. A minute later Minnie and the young, lean manager appeared off to the side behind the guy’s back and Bock had to motion that it was all right, and got a good look from Minnie as she went back by. The guy seemed uncomfortable until Bock made a certain kind of bartender noise.  

            “What’s happening?”

            “Not much here. Slow time of day. How about yourself?”

            “Don’t feel like talking about it. “

            “Don’t let that stop you.”

            The guy laughed, took some more of his drink.

            “My life does not seem to be working at the moment. Lost my fucking job. Got nailed selling some dude a radiator for half price. They thought I was pocketing the money, but hell I was just giving a fucking break to a fellow slave.”

“Tough luck. Let me stand you one.”

            “I’ve been by this place a hundred times and never knew how inside looked.”

“It’s just a strange, slightly up-scale joint, right in the middle of all this commercial blight. Does a good lunch though, expense account variety, exec’s from Douglas and the oil companies and the industrial park up the street. If you’re going to drink here, let me hip you to the system. Call a Marty a Manhattan to get bourbon, call your brand of choice for an extra twenty-five cents, add the word ghost, in honor of the hour, for a double shot. Jack works but try Crown Royal and ask for it very dry.

“I’ll take one very fucking Dry Crown Man, and make it and me a Ghost.”

Bock brought him the drink, and subsequently the doomed man ordered three more, noting the smoothness and excellence, and the great bargain in brief conversations with other ghosts. Guy need to talk to somebody, too bad only us bums were present. His money ran out just about the time the five o’clock cocktailers started arriving. Bock put the change on the bar and the guy who was feeling no pain took a buck, saying “bus”, and pushed the rest to Bock, who pushed it back, saying “no tips.”  

            “Good, I can get smokes. And now I know how the pig lives.”

            He and Bock shook hands and he only bumped into one chair on the way out.

            ORDER PLEASE.

            Bock was home a sipping a cold one the following week and was not prepared to see on the international page of the Times a picture of the guy next to a picture of two women, neither of them bad-looking.  The long story was mainly about the girls, one of whom turned out to be imperfect man’s sister. Wednesday last, after losing his job was seen wandering on the roof of his three-story apartment building. The next day they found him in the alley.  He had communicated with no one that evening and left behind only a note addressed to his sister (above, middle) which the police turned over to her when she flew out west to claim the body, taking it right back that night.

            The following night her roommate in New York (above, right) also a stewardess, was on duty on the London flight hijacked to Sancho Lierra, the last Spanish nation on the African continent, whose population included isolated tribes beyond the reach of civilization and was taken hostage by the new generalissimo with a staff uplifted from the unknown provinces. Bock folded the paper and made himself a professional drink.

            A week later, at three pm or thereabouts, hour of the ghost in the lounge, Bock saw the first of them appear at the top of the mangrove embankment on the opposite side of the freeway.  As they came down Bock counted twenty-six. They amused themselves for a while by feigning leaps at zipping commuters, and then somehow they were at the top of the near bank just outside the big tinted window. 

            The first three entered the manager’s office and secured his unconditional cooperation. The rest of the troop came around to the lounge to wait for their tables. Minnie took one look at their loin clothes and deserted her station. The chief seemed a little uncomfortable until Bock made a certain bartender noise. 

            “Did not learn many new lost languages out seriously beyond the pale.”

            “Not to worry,” said Bock, giving the bar a flourish with a damp towel. “Hum it, I’ll see if I know it.”

            “Very dry Perfect Man, Crown it, ghost it. Do it twenty-six times.”

*

            ORDER PLEASE.

            “A banger and a Maggie.”

            rrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRR(They were all at the employee’s destruction derby. Finally the only two cars left were driven by Bink and Manuel the cook who sang as he drove. They rammed each other for an hour but neither would go down or stop laughing) RRRRRrrrr.

            “Honey, you don’t have to leave it on that long.”

            “Dotty, I thought you liked a frothy Margarita.”

            “Not that frothy.”  The ex and the crony hooted.  

            “I thawt I thaw a puddythat.”

            Sean was back. 

            Someone stole the deli sandwich that Bink had purchased from the snotty part-time deli lady just before she left and placed on the break table. A couple of the waitresses were working on a huge pile of napkins. It was a regular cloister back there. Nobody knew anything. Bink checked around for a couple minutes, then asked the musical brown brother for a free house special: French fries and deluxe hamburger au béarnaise. Scooped some fortified salad and wedged himself in to the tight place. Jessie was walking by the pay-phone outside the ladies’ dressing room when it rang. It was for one of the lunch waitresses, who were dressing to leave. Jeannie leaned in there.

            “Kristy, got a call.”

            “………….”

            “Why not? It’s just like a bathing suit bottom.”

            “…………………”

            “All right.  But I don’t understand.”
           
            Jesse was right next to the table and about eighteen inches from seated Bink’s worker face.

            “What’s the matter?” said Dotty.  

             “She didn’t want to come out. She had her white panties on and they look just like a bathing suit bottom. Nobody can see anything.”

            Jessie lifted the short skirt of her uniform to reveal professional high-waisted white panties. Bink, jammed into his seat, was somewhat embarrassed but could not help staring at what was practically in his salad bowl. Jessie let her skirt down.

            ‘Maybe,” said Dotty, “she was scared. Maybe…”

            “But why? It’s just like a bathing suit bottom.”

            Up went the skirt again. Bink speared a piece of purple lettuce. She was a small woman, so trim. Down went the skirt. 

            “Well, maybe she just felt that…”

            “I don’t understand, you can’t see anything.”

            Act three. The embarrassment was still there, but now it was like reading the newspaper sitting in a dirt field with music playing. She was right, you couldn’t actually see the outline of the twat, if that was the issue. Legs nylon dark, then shockingly white. Curtain.

            “I don’t understand.”

            Bink went to the grill to pick up his hot béarnaise and when he returned to the cloister table the deli-sandwich had re-appeared.  He threw the special directly into the trash and then thought: that was stupid, could have eaten the hot and taken the cold home for dinner. Too late. 

            The side-work slaves were folding and talking about paychecks. 

            “I didn’t know I worked this many hours. I was gone for a whole week skiing.”

            “I missed a week, too. When I had my procedure.”

            “Dotty, is that what your stomach trouble was? Did you go to a clinic?”

            “No. I went to Doctor Stewart.”

            “In the hospital?”

            “No. It’s $4500.00 just to walk in.”

            “How much did your doctor cost?”

            “$200.00. It wasn’t supposed to hurt but I was awake in the middle of it and it hurt like hell, boy.”

            “They didn’t put you to sleep?”

            “You have to go in the hospital for that. I just got a shot.”

            “Where?”

            “Inside. It hurt like hell, I’m telling you. I missed the whole week.”

            “Carrie was at work the next day after hers.”

            “I know. And Cathy J had one over the weekend. But two days later I couldn’t even walk.  I was swollen up.”

            “Did you go back to the doctor?”

            “Yes, but they couldn’t do anything till the swelling went down.”

            “I had a friend like that.”

            Bink made it into the office for a deposit just ahead of an assistant manager.  Now he went out the big wooden front door and Dotty, changed into jeans, was sitting on the valet curb. The ex-boyfriend and his crony were looking down at her but nobody was saying anything. Bink passed behind and out into the parking lot. About thirty feet away he started to regret not making a connection with his colleague (Dotty, good working with a pro like you. Hey, you are getting better, Bink. Thanks, have to get home, get a little drunk. Good idea, said one of the bums.) Then he saw the bus and gave chase.