Three men walked into a bar. Well at least that’s how all
the jokes start anyway. The punch-lines of the jokes are always forgotten, but
everyone remembers how they start—maybe that’s why I remember how this story
starts so well. James, Simon, and myself: the three men. The bar: a small dump
of a place called Dean’s. You knew it was a hole when you heard the name, and
this was only further confirmed when you saw it in half-lit neon, the old tubes
blackened with grime as the light coursed through the gas in a ruddy hue. A
good indicator of a great bar is the buzzing atmosphere and being able to drift
into anonymity. Dean’s had neither of these, instead you greeted with a heady
aroma of smoke and beer, and the buzz of two old cathode-ray TVs broadcasting
whatever sport was available at the time. Inside there was nowhere to hide,
instead patrons lowered their heads over their drinks, hoping no-one would
notice their drawn out faces, their arched backs marking territories long
claimed. Most of the stools were vacant though, as if begging for another pair
of hunched shoulders among the sentinels. James slid onto one at the bar, and
Simon and I followed. The bartender held a glass with his left hand, while his
right polished it with a towel. The image was as cliché as the jokes, and one
could imagine the bartender had always had that
glass and that towel for as long as
anyone could remember. He looked up at us, asking questions with his gaze,
telling us we didn’t belong. Simon didn’t notice.
“Jack Daniels,” he stated, as if the bartender should have
known all along that was what he wanted. The bartender glanced at James, then
towards me. I nodded and raised a finger to indicate I would have the same.
“Just water, thanks,” James added—he never seemed to drink
much, probably a smart choice considering the circumstances.
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