Barstool

The only hazards of a summer Tuesday, he thought, were Cubs parking restrictions and the fact that it got dark so damn late.

The last remnants of the softball team were around the big table at the back, reliving the best plays of the evening’s game. Voices rose and fell as they recounted, again, their feats of glory and dissected errors and outs.

Someone had filled the jukebox, and Patsy Cline was singing about falling to pieces. “I always get misty when I hear this song. She’s amazing,” a girlfriend of one of the players explained to no one in particular. She swayed in the corner near the speaker, her hair lit by the glow of the jukebox.

Jim looked up as the bartender put the soup next to his glass. He tapped the glass rim and looked her in the eye.

“You gotta eat something. Seemed easy.”

She poured him another Jack Daniels and found some crackers to sit next to the soup.

The sharp smell of the bar floor, part vomit, part wet rag, part stale beer, were a familiar Tuesday smell. On busy nights the smell of popcorn and bodies overcame it, but tonight was quiet. He liked it when it was busy. Not just the smell was easier to avoid, but the quiet, the eyes, the thoughtfulness of the bartender. She was too busy on those nights to pay attention to the number of times she had filled his glass. Not that Jim didn’t appreciate that she worried, but he had carefully cultivated being alone and it was a crack in his solitude. Kelly had stopped flirting with him months ago. He wasn’t sure if this maternal mode was better than the flirting, but the soup was good, or at least it smelled better than the back bar.

Patsy Cline was on heavy rotation tonight, and Jim noticed Softball Girlfriend, slowly dancing by herself. She had gone past misty to silently crying, tears pulling at her mascara. He wondered who she was thinking of - certainly not Mr. First Base. The last holdouts from the infield were laughing. Mr. First Base was in rare form tonight. Maybe she was just tired of the jokes. Jim could ignore them, mostly. He watched the television in the corner. The Cubs were losing.

“And mister, that’s a Ferrari not a porch...” An awkward quiet moment, the punch line to a Dumb Blond joke that Jim had heard a million times rose above the other sounds in the room, courtesy of Mr. First Base. The wave of laughter made it hard to hear Bob Brenly, not like it mattered, but still - obnoxious, he thought. Could it at least be funny?

“Eat.” Kelly, back to check on him. He tapped the rim of his empty glass and she shook her head. “Not ‘til you eat. At least the soup.”

“I’m not sitting here for you to take care of me.”

“I know. But you can’t live on bourbon.”

“I can try.”

“Not here.”

He picked up the spoon. At least it wasn’t a bowl. Beef. As it had cooled, fat had risen to the surface. It made him queasy to look at it. By the time Kelly had delivered another pitcher of beer to the team, he had eaten. Made him queasy now that it was in his stomach, so he ate the slightly stale saltines. He tapped his glass, and she slowly nodded okay.

Kelly poured him another and turned to walk away.

“...and I try and I try, but I can’t forget. You walk by and I fall to pieces.”