a hug

“Where have you been?” August, the barkeep asked as I walked into his bar – August’s.

“He’s got a woman,” sniped permanent barstool No. 2 sitter Clarisa.

“That so?” August said looking at me.

“Yep, Clarisa explains it all,” I said with a grin. “Now give me a Shiner.”

August pulled out a can of Blonde, my favorite of the Texas brewery’s stock. I used to drink only the Bock, but it was me hanging on to the past. I stopped drinking it and started to enjoy Blondes. Much like in real life.

You see, I’d made it 40 years without going on a date with a blonde-haired woman. Kind of, fuck, who am I kidding, I proudly wore that as a badge of honor. When a lady asked me I’d say it with pride: “I’ve never dated a blonde. Kissed one once, but never dated one.”

That all changed one day in April. When I met a blonde. She didn’t fit most of my criteria. And it didn’t bother me at all. She was quiet, like me. Liked to brood in the corner and think about all the people around her, like me. She liked old garage bands. Once again, like me. And she wore these awesome boots. The kind that most likely could stomp on hipster’s feet when being bothered at a concert. Something I never considered, being a Samba tennis show only wearing kind of guy. And that sealed the deal.

We kissed on our second date. At a concert, of course. The bar spun around in circles while it was happening. Not due to alcohol or any other substances.

A few weeks later, my routine had changed. And it was starting to get noticed.

“You look tan,” August said.

“Well, not spending seven hours a day here, under the neon lights, can have that effect on ya,” I said.

“So, you going to the beach now?” Clarisa snarled.

“Well, I do live here,” I said. “It kind of makes sense that if one chooses to live at the beach, one should visit the beach at least every so often.”

“I hate the beach,” Clarisa said. “Fucking tourists everywhere. Leaving their trash behind. Making noise. Blocking traffic. Neon signs. Confederate flag bikinis and beach towels everywhere. Fuck the beach.”

“It sounds like you just don’t like people,” August said, pulling the handle on the draught Budweiser for another customer who was sitting in the dark a couple seconds ago, but now was at the bar. He looked at me, then looked at Clarisa. When I stared into my eyes, I knew who it was.

“Hey mayor,” I said a little too loudly. “How goes running the city?”

I had my run in with the mayor about a year ago. He had been building a brand new house right on the beach. It was an old school kind of design, meant to harken back to the days when anyone who lived on the island was either a fisherman, or worked with seafood or beer.

The only problem with the house, was it was too close to the water. At least by the standards the mayor himself had pushed through after the last hurricane.

“It’s a whole lot better without you poking around,” he snarled. “And to settle the debate you and the fine dame Clarisa are having – tourists suck. But their money certainly does not. Which is why we tolerate them for three months a year.”

“More like eight months now,” Clarisa said. “Because of you, mayor.”

“Not a lot of votes in this bar, are there?” he said with a chuckle.

“Mr. Letchworth,” I said, “I voted for you every single time.”

“Not hard to do,” August said. “He was the only one on the ballot.”

“True, my favorite barkeep,” I said. “But you can always write in a candidate. It’s lost on the American voter. The ability to vote for who you want to – always and forever.”

That phrase, as always sent me to the jukebox. Luckily, August had two of them. One with 45s on it, that he plugged in during non-tourist time, and the Internet one. I went to the Internet one. Put in a dollar and pushed the buttons.

The opening chords brought a groan from August.

“Not that again?” he sighed rubbing a glass with a dirty white towel.

“Always and forever, Each moment with yoooooooou… Is just like a dream, that somehow came through….”

“Sorry, folks,” I said. “I love Heatwave. How can you not like this song.”

“Damn, I think Jones is in love,” the mayor broke his mini-silence to say.

“Could be,” I said. “Never thought it would happen again. Well, I never thought I’d allow myself to do it again.”

“Why should a woman not hurt you?” Clarisa added.

“Point taken,” I replied. “I’m a bastard. A misanthrope.”

“But a fine tipper,” August interjected.

I raised my almost empty pint glass to August.

“It’s one of those things I learned at a young age. Tip well, and the bartkeep will keep your glass full.”

“Amen to that,” the mayor interjected once again.

“I’m still waiting for you to learn that one, Letchworth,” August sneered.

“You’d think, on the taxpayer’s dime, he’d be more willing the splurge,” I said. My reporter days, I found he had become quite adept at charging his drinking binges to the taxpayer. Amazing how many nights in the bar were labeled as “fundraisers” or “meet and greets with the constituents.”

I thought then that exposing it would make a difference. This was, of course, after the time newspapers had a reason for existing other than lining the owner’s pockets. Instead, it was lining a stock owner’s pockets, so exposing things turned into a bad idea.

“Don’t rock the boat, Jones,” one publisher told me. He was from what we called the “Lucky Sperm Club”, going back to the days of a single family owning a paper, and usually owning the agenda of the town. In those days, a newspaperman’s kids started out delivering the paper, maybe shot some photos or write a sports article or two before going to college. Then, he’d come back, work in the pressroom and mailroom for a while, then get a job as a reporter. Soon after, he’d be an editor. And when pops was old, he’d become publisher. The salad days.

Well, I enjoyed thoroughly when the non boat rocker got rocked one day. He was demoted and a few weeks later sent packing. Vermin he was. And he didn’t get a chance to flee the ship. Instead, he got tossed off into the ocean – but with a golden parachute. Robber barons take on different looks in different places. But they’re all robber barons.

“Jones, what the fuck are you thinking about now?” the mayor interrupted my fine memory.

“Your wife,” I said. “On your boat right now. Living in your house. While you’re hear.”

He came up to me. I thought he was going to punch me. And I’m not fighter. I can write that I won a fight, like Hemingway could. But, I couldn’t really do it. And I have no idea if he could either, but the shotgun he took to his face at the end – self inflicted – may answer it for me.

But instead of punching me, he hugged me.

“You saved my life, Jones,” he said. “You saved my life.”

That hug, it soon turned out, was the best thing to ever happen to me.