The Barstool

 The barstool’s broken seat was just annoying enough for me to start to think about leaving. Or at least moving to another spot.

But damn it, the game was on right in front of me, and the place was packed. I looked at John, the barkeep and winced just enough for him to wander over. I was a regular, and most of these folks were tourists. In the sense that they came here two times a year – St. Patrick’s Day and Super Bowl Sunday.

“What’s bothering you now,” John said. His goatee jostling up and down with each word.

“Damn seat’s broke,” I replied.

“Tough shit, man,” you want another?

“Sure.” John clicked a new Shiner for me, plopping it down on the bar with a rap of his knuckle. There are certain things that are good about being a regular.

I look up at the TV. It’s awful how long the pre-game for the Super Bowl is. It used to be just a few hours. Then all day. Now, it’s the entire weekend. Who has time to watch all of that? Any of that? I wonder to myself. But maybe not.

“Capitalism, baby!” some 45-year-old doofus with a backwards baseball cap says to me.

“Fuck capitalism,” is all I can muster. The guy looks me over, shrugs, and walks away. Score one for me. I take a swig of my beer. It’s cold still, which is great.

I relax a bit. Then I get bumped by someone from behind. I turn around, and I see her. A gorgeous, long-haired woman. She’s about my age, as the eyes always tell you. But she’s beautiful.

“Hello,” I muster meekly. She looks at me and smiles. I guess I have to come up with more than that.

“I’ve never seen you here before. Are you a tourist?”

She shakes her head no. Still not saying a word.

“My name is Randy,” I say.

“Anita,” she says with a smile. I look at her shoulder and see a Lucero “L Star” tattoo. I wonder if that is a good sign, bad sign, or not a sign at all.

She sees me looking at it, probably a little too long and touches my forehead with her finger.

“I’ll tell you why, if you show me yours.”

“Don’t have any,” I say with a shrug, taking a sip of Shiner to calm my nerves.

“None?”

“None.”

“Well, that’s a surprise.”

“Why?”

“The amount of times you’ve put money in John’s jukebox to play them, I figured you were a member of the club.”

“I almost got one in 2009,” I said. “But, I changed my mind. I had even shaved off my shoulder.” I cringed when I said that.

She looked at me, then my back, and smiled.

“Hell, we’re in our 50s, nothing wrong with that.”

I smile, wave John over, and order a couple of Shiners.

“You want to share with me,” I say.

“Sure. Let me go tell my girlfriends that I’ll be hanging out with you for a bit.” She winks and walks over to one of the booths in the back of the bar. Near the game where you punch the punching bag to see how strong you are. I’ve never punched one of those.

I watch Anita saunter over to her friends. You can tell she’s one of those people that is always happy on the outside. I stop myself from digging too much deeper into my experiences with women you meet in bars. It’s self defeating, right?

The group of ladies all look over at me at the same time. I smile my crooked tooth grin. They all wave at me and laugh. I take that as I good sign. Especially when Anita wanders back over. I watch her, but I also watch the rest of the bar. A lot of people are watching her.

She makes it back to the bar just as Pedro, my former boss, gets up to go pee. He asks me to save his seat.

Anita sits down in it. I don’t say a word about it.

“That guy coming back?” she says.

“I’m sure he wants to,” I reply with a swig of beer.

“Well, I should…”

“Nah, I know him. Well.”

She cocks her head to the side when I say “well.” Maybe she should have listened to that voice in her head telling her there was something to that “well.”

But she didn’t. And today, 7 years later, I’m glad she didn’t.