A thin gold chain - R.C. Salyer (i love reading books .txt) 📗

As the acrid taste of whisky washes down my throat, I welcome the strange mixture of guttural nausea and chemical relaxation associated with straight booze. The warming glow of my fifth shot begins to mellow me out and calms the raging headache behind my eyes. I give a nod to the bartender for another round of gut shot to settle my nerves. I roll my shoulders trying to loosen the tension from my thirteen hour day. The bottle is almost empty. The bar-keep tops my shot glass off with an extra half pour that almost overflows the top. The over-pour is threatening to run down the sides, but I promise it won’t live that long.

He knocks the liquor license from the bottle with an ear shattering back hand whack of the bar key. The high pitched clack-clack adds fuel to the flame of my headache making me audibly groan. I call him an asshole under my breath and I hope he heard me. Mike is off today, and I don’t know this guy’s name. He doesn’t know to keep my shots coming until I’m done. I embrace that all too familiar feeling that I might not be driving out of here.

I maintain a God-like view on the people drinking behind me with the aid of large mirror hung cockeyed behind the bar. The glow of the neon light alters my neighbors and bestows on them alien-colored skin. There are two people in the corner behind me sitting awkwardly on the same side of the table in a booth. People in long term relationships never sit that close. I can read from their skittish body language that they are piecing together whispered conversations and the heavy handed flirtations of new lovers.

It makes me remember the fire of newly found love. The fear of the un-touched hand, the taste of bated breath. I barely remember what that feels like. It has been three years since I was in a relationship. Hell, moore than three years since I was involved with someone deeper than how my hand looks cupped on their ass. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I don’t even bother to look at it. I know who it is. Tami won’t get the message that what we had is not anything more that what it was. No amount of telephone calls will change a one night stand into a relationship. Hardest part to understand is that I was honest with her from the beginning.

In the back to the left, two semi-athletic college kids are giving the basics of pool 101 to two fresh-meat sorority girls. The guys must have coerced the girls away from the clubs downtown judging from the high heels and fake designer dresses. The girls are beyond overdressed for this hole in the wall bar. One girl is cute in that weird eastern European way, and the other is southern gaudy trash. But she has a great ass and I don’t mind looking as she lines up her next shot. The first college kid is a beast of a man. To see him completely in one glance you almost need a double take. The other guy is below average in all aspects, and judging from his overzealous mannerisms, he knows it.

The oldest man I have ever seen sits in a dark table to the left of the bathroom. I’m not sure if he chose the dark spot or if the light simply refuses to set upon him. His wind-cracked face only moves when he drinks his beer. The weathered leather jacket he wears is held together with a glue mixture made of sweat and dirt. In his hand he holds a broken drumstick that came off the impromptu stage in the front, and is turning it over in his hand. If this was the Wild West, substitute a bottle of whisky and 45 long Colt, he would be a gunslinger half in the bag and half in the grave.

Ten o’clock, according to the backward time on the wall behind me. My headache begins to slide away as a new crowd comes flooding in. This place gets pretty slammed on Thursdays. The Racecar bar gets a fair amount of foot traffic because it is sandwiched in between the main drag and the college campus. This place bridges the gap between active social college life and dull monotonous adulthood. There is a good mix of young and old men and women that trickle in throughout the night. Some come in trying to recapture misspent youth, at the same time others are misspending it.

I eyeball the bartender that I need another drink. He pretends not to see me. A move that tells me without words that he thinks my limit is near. He doesn’t know that I’ve not really even started. As I follow new comers from the door to the side bar for their turn in line, I notice a freckle faced boy. He leads a slightly older, but still too young, piece of arm candy to a table. He heads to the bar. She makes herself accustomed to new surroundings in that awkward mixture of fake confidence and fear that the underage have while drinking in bars. He can’t be older than 19 judging from his bathroom-practiced swagger. Her uneasiness sitting alone at the table puts her at barely 20. Their table is just out of arms reach of the jukebox, but I can see from the look on her face that she has begun to mentally pick her favorite songs.
Temperature outside is falling judging from the cool gusts banging in from the outside. Not extremely cold for the rest of the states, but pretty cold for Texas. I hear that it is going to be in the 40’s and not very surprising, these South Texans are obnoxiously over dressed for the elements. Wool caps, mittens, and scarves are overcrowding chairs and side tables like birds in a corn field. The cool wind that rides in from the open door is slightly muted by the whisky. A cool crisp chill slaps the back of my head causing my headache to push back from my temples for the moment. As my headache lessens, I begin to feel more optimistic about the night.
I overhear the bartenders name is Steven from his conversation with the minor. I guess they are friends and that’s why he is allowed to impress his date. Noise from the electric dart board stiffens my back as the first round of quarters roll into the slots. The bar springs to life and the place settles into a steady buzz of incomplete conversations and guitar riffs from the jukebox. The second bartender, Britani, shows up bundled for the cold and carrying dinner from the Mexican restaurant next door. She sets her tinfoil burrito on the bar top; I fake a grab at it, and she slaps my hand. Steven recognizes that I’m a regular and he loosens his grip on my whisky bottle. The shot warms my soul and muddles my brain. I think I may switch to beer, or my night might be over before it starts.
As my headache weakens my tongue is no longer stuck in my pocket. I strike up a conversation with the strangers around me. A traveling salesman sitting to my right is slumped over his beer in exhaustion. He is cut from the short-stocky man mold. In a bold northern accent he tells me of his wife and kids back home in Michigan. He loves the weather here, and together we share a causal laugh at the bundled snow bunnies of Texas. I fade out the conversation as I am not in the mood to talk about happy family relationships. A bitter middle age woman sits crumpled to my left. I judge from her broken spirit and sour demeanor that she has made many bad decisions. She started her young life with too many kids leading her into a disastrous divorce. She speaks to me like she is talking to herself, low and distant. She never looks up from her glass even to order a new gin and tonic.
Heater kicks on causing me to lose my jacket. My slender shoulders are visible through my V neck t-shirt while my below average arms practice 12oz curls. I keep mental notes on the prospects that come in behind me. There are two single women sitting at a table behind my right shoulder. One is a big healthy bitch, that won’t shut-up; her voice is like nails on a chalkboard. Her cute, but slightly homely, friend looks easy. If I play my cards right she might even be drunk-able. If I find myself at closing time wasted drunk and with no other options available, I wouldn’t feel too ashamed if I woke up in her bed. Eye contact with Britani scores me another shot with a cold beer chaser. My headache is a toppled foe that hasn’t been completely cleared from the battlefield.
An uneasy hand touches my shoulder. I turn to see red hair standing about five foot nothing. I instantly recognize it as a friend of my ex-girlfriend. Her name escapes me, but I don’t really bother to remember. I farm out a “Hey you” and a “How ya been” and she moves to the back of the room just out of sight from my mirror. Out of nostalgia or a momentary weakness, a desire flashes through my mind begging me to call my ex. She was another spark in my life that has faded. Life has taught me that the general memory of past loves and relationships, when remembered from a bar stool, are brighter and more vivid than it ever was in live action. Love lost is always better and stronger than the real thing. I lie to myself that I’m better off and that she wasn’t right for me. But deep down I know that it would have been a good life. A decent life. The loud crack of a pool stick shatters my thoughts as the last semi-warm swallow from my beer wets my tongue while drying it at the same time. My Michigan friend orders the next round of drinks and tells me not to worry about it. A drunken midnight haze settles in to the bar. People have started to pass the point of no return, talking louder and dancing with more fluidity. I confirm five after midnight with the backward clock, spinning into the future, instead of marking the past.
A fight at the pool table breaks the levity of the evening. Two smart mouth kids end the night with cold words and warm blood spilt on the hardwood. The party recovers well enough with only a few of the old timers throwing in their hats for the evening. The old dusty man in the shadows is as stoic as a wooden Indian outside a barbershop. If he didn’t move the bottle of beer from its resting position to his lips from time to time, I think the medics would be called to check for a pulse. Another bottle crashes to the floor and everyone ducks expecting another fight. The minor and his date freeze like two squirrels caught in headlights, not knowing whether to run to safety or stand strong in defiance of certain death. Steven grabs the