Have a Good One

The bar is catty-corner from the building which has the largest clock in town besides the one on the courthouse tower and houses the 3^rd National in the square. It’s an old bar, old style with an old style ethic: it opens at 5:30 every morning and sells the first eye opener simultaneously. Right now it’s a little past nine and you don’t feel as self-conscious as you would if somebody saw you go into a bar at 5:30 in the morning, given that there would be somebody up at that hour who would give a damn what time of the day you start drinking, or you’re still young enough to give a damn yourself.

Bernie comes out from under the canopy of the nut and candy shop next door and meets you maybe three steps from the door to the bar. He says, “Man, I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday morning. Can you spare a dollar so I can get coffee and a roll over at Ruth Ann’s?”

“Sure.”

Bernie knows most of the people he approaches by name, the size of the request contingent upon the size of prior generosities, because one will get you two, if you know who. A passing glint in Bernie’s eyes is the only display of gratitude that he will allow himself. He shakes his head and says, “Man, I can get me a couple of eggs with this.” He won’t call you by name for the same reason that he wandered into town maybe five years ago and one day will move on: he won’t get even that close to anything resembling permanence, to something else that he can’t afford to lose. It gets harder and harder to find heated hallways to sleep in during the winter. Rescue homes charge you a slice of your freedom for a bed, and they have an aura of defeat. Bernie hunches up against an early north wind and wanders off.

Inside, the bartender lifts a shot glass questioningly in your direction as you go in, and you confirm with a nod and sit down at about the middle of the line of stools. The bar is old, and built low, maybe up to the thigh on a man standing up. It’s comfortable, the seats mounted on a stationary swivel that goes a full 360. There are initials carved on some places on the bar and a local reporter used to claim that a set of those belonged to Sherwood Anderson. The owner was there one day counting the till and he asked the reporter--an old style person, too--if he knew where this Anderson guy lived. He said it might have been the same one who pulled a knife on Maddie the night barmaid when she refused him service for trying too aggressively to date her.

The bartender says, “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I don’t work the graveyard shift anymore. I moved to the south side.”

“A lot of the guys are laid off.”

A lot of guys are laid off, but the guys that used to come in here and do quick rows of pre-poured bar whiskey have just gotten old, and either retired or died. The old style bartenders are here to soften life’s blows. This one kept bar tabs in his head and nobody ever questioned him.

Bernie comes in—after quite a bit less time has elapsed than what it takes Ruth Ann to fry two eggs—and sits three stools from you toward the door. He pulls out two one dollar bills and change, and the bartender pours him a double and scoops the money up. Bernie sits looking straight ahead without touching his glass.

You finish your drink and wave your empty to the bartender and when he comes, you say, “Give Bernie a drink,” and he goes over and talks to Bernie nodding toward you, and Bernie looks over quickly but gives no sign.

After a minute, Bernie comes over and sits besides you, and says, “Got a handkerchief?”

“Sure.”

You really don’t know what to expect but you hand him the handkerchief, and he proceeds to sculpt a very realistic looking mouse out of it, and he cups it in one hand and animates it with the fingers so that it appears to be trying to get away so that he has to catch it with the other hand.

“That’s great, Bernie. Where did you learn to do that?”

Bernie now looks like a man trying to find an exit. He is holding tightly to the mouse looking around for answers. Bernie gave up everything for his freedom, but a mouse made of cloth can’t feel hunger nor the cold. He nods his head from side to side

You have your own home, health insurance, and a real mouse, and you can’t help feeling cheated. “Where are you having dinner tomorrow, Bernie?”

The bartender comes over and says, “He’ll be going down to the civic center. I’ll be there, too. I’ve been laid off for three years. I can’t afford a turkey.”

“Look. Give him this sawbuck. It’ll feed the mouse.”

“No. Bernie’s got to suffer or life won’t have any meaning for him. Tomorrow, he’ll put enough food in his pockets to get him by for a couple of days. It’s important for him to believe that’s he’s cheating the hangman.”

Now, it feels like an embarrassment to leave a tip, but you slip two dollars on the bar and stand up and head for the door. Bernie is stroking the mouse.

Behind you, the bartender says, “Have a nice Thanksgiving.”

Why is is so easy for some of us to walk up that scaffold?

Noe.

"My fellow Americans......"

Abner was eighteen the year that the 26^th amendment was ratified. He has voted twice since then: once was the year that the seat belt law went into effect in Ohio (He wanted to repeal it, but it wasn’t on the ballot), and the next time was when the ban on public smoking came to a vote. He did cast a ballot for the losing candidate for governor the first time because he was told that a Republican was more likely to be against a law that was unconstitutional, and if strapping a man inside a moving vehicle wasn’t unconstitutional (the equivalent of strapping a man to an electric chair), then Abner didn’t know what it was. His smoke vote became a victim of political amnesia: Abner said he couldn’t remember which side of the issue he was supposed to vote yes on and which one he had to vote no on, or if he did, but the vote was gratuitous anyway: Abner’s had asthma since childhood, and he doesn’t smoke, but he says he would if he could. His girl friend does, and her boss, a bar owner, helped all his employees and most of his customers to register to vote, but she couldn’t be bothered.

Abner’s been thinking about voting again next year though. He needs insurance. Besides asthma, he has a congenital dysfunction of his left knee, and he thinks he won’t make it to Medicare on it. He works for an independent trash hauler, sorting out recyclables and usables from the junk--- practicing, he says (humorously?) for homelessness.

“Who would you vote for, Abner?”

“Somebody who’s for the little guy.” Abner has supper every night at the same small café. He can afford one decent meal a day.

“Who would that be?”

“Well, that guy that everybody loves, I guess. They must love him for a reason.”

“Obama?”

“Nah. Huckabees.”

“That’s 'Huckabee', Abner.”

“Well, it says 'I ♥ Huckabees' on the t-shirts.”

“That was a movie, Abner.”

“Well, who’s Jake Huckabee?”

“Nobody in politics.The one running for President is Michael.”

“Jackson?”

“No. Huckabee.”

“Well, who’s gonna get everybody insurance?”

“Nobody.”

“Well, who’re you voting for?”

“I’ll toss a coin when the time comes.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“I guess it’s sort of gambling.”

“It’s only called gambling when there’s a chance to win.”

Noe.