Joseph Voelbel

A mired sense of sunset cuts in from above two saloon-styled swinging doors. Backs line the bar in anonymity. A sole fly buzzes about nearly matching the soft electronic fuzz from the neon beer sign mounted in the window. The sign’s halogenic glare blots out any natural impression of that sunset. The ventilation in this establishment is unkind to asthmatics. It is chewy, fermented, filled with melancholy.

A grandfather clock in the corner of the tavern, since stopped, is covered with dust. One patron, (who knows when), ventured to finger- pencil a word onto the clock’s right twice-a-day face.

The bartender wears a placid expression, and cleans a mug with a rag. A man sporting a trucker's hat which says, ALL STEEL, INC,

slams his soda can onto the counter. A different wiry lad with a tattered work coat and a somber configuration lifts a finger, a plea for more drink. The room smells of implacability and desultory hygiene. The bartender sees the finger, and walks over.

“What’ll it be?” “Pepsi Max.” “Comin’ right up.” The bartender waves his hand over a silver

sheet, causing it to glide leftward, reaches inside and withdraws a plastic 20 oz bottle of Pepsi Max. The wiry lad says “Thanks,” and places his hand on a mouse-pad-sized mount on the counter, a beep sounds and the bartender nods approval. The man to the right of the one who’d just ordered finishes the remainder of his Diet Coke, and emits a burp worthy of the title, “the flatulent man’s trumpet”; this man grumbles and snorts simultaneously at his indulgence. The trumpeter looks half-way in the direction of the wiry lad, “Aspartame makes me burp.” The wiry man with his hand around the Pepsi Max responds, “Creates neurological disorders too, but guys like us can’t afford anything else.” The trumpeter lifts his soda, “Yeeeuup.” A waft of commiseration sprouts along the bar. A poindexter-looking guy seated at a table in the back takes a sip of Tab. He sits beside his date, a red head covered in freckles with wide frame glasses who drinks Coca-Cola Zero and says little. He draws spirals along the top half of her back meditatively between sips.

The saloon style swinging doors at the entrance push open with an unprecedented intimacy. The kind that creates a sharp incongruous squeak throughout the room and draws a half-dozen necks in tandem. The neon sign buzzes extra loudly and clips out, leaving only the fly’s noise to continue the drone. The bartender catches himself staring and polishes a soda can just after to appear composed. She dresses in leather made from pineapple and sports green spectacles. Her blond hair falls behind her shoulder blades agreeably. The deer-in-headlights effect in the room isn’t new to her; she treats it indifferently, thereby enhancing it. By the time she sits down two men have subtly leaned closer and the bartender has his chest to the bar.

“What can I get you ma’am?” “Water.” “Wah wah, water?” “Yes. Water.”

The man in the back with the Tab and his date both take in a short breath implying surprise. The woman with the matching white purse adjusts her seat on the stool. The bartender grapples with the delivery.

“Dah dah dah, dah ya want ice?” “Yes.” “Cubes are more than thirty...” “I know.”

“Ah ha, hah, how-how many cubes, mam?” “Two.” “Twoooo cubes?’ “Yes.”

“Do you know how mah mah much I have to charge for...”

The woman snaps again, “Yes.” “Oh-kay! Coming right up ma’am.” The bartender lifts a heavy ring of keys and

sorts through them for a tiny brass plated square shaped one; he puts it into a cube safe-looking object to the left of the brass-plated refrigerator. Upon turning the key a blue light pierces upward from a deep cool freezer. The bartender adorns a pair of white gloves, and picks up the chilled metal tongs affixed to its interior edge, and begins to remove two cubes of ice.

The barflies lean over to catch a glimpse. The blue light beams upward upon the bartender’s face like the sky looking down. One by one, he places them in her cup, and then places the cup under a key-locked spout, which he turns on from a different key on his ring, filling the glass with cool, fresh and clean spring water. The bartender sets the drink in front of her. It appears strange in the room, like an explorer in Antarctica, or a man standing on the moon.

“Ha.. ha.. here ya’ go ma ma’am.”

“Thank you,” she says and with great deftness and a gentility places her palm on the mouse-pad sized mount.

That finger-penciled word upon the face of the dusty since-stopped Grandfather clock in the back reads, “THIRST”.