The Tender Bar (13 page)

The men hotly debated the renovation Steve was threatening to launch at Dickens, an elaborate and expensive undertaking. Besides remodeling the barroom and fancying up the menu, Steve was considering doing away with the rock bands that performed on weekends. More shocking, he was talking about possibly renaming the place—Publicans. The men didn’t approve. Not one bit. They didn’t like change, ever, but especially when it came to the bar.

“The fuck’s a publican anyway?”

“Bird with a double chin.”

“That’s a pelican, dipshit.”

“A publican’s a bartender.”

“Then why don’t Chief just call the place Bartenders?”

“Who the hell’s going to drink in a place called Bartenders?”

“Me, that’s who.”

“Publicans are bartenders and bar owners in England,” Uncle Charlie said. “And in ancient Rome a publican was a tax collector.”

“Makes sense. Only three sure things in life. Death. Taxes. And bartenders.”

“Hey Bobo,” Uncle Charlie said. “How’d you happen to get home from Dickens slash Publicans last night?”

“Search me,” Bobo said.

Uncle Charlie smiled and Bobo wrapped his arms around his dog’s neck. “Wilbur, boy, did you drive us home again? Huh?” He buried his face in the dog’s fur, and the dog turned away, as if embarrassed by public displays of affection.

Joey D jumped in and explained to me—though mainly he was explaining to that pet mouse in his breast pocket—that Wilbur was a human trapped in a dog’s body.
Humantrappedinadog’sbody!
I looked at Wilbur to see if this was true, and the dog looked at me with a face that said—
What of it?
The proof of Wilbur’s extracanine intelligence, Joey D said, was the dog’s adamant refusal to ride in Bobo’s car if Bobo had been drinking.

“He also takes the train,” Bobo chimed in. “Name me another dog that goes to the station every morning and catches the same goddamned train.”

“Really?” I said.

“God’s truth. This mutt commutes, kid. Catches the eight-sixteen every morning. A conductor came into Dickens one night and told me. Wilbur must have himself some girl dog over in Great Neck.”

Bobo continued to stroke Wilbur’s fur. I stared at them both. I knew staring was impolite, but I couldn’t stop. Besides handsome, Bobo was also ursine. Not only did he have a name like Baloo, but he looked like the bear from
The Jungle Book
—shaggy, growly, with a large wet snout. It was enough to have one bear in the car—Colt, aka Yogi. Two bears made the Cadillac feel like a circus van. Also, if Bobo’s connection to
The
Jungle Book
weren’t eerie enough, Wilbur was black and sleek, a miniature panther. Bobo resembled Baloo, but Wilbur
was
Bagheera. My head was swimming.

As we hit the expressway Uncle Charlie pushed the Cadillac up to ninety and out came the Zippos. Cigars and cigarettes were lit, stories went flying. I listened closely and learned that the men were fighting a war of nerves with the local police, whom Uncle Charlie called the gendarmes. At least one of the men had been formally “detained.” I learned that on a busy night the bartenders at Dickens could clear a thousand dollars, and the bar raked in so much money that Steve was becoming one of the richest men in Manhasset. I learned that the bar fielded five separate men’s softball teams, and one women’s team, Dickens Chickens, which boasted not only the league’s best players, but the most “stone-cold foxes.” I learned that half the bartenders were fooling around with half the waitresses; that one woman at the bar was a “poor man’s Cher,” while another woman with facial hair was a “poor man’s Sonny”; that tending bar was also known as being “behind the stick”; that Steve hired only male bartenders, in case of brawls and holdups, and for this same reason wanted two bartenders on duty at all times; that bartenders who worked side by side developed a bond like a pitcher and a catcher; that during a barroom brawl, a bartender leaping into the fray must leap over the bar feetfirst, to avoid being “cold-cocked”; that the greatest danger at Dickens, more than brawls and broads and holdups, was the hangover, which was like a cold you caught from alcohol; that there was an endless number of words for cocktails, even more than there were for sex, including snaps, belts, pops, snorts, shooters and stiffies.

I closed my eyes, let my head fall back against the seat, and felt the voices and the smoke swirling around me. Anyone happen to see Mahoney last Friday night? Question is, did Mahoney see anyone? The man was blind. Tight as a tick. He must have had some hangover the next morning. He should take the cure. I hear his old lady’s had it with his shit. Where’d you hear that? His old lady, heh heh. You slut.
You
calling
me
a slut? If I read one more fucking word about America’s goddamned two hundredth birthday I’m gonna puke. Real patriot, this guy. His girlfriend thinks he’s a patriot—because he’s a minuteman, heh heh. I’m patriotic, I just don’t want to hear anything more about Ben Franklin and Bunker Hill and Paul Revere. One if by land, two if by sea. Speaking of which, Chas, I need to do number one in the sea—can’t this thing go any faster?

Gradually the voices converged into one male voice, until I felt as if I were listening to The Voice. But this was better, because when I opened my eyes, the source of this voice was right there.

Bobo, who had dropped out of the conversation to scan the sports pages, looked up and addressed Uncle Charlie. “Goose,” he said, “what’re you doing on the Mets tonight? Koosman’s on the hill and I’m always on the wrong side with that prick. I can’t afford another setback. What do you think?”

Uncle Charlie removed the dashboard lighter and touched it delicately to a Marlboro. Smoke escaped in wisps from his mouth as he answered. “Chas’s Rule,” he said. “Bet Koos, You Lose.”

Bobo nodded appreciatively.

Gilgo wasn’t the prettiest beach on Long Island, or the most secluded, but I gathered that the men wouldn’t think of going anywhere else—not even the topless beach nearby—because Gilgo was the only beach on Long Island with a liquor license. Hard stuff, right on the sand. The Gilgo Bar was nothing but a flyblown bait shack with a gritty floor and one long conga line of dusty bottles, but the men strode through the front door as though it were the Waldorf. They had a deep and abiding respect for bars, all bars, and for the decorum of bars. The first thing they did was buy a round for the house—three old fishermen and a leather-faced lady with a cleft palate. Then they bought a round for themselves. With the first taste of cold beer and Bloody Marys the men began to behave differently. Their limbs seemed looser, their laughter more lively. The bait shack shook with their guffaws and I could see the hangovers lifting from them like the morning fog lifting off the ocean. I laughed too, though I didn’t know what the joke was. It didn’t matter. The men didn’t know either. Life was the joke. “It is time!” Bobo said with a volcanic belch. “I’ve wet my whistle. Now I must wet my pants. To the sea!”

Marching across the sand I kept several paces behind the men, noting how they fanned out into a preordained formation. Uncle Charlie, the shortest, stepped to the fore, a flamingo leading two bears, one Muppet and a panting panther. I couldn’t help seeing the men as exotic animals, when I wasn’t seeing them as different archetypes of dangerous men. When they carried their beach chairs under their arms, I saw gangsters carrying violin cases. When flashes of light went off around their heads, the sun glinting off the ocean, I saw a platoon of soldiers walking into a burst of artillery. I knew that morning that I’d follow the men anywhere. Into battle. Into the jaws of hell.

But not into the ocean. I stopped at the edge of the cold green water while the men walked straight into the surf. They barely broke stride as they dropped their folding chairs and shed their clothes. Once in the water they kept walking, holding their beers and cups aloft like Statues of Liberty, until they were up to their guts, their nipples, their necks. Bobo went the farthest. He reached a sandbar far from shore, Wilbur paddling furiously alongside him.

I wasn’t a strong swimmer, and I couldn’t forget Grandma’s dread-inducing stories of riptides that carried off whole families, but the men wouldn’t let me stay on the sand. They ordered me to join them in the water, and when I did they threw me to the waves. Remembering my mother’s story about the day Grandpa took her out deep and then abandoned her, I went stiff. Joey D ordered me to “unstiffen.” Relax, kid, just fucking relax.
Relaxkidjustfuckingrelax.
Though on dry land Joey D seemed as if he were on the verge of a nervous breakdown, at sea he was an expert relaxer. On cue he could release all the tension in his muscles and bob along like a jellyfish—a 260-pound Irish jellyfish. I watched his face as he floated, a mask of pure serenity I’d never witnessed on any man. Then his face became still more serene, and I realized that he must be peeing.

If Joey D spotted a wave that looked promising he’d angle his big body toward it, letting the wave lift him up and waft him to shore. It’s called bodysurfing, he said. After much cajoling and coaxing I let him show me how. I let myself go slack, unclenched myself for what felt like the first time in my life, and floated on my back. Though my ears were underwater I could hear Joey D saying, “Atta boy, kid, atta boy!” He pushed me into the path of a wave. I felt my body hoisted suddenly, high, cradled for a moment, and thrown end over end. I went spinning through the air like a human boomerang, an exhilarating out-of-control feeling that I would forever associate with Joey D and the men. Landing on the sand, I scrambled to my feet, covered with seaweed and scrapes, and turned to see the men whistling and applauding, Joey D loudest of all.

We hiked back to the chairs, our tongues hanging out like Wilbur’s. None of the men had a towel, and I felt like a sissy swaddled in mine. The men flopped onto their beach chairs and let the sun dry their enormous bodies. With wet fingers they lit cigarettes and cigars and gasped with pleasure as the smoke filled their chests. I smoked too, using a crab leg as a White Owl.

Refreshed from their swim the men arranged their chairs in a circle, opened their newspapers and commenced a spirited colloquium on the news of the day, the talk going around and around me like a carousel. How about this Patty Hearst? That is one screwy broad. Maybe so but I’d still do her. If she was holding a machine gun you’d do her?
Especially
if she was holding a machine gun ha ha. You’re sick. Speaking of do, I might do the Mets ten times tonight. Koos has to win eventually right? Fucking bum. Bet Koos, You Lose. Put me in your little book there for five times on the punchless Mets. How the hell did Foreman stop Frazier, will somebody please tell me that? Best fighter I ever saw was Benny Bass. Yeah my old man saw him lose the title to Kid Chocolate. Holy shit Beirut’s a bloody mess. Reagan says he’s the answer. Jesus—in that case what’s the fucking question? What a right hook that Foreman has. He could stop a train. Did you read where the great-grandson of Nathan Hale got married this weekend? Give me liberty or give me death. That’s what the groom will be saying in about one month. Check this out: Two men found in trunk of car at Kennedy Airport—cops suspect foul play. Gotta get up pretty early to fool New York’s finest. Rave review of this new novel about Ireland by Leon Uris. Potato eaters meets Lotus Eaters. Whatever the fuck that means. Maybe I’ll make that my beach reading this summer, I don’t know enough about my ancestral homeland. Your ancestral homeland is Queens, fuckface. Hey,
Jaws
is playing in Roslyn tonight, let’s all go. I can’t see
Jaws
again, it took me a month to get back in the water after we saw it last summer. You don’t have to worry about sharks, dipshit, your blood’s ninety proof. His nuts are like cocktail olives—one bite and that shark’ll be shitfaced. How do you know so much about my nuts is what I’d like to know. I’ll tell you who’s shitfaced—you, if you’d do Patty Hearst.

“Who’s Patty Hearst?” I asked Uncle Charlie.

“Broad who got kidnapped,” he said. “Fell in love with her kidnappers.”

I looked at him. I looked at the men. I thought I knew how Patty Hearst felt.

The men built a sundial in the center of their circle and instructed me to wake them when the shadow reached the stick of driftwood they jabbed in the sand. I studied the shadow as it crept along. I listened to the men snore and watched the seagulls fish the shallows and thought about removing the stick.
If I knock the stick out of the sundial, time will stop and this day will never end.
When the shadow crossed the stick I woke each man as gently as I could.

No one spoke on the way home. The men were woozy from too much beer and sun. And yet they were still communicating through an elaborate code of gestures and facial expressions. They had whole conversations with shrugs and frowns. Joey D was a better shrugger than a relaxer.

Our first stop in Manhasset was Dickens. The men paused at the back door, looking at me, shrugging at each other, until Uncle Charlie nodded and they let me follow. We walked into the restaurant area. To the left I saw a long row of booths, which someone referred to as The Lounge. Beyond was the barroom, where a group of men stood along the bar. Their faces were redder than ours, though they didn’t seem sunburned, and their noses were like a row of fresh produce—plum, tomato, apple, dirty carrot. Uncle Charlie introduced me to each man, and lastly he singled out the smallest and toughest, the redoubtable Fuckembabe, who stepped away from the bar and toward me. His head was small, its dark brown skin stretched tight and seemingly lit from within by some combination of childlike joy and beakers of vodka. His face looked like a brown paper sack with a guttering candle inside. “This must be the migwag with the wugga mugsy,” he said, shaking my hand and smiling, a becoming smile despite his dry lips and cardboard teeth. “Chas,” he said, “I ain’t gonna let him legweg my nugga fugga smack jack, I’ll tell you that, fuck ’em, babe, fuck ’em, haw haw haw.” I looked to Uncle Charlie for help, but he was laughing, telling Fuckembabe that this was true, so true. Fuckembabe then turned to me and asked me a question. “What’s the biggerish thing you and your fucking muncle ever did wip the nee nonny moniker doody flipper?”