The Bar

The Bar

The door swung open, daylight rushed in before being abruptly cut off by the door’s inevitable return. The Stranger stared from beneath his wide brimmed hat, eyes like two black burning coals. The room temperature dropped noticeably but the beer maintained its stale warmth.

Over in a darkened corner two cigarettes slow dance in the air - lazy, orange fireflies. The Stranger moves towards them, disappearing into the darkness of the corner.

Aside from the new arrival it is a normal night at the bar. Beams of light cut straight down through the cloud of dust and smoke looking like glass pillars. A girl dances in one of these pillars, as the light catches her she looks beautiful, almost perfect. As she turns the light catches a new angle casting shadows as it hits the lines and crags of age, illuminating her cruel unairbrushed existence.

Sitting on a stool at the bar a man cuts a cool figure in his dark leather jacket. The heat starts to get to him so he smoothly unzips and removes the garment to reveal a shirt almost criminal in style. Its bright and garish hue quickly scorches his dark jacketed image from the minds of the onlookers.

Further down the bar another man sits, shoulders slumped from the weight of his world.

Around the walls the vinyl and foam covered benches have began to crack and peel with age. The regulars still remember when the benches were fitted and see their own aging reflected in the decay. Every time a new section of the vinyl splits or comes away it is met with a silence and a bowing of heads from the congregation. The floor is made of wood although it is impossible to tell what type beneath the beer, liquor, blood and other dark stains. The floor also bears the scars of cigarette burns, broken glass being trodden into it and barstools being roughly manoeuvred across it. The ceiling and walls are nicotine stained and bear their secrets silently. The jukebox is turned low, no one cares, it is left on random waiting for someone to pay for a selection – they rarely do. Nothing on the jukebox is less than ten years old. In a back room is a pool table, stained and scuffed, no professional player has ever founded his career on this slate.

The barman surveys his empire and its subjects. Perhaps it is time for another rate rise, maybe then the walls could have a new coat of paint or he could take a holiday and leave his cousin to run the place. He rubs his stubbly chin then starts to clean a few glasses. It was he who fitted the new bench coverings all those years ago, back when he a little drive and vision, had dreams of making the place more classy, more up market. Those dreams were never realised and instead a slow slide began back to the status quo as a watering hole for drunks and tired workers.

It was true - this bar boasted a long and varied history. Head wettings, wakes and wedding receptions had all been held within its walls, sometimes on the same day. Romances had been forged and broken in its rooms. Five years ago a man had died here, stabbed in an argument that no one now remembered the cause of. There had been other lesser battles, some with knives or glass, some with fists and some of will. Tonight it is quiet - aside from the ten-year-old songs from the jukebox and the murmurings about The Stranger.

Some of the talk had turned to another stranger who had passed through a few months previously. He had been selling those ‘Porno’ films but had found no takers here – none who would admit as much anyway. The new stranger was different though - he was far more mysterious and came with an air of malevolence. He made the regulars nervous; some hastily finished their drinks before making their excuses and heading for the door. The barman frowned at this but said nothing.

The Stranger made his first trip to the bar. He tossed down a couple of strange golden coins and said “Beer.” He lifted his drink, took a sip and sunk back into the darkness of the corner, leaving the barman to examine the coins. One of the guys at the bar, around thirty and just past the last turn off on the road to becoming a drunk, was becoming his usual loud and obnoxious self, “What kinda money you got there Harry?”

Harry, the barman, glared at him and said, “Don’t know” before retreating to the end of the bar, where a light shone down, to further examine his mystery currency. The barman glanced over to the corner where The Stranger was still in conversation with two men. One of the men was Ramone - he owned the local garage - the other was known simply as L his occupation unknown by Harry or his patrons.

The night oozed on, Harry began wiping down and upending the unused stools onto their tables to give an impression that the floor would be swept once the bar closed. Harry now had a brace of golden coins from The Stranger’s hip pouch and was still none the wiser as to their origin. The small disks certainly appeared to be real gold though, so he wasn’t going to complain.

The drunk who had asked about the coins earlier had maintained his state with a steady stream of bourbon and ice - with customers like him Harry’s mortgage was safely covered. The stranger had now deserted his companions and was making his way to the door, when Larry (the drunk), blocked his path.

“Where you going man?” Larry slurred, “Stay and have a drink with me.”

“You’ve had enough, friend,” came the husky reply.

“Yeah, enough of you hiding, muttering in corners. What’s your name stranger?”

“My name is not important.”

“Oh, aren’t we so mysterious,” Larry mocked. “Where ya from? The past or the future?”

“A little of both, you people have ignored the prophets as you have ignored the historians. I have been sent to square things.”

Larry was a little thrown by this and The Stranger took the chance to skulk out into the cool night.

Harry wiped down some more as the stragglers departed, Larry amongst them. Larry’s voice could be heard drifting back in as the door swung closed behind them, “That stranger sure was a crazy old buzzard.”

Harry locked up and began trudging home.

All was still in the bar for a while, then movement in the corner where the stranger had sat. At first it was only a flicker, but quickly it spread, fanning out through the building. The vinyl seats blistered and bubbled in the glowing heat, the cigarette burns on the floor were lost amongst the charcoal blackness of the burning wood. A ceiling fan stirred the smoke for a time before the flames took hold and it became a crazed wheel of fire, dripping melting plastic into the blaze below.

The bar burned through the night, reddening the sky while the firemen poured water over the flames. As the sun arose the area where the bar had stood was a smoking black pile. In parts the wood still hissed as heat and water met.

The investigators discerned that a cigarette rolled into a crack in the vinyl seating and nestled itself amongst the, pre fire regulation, foam filling. That was not all they found. In the foundations of the area that had been the cellar they discovered a charred skeleton, the top of its skull smashed in, its body still wrapped in a few fragments of what appeared to be old strips of vinyl seat coverings. Not far from the grinning skeleton they unearthed a mysterious pot of gold coins that had lain undisturbed for a hundred years or more.

The skeleton turned out to be that of the previous owner who had sold the place to Harry all those years ago, he was identified by his gold teeth. At least Harry had said he had sold the place to him.

When the police knocked at Harry’s there was no answer. Upon forcing their way in they found the barman on his back in the living room, the top of his head had been caved in by some blunt object and two gold coins had been placed over his unseeing eyes.

THE END