Is This a Bad Time?

“… and all I remember is waking up in the backseat of this beat down Cavalier, doors open, with this indescribable punk music pounding out of the speakers.”

“Sounds like one hell of a party.”

“Well, you don’t necessarily have to remember a good time to have one.”  I snickered at Rob’s last line; its meaning was heightened by his bloodshot eyes and the overpowering stench of cheap beer and cigarettes emanating out of his pores.

“That’s true.”  His cigarette teetered on the brink of his lips as we silently waited for the waitress to come with our coffee.  Despite the Friday lunch crowd at the local tavern, we were fairly isolated in the corner of the small diner, surrounded only by cheap, faded green linoleum floors, plants unable to replicate anything worthy of breathing, and the sporadic chattering of silverware and gruff voices from the other customers.  “So what’d you end up doing last night?”

“Nothing really, went over to Steph’s house to watch a movie.”

“I thought she was out of town this week?”

“Nah, she came in Wednesday.” 

“Oh.”  Rob’s unsteady hand reached over to the far end of the table and plucked the Wolf Creek Tavern Menu from between the Heinz ketchup and salt and pepper shakers.  The “menu” consisted simply of printer paper with plastic covering on it; a plain front and back sheet that the regulars didn’t even need to look at to know what to order.  They knew what the special was, what beer was on tap, and what was worth a couple of bucks split between two friends.  Rob’s main objective was to see if he could even read the little clusters of black spread across the page.  He took a deep drag off of his cigarette, refusing to put out the effort to deposit the rather large amount of ash gathered at the end of his stick into the ancient porcelain ashtray, the ashtray I swear to have seen my grandfather filling daily years before with Lucky Strikes, before his bad habit turned fatal.

“What the fuck am I gonna order, man.  Shirley better get back here soon.”

“C’mon, you know their gonna be running late with this crowd; Friday’s are always slow with this crowd,” I said, glancing around the poorly lit, smoky room for affirmation.  The ten booths that lined the “diner” section of the tavern were filled with men of a particular breed: big, unshaven, with AC/DC shirts covered with flannels, ball caps proclaiming “Hunter’s Shoot Deep in the Bush” and “Saddam’s a Pussy,” with streams of cigarette smoke arising from almost every occupant.

My gaze slowly returned to Rob, who was staring at me quizzically.  “What’s picking your brain, man?”  I immediately shrugged my shoulders, a tick I had acquired during high school when I refused to pay attention in class and a teacher asked me a question.  I had found it most resourceful during Algebra my sophomore year, when Mr. Pratt, a spastic old man with a penchant for chucking erasers at unsuspecting students, regularly lambasted students who wasted his time with a stuttering “I d-d-d-don’t kn-n-n-ow”; a simple shrug left him upset and unsatisfied until he found the poor bastard that attempted to proclaim his stupidity in redundant consonants.  “What, is it Steph?  I thought you guys had broken up?” 

He had broken my rather weak façade; I figured the drinking binge of last night would have dulled his senses enough to let me slide today.  But I should of known better.

“Well, yea, we just… I don’t know.  It’s like…” It’s like a bad fucking trip that you just can’t return from, I wanted to say, but I just didn’t have it in me today.  “It’s no big deal, we’re pretty much just friends now.”  Rob’s eyelids slowly lowered to half mast; I dropped my gaze to avoid his glare, and watch as he swiftly turned his cigarette over between his fingers, lit end down, and shoved it down onto the worn wooden table, missing the ashtray by at least a foot. 

We hadn’t come there to discuss relationships, or our impeding graduation from college; him with an accounting degree he didn’t want, and me with an English writing degree that I couldn’t use.  Each of us were still meandering through life on borrowed time and money, with dreams of careers and lives that didn’t really seem in the cards for either one of us.  These breaks from college when we’d return home were meant for mindless conversations about sports, celebrities, books, and people we grew up with and disliked for their purposeful lives.  Deep conversations had arisen in rare moments throughout our decade-long friendship, mostly accompanied with alcohol.

Shirley finally arrived with our coffees; I ordered the Reuben, a supposed classic of this greasy spoon establishment that I enjoyed despite its noxious aftereffects, and Rob a plate of hot wings.  We returned to our regular prattle; how the Mets were going to underachieve again, how bad the NBA was, what movie looked like the next big blockbuster, and who the hottest celebrity was.  As Rob was lamenting about how the designated hitter was ruining baseball, a long-time obsession of his, two men entered the tavern for obviously the first time.

“Look at these fuckin’ guys,” Rob said abruptly; I turned to see two gentlemen decked out in business suits, obviously entering The Tavern for the first time.  The short, stocky man, sadly resembling George Constanza or Orson Welles in Touch of Evil, seemed oblivious to the condescending murmor trickling through the tables of construction workers, truckers, and manual laborers upon their arrival; his round countenance appearing pink, shiny, and in high spirits through the hazy fog hanging in the room.  His partner seemed to sense the lack of acceptance, standing rigidly while Orson scanned the horizon for a place to plop down and eat.

“What would possess those guys to come to a place like this?” Rob asked, pulling out another cigarette.  I turned back around to face him, unsure of a proper answer, or the weight that came with such question.

I merely sipped at my brown sugar water, wondering for the hundredth time why I ordered such a distasteful beverage.  It’s a grown-up drink, I sarcastically thought, with the sugary bite of a children’s cereal.

“I can’t believe those guys would come in here; you’d figure they’d realize the company waiting for them inside by the gravel parking lot, fluorescent sign, and vast amounts of beat-up pickups outside.”  He lit his cigarette.  “Probably drive an SUV, huh?” 

I forced a small chuckle; all I could muster, really.

“We should tell ‘em to leave; they’re liable to get beat up in a place like this,” I said.

“Serves ‘em right, I say,” said Rob.  “This ain’t exactly Olive Garden, and they shoulda fuckin’ realized that when they pulled up.”  Stocky and scaredy had slid their way past the crowd of gruff beards and disapproving eyes to a corner booth directly across from our own.  Shirley stopped off at their table to get their drink orders before working her way back to us, coffee pot in hand.

“Shirl, what are those guys thinking?” Rob asked, gazing at the waitress who had served our fathers’ beer and coffee when we were just children.

“Oh, Robby, let’em be; business is business, and I don’t have no problem getting a tip from anyone willin’ to eat this slop.”  The wrinkles that lined her face deepened as she smiled, revealing stained yellow and brown teeth similar to my father’s.  She refilled both of our cups, and told us our food would be there shortly. 

After Shirley left, I stared long and hard at Rob, who was focusing his attention on the two suits that stood out like a sore thumb amongst the sleeveless t-shirts, vulgar language, and animal mounts on the walls.  Finally he looked back at me, and was clearly not happy with what he saw on my face.

“Do you think we’ll be here again?”  I asked quietly, afraid that the volume of voice might reveal the heaviness of my thoughts.

He seemed surprised at first, almost mentally clamoring for an easy answer.  His eyes were wide, and the smoke emanating from the end of his cigarette seemed to rise a little straighter after my question.  He took a deep drag from his cigarette, pondering the question.
”You know, that’s a damn good question; god help me, but I don’t really know.”

He raised his head a bit, considering his answer; nodding his head slightly in satisfaction, he snuffed out his cigarette in the ashtray, just in time for Shirley to bring us our food.