Commune at the Nightshade

Commune at the Nightshade

By

Harlow Flick


I stood up, and pins and needles buzzed through my buttocks. The Nightshade’s hardwood bar stools were designed for durability rather than comfort, and I had been sitting a long time. The base of the bar lacked a footrest. I had to use the rungs on the stool. If I stood, I was still at eye level with those sitting, provided I leaned on the bar, so I alternated between standing and sitting.

I was next to Larry Grover, the sports editor at The Sun, the little newspaper where we worked. He had body and facial features like Dom Deluise. Size twelve feet pointed out at forty-five degree angles, and a misshapen mustache sprouted hairs in all directions. Long hairs grew right out of his nostrils and mingled with the rest.

His ensemble included a plaid flat cap, splotchy suede vest, and cheap sneakers as big as barges. He smoked a scratched up long stemmed pipe, and carted camera equipment everywhere he went. I guess you could call this his trademark look. He was a singular figure on the sidelines of high school sporting events. I wondered what the jocks thought of him. Had Grover still been in high school, he would have belonged to the model airplane club, or worn the team mascot outfit on game day.

Grover steadily smoked, filling the air with Captain Black, which I liked. It temporarily overrode the bar room stench.

I tried to engage Grover in a conversation about the Phillies. You might think a sports writer would warm to that topic, but not Grover. He was more interested in complaining about his many bills, and his low pay. He was right about being poorly paid, but it was because he was such a goner.

“God, that Jill is built. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers,” remarked Grover.

He referred to Jill Morley, one of The Sun’s sales people, and he was right. She was slightly exotic looking, and exuded sexuality. On this occasion, she wore an aqua skirt and vest with this little organ grinder’s monkey’s cap perched on her head. She got away with fashion risks.

Jill stood across the bar with the rest of the sales representatives, smoking and talking, which were two things they did nonstop. With the exception of Billy (I hated calling him that. After all, he was a grown man), the ad director, Jill out sold them all. Most business owners were men, and they didn’t say no to her.

“She seems kind of stuck up though, or I’m doing something wrong,” said Grover.

“What do you mean? What is it you’re trying to accomplish there?” I asked.

“I’ve tried to get her to go out a couple of times, you know, buy her lunch or something. I must be doing something wrong. Maybe she’s seeing someone. What do you think?” he asked.

Poor Grover was hopelessly out of touch. Had I spoken my thoughts, I would have said, “ She won’t go out with you because you are a damn nut. You need to find someone as goofy as you are, and you are going to have to look hard,” but I censored this.

“I think she stays pretty busy,” was all I said.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to ask. I’ll probably try her again sometime,” he sighed.

Grover and I shared loneliness. We were both points outside a circle. Unfortunately, I felt as lonely with Grover as when I was alone. I rarely went anywhere with him, but we were both Friday night regulars at the Nightshade. It was sort of a ritual for Sun employees. Some nights almost everyone came, which was fun, but a small core of us came every week, those of us with nowhere better to be.

About that time, sales representative Carver began to make his way over. He knew quite a few of the patrons in a superficial way, so he made several short stops.

“Where’s all the women at?” he asked upon arrival.

“What chance do I have, sitting next to an eyesore like Grover,” I said.

Grover scowled and mumbled something. He was touchy.

Carver invaded my comfort zone when he talked. He stood about six inches away with his big moon of a face right in front of mine, blowing his stinking cigarette breath right up my nostrils. He was very animated, but the crap he spewed made me tense, so I often tuned him out. The problem was, he tried to sound sincere and enthused about everything, and consequently, sounded sincere and enthused about nothing. Besides, I was usually too busy observing a giant pore on his nose, or distracted by some other physical flaw.

“How’s it going?” I asked. This mundane question opened the spigot.

“Pretty damn good, as a matter of fact. I had one of my best weeks this year, and it has been a good year. You’ll find five new contracts on your desk Monday morning. I’ve even got Britton signed to a half page, and I’ll have him up to a full page by year-end. You can bank on it. I’ve got Britton in my hip pocket.”

He slapped his hip pocket and winked as he said this.

“Why do you say that?” I asked. Why do I ask questions that I don’t want answered?

“I size up my customers. I study them. Now take Britton. Drives a Mercedes. Wears Italian suits. First class all the way. He wants to be the highest volume jeweler in south Jersey. I show him what his competitors do. I show him ads from big volume jewelers in Philly. I talk about Plaza Jewelers over in the mall. I get him thinking. I get him sweating.”

I didn’t want to listen anymore, so I drifted off. Carver never paused. I really out did myself with this fantasy.

A honeysuckle scented breeze cooled my body on a fresh, spring, blue-sky day. I pictured one of those scenic overlooks in the mountains. I could see for miles, and everything was magnificent. My Spitfire was backed to the edge of the overlook, and I stood at the front bumper. Jane Seymour was sprawled naked on the hood, screaming with pleasure while I gave it to her good. Her flesh squeaked against the freshly waxed metal with each thrust. I alternated my gaze between her orgasmic face and the scenery, unable to determine which was more breathtaking. Then I pictured getting a little too carried away, which can happen in sex, and pushing the Spitfire right over the cliff, Jane and I riding down, down, down, but not letting up for an instant. Talk about your climaxes.

When I checked on Carver, he still babbled about salesmanship. He hadn’t missed me. Luck rescued me when Billy waved to him from across the bar, and old Carver scurried off like an obedient little dog.

“I got a new pro baseball video game,” said Grover.

Video games were one of his big amusements in life. He sometimes invited me to his apartment to play them. I did go once, and it wouldn’t have been so bad, except his apartment stunk and the bathroom was disgusting.

“You get to pick the starting line up and work the pitching rotation. It’s based on real players and their actual statistics, and the graphics are excellent."

“Does it have the ‘80 Phillies?” I asked. That was their championship season.

I didn’t really want to know. I had reached the age where most guys were talking about cruise control, or mortgages, or golf. At least it was better than talking about those things. I tried bringing up something that I was interested in, something I could never get straight.

“Hey Larry, have you ever given much thought to evolution?” I asked.

I caught him off guard with that one, and had to repeat the question.

“I believe in creation, as described in the Bible,” he replied.

“Well, you still might know about this. Evolution is supposed to be survival of the fittest, right? Then how come we still have apes? I mean if man is genetically superior to apes, and man evolved from apes, why didn’t apes disappear? Why are apes still around, and why aren’t those apes evolving into men right now? Shouldn’t there be this chain where the inferior links keep dropping off one end, and the superior links keep getting added to the advanced end?” I asked.

I probably should have asked him the weight of Uranus.

“I believe in the Bible,” he simply stated.

I was preparing to try again.

“Damn,” he said as he slowly shook his head. “Look at old Carver hanging all over Jill. I’ll bet that fast talking bastard’s getting some.”

No one wanted to talk about anything outside the ordinary. I knew such unpredictable people growing up that the adult world was a disappointment.

“It’s about time I see a man about a horse,” he said as he stood up.

Grover waddled off to the men’s room, navigating his big feet through the crowd. On his way back, he stopped to talk with the sales people. I could tell they weren’t paying much attention to him. After an initial exchange, no one faced him. It was sad, and it made me a little angry, but I realized I often treated him the same way. I felt hollow.

After a few minutes, Grover faded out of the group all together, and rejoined me.

“Those guys remind me of high school,” he said with frustration.

Every once in a while, Grover would make an accurate semi-sophisticated observation like that. The sales department was like a dirty little high school clique. So was every other department at The Sun, and everywhere else I had worked. Distinct economic and social lines were drawn all over the place. For instance, you never saw a reporter hanging out with a pressman.

As I kicked these thoughts around, Grover sank down in his seat, looking squashed like a bullfrog. He even belched once, like a croak, and popped a beer nut, like a fly.

“There’s a Star Trek convention coming to Philly this fall,” he said.

This was another doomed attempt at conversation. Mr. Sulu would be there, and Grover wanted to buy a limited edition pewter replica of the Starship Enterprise. I liked the show, but not that much. I tried to talk about Star Trek.

“I like one episode in particular. It was about a planet so overpopulated that everyone was pressed up against each other. There wasn’t any room, but they had the technology to keep everyone alive. I read an article that said our world’s population has doubled since World War 1, and that it will double again in less than fifty years. A future like that should put an end to the abortion controversy,” I said.

Grover told me the title and episode number, but that was all he had to say. We were quiet for a couple of minutes, so I decided to put him on.

"Last year when the convention was in Philly, I ran into Mr. Spock in a Seven-eleven,” I said.

“Leonard Nimoy?” he said, clearly interested.

“No, not Leonard Nimoy, Mr. Spock,” I countered.

“Leonard Nimoy is Mr. Spock,” he said impatiently.

“Oh, well maybe it wasn’t Mr. Spock. It was probably Uhura. I get those two mixed,” I said.

“Ahhh, piss off,” he said.

Again we were quiet for a while. Then Grover began a lengthy description of some space wars video game he had recently pirated, so I switched to automatic pilot and thought about something else.

I thought about the balance in my brain. I’ve imagined myself partaking in every evil or bizarre act: rapist, mass murderer, man who has sex with a cow, you name it.

Fortunately, the balance in my brain always tilts way over to the “no” side for the above-mentioned acts, but there is a small element of “yes” in there. I guess it’s the portions of each that matter. If the portions are fairly even, you’re bound to do it sooner or later.

I wonder what determines the portions; nature or nurturing. If it is nature, and a person is predisposed to certain behaviors, there seems to be no free will. On the other hand, if we are soft lumps forged by environment, there doesn’t seem to be much free will in that either. Having concluded this, how much credit can I take for good behavior, and how much responsibility do I bear for bad behavior? Aside from being embarrassing, it is difficult to understand just what it means to be human.

Anyway, I’m glad I don’t have to struggle with mass murder, or screwing a farm animal. It’s just the harmless meandering of my imagination. As hard as it is to believe, some people really do struggle with these things. You can read all about it in The Sun.

I checked on Grover. He still went on about the space wars video game. It worked with 3-D glasses. I wanted to tell him what I was thinking, but I knew it was too flaky. Hell, Grover probably struggled with whether or not to screw outside our species.

The Nightshade had live entertainment in the summertime, though it usually wasn’t very good. I was in luck that evening. They had a motley looking waif who played a twelve-string guitar. He did gritty covers of songs by Bob Dylan, the Byrds, and Creedence, but played them at a punk tempo, much like the Ramones, all backed by shimmering work on the twelve-string.

I don’t think many of the Nightshade patrons cared for him. They were mostly top 40 types, and this guy was hard core, and out of step with the times. No one even clapped when he finished a song, until I started to clap, and a few joined in. I elbowed Grover and told him to clap, which he did.

Upon completing his set, the singer took a seat at the bar. Smiley, the ever-attentive bartender, served him a frosted mug. The “Smiley” label was a misnomer. He had the face and personality of an iguana, and no one ever saw him smile, but he kept everyone drinking. I strolled over to try striking up a conversation with the singer. Grover looked worried, like maybe I was leaving.

“I really enjoyed your song selection. Do you find people responsive to that kind of music?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” he said in a bored monotone.

He kept slowly rolling his head with his eyes closed like Ray Charles.

“What do you call yourself?” I asked.

“Blitzkrieg,” he replied.

I didn’t know what to make of that. I certainly wasn’t going to call him by name. He didn’t have much to say, so I started to ramble.

“My favorite band is the Kinks. They deal with the confusion and dehumanization of the modern world. They also have a white collar slant, which is a bit different, since most rock is blue collar,” I said.

It seemed like everything that came out of my mouth dropped straight to the floor. I might as well have been a deaf mute, for all of the communicating I did. People rarely listen to what you say anyway. We all want to do the talking, but who wants to listen? It’s all a little depressing. Listening to a person's words should be tasty, like eating a Hershey’s Kiss. Then we would listen.

“I saw this thing on television where Rickenbacker is making a Roger McGuin signature twelve-string guitar,” I said.

No response.

“Could I bum a smoke?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“You gotta smoke?”

“No,” was all I said.

I had enough. I returned to Grover.

“What did that guy have to say? He looks like a derelict. I hope he’s done playing,” said Grover.

“Well, I tried to talk music with him, but he mostly wanted to talk about you. He recognized you from the photo that runs with your editorials. It turns out he’s a big sports fan,” I said.

“Really?” he said, clearly flattered.

Grover wasn’t hard to fool.

“He said he would like it if you would join him for a drink. He figures you will draw a swarm of women, and he can grab one of your cast offs. Also he’s going to do a Madonna set next because I told him you liked Madonna,” I said.

“Screw you,” he said.

“Look, I’m going to leave soon. I’m going to the midnight show over at the mall. They’re showing ‘A Clockwork Orange.’ You feel like going?” I asked him.

“I saw that thing in college. The guy who made that was on drugs. What about the new Stallone film? Is that showing?” he asked.

“Forget it,” I said.

I got up and went to the men’s room. I went the long way to avoid the sales people, and picked up a real-estate magazine from a pile on top of the cigarette machine in case it looked like I was avoiding them.

The men’s room was far too bright, and pee covered the floor. I stepped gingerly because I wore my favorite boots, and I didn’t want the leather soles absorbing the urine. I found them in a little shop in New Brunswick. They were inexpensive because they were the only pair left, and they happened to be my size. These boots were a deep purple, but subtle, for purple, and streamlined; not clumsy like most boots. I loved them.

Someone had written the lyric from an old Willie Dixon song above the urinal. I saw it many times, but I always read it because I liked it.

It read: “The night was dark, the sky was blue. Down the alley the ice wagon flew.”

I liked the mental image I got from it. I pictured a foggy, gas lamp lit Victorian street. Mr. Hyde is driving the swaying ice wagon at great speed, whipping the horses, his cape flying in the breeze.

When I was a boy, my father referred to urinating as "draining the lizard." This thought made me chuckle. I was glad to be alone in there. It looks a bit strange if you are pissing and laughing at the same time.

I looked at my face in the mirror while I washed my hands. I could see the lines beginning to form around my eyes in the harsh white light. I already spent sleepless nights debating whether to touch up my hair with Grecian Formula for Men. Now I needed Oil of Olay. It’s funny, the way you have to watch your body deteriorate. After so many years, I’ll be looking in the mirror wondering what’s holding me up.

I placed the real-estate magazine back on the cigarette machine, again as an excuse to avoid the sales people. My eyes stung from all of the smoke.

“I need to get out of here. I’m going to the movie,” I told Grover.

"I’ve got an idea,” he said like he had a really great idea. “Let’s go over my house and play that baseball game. I’ve got plenty of beer in the fridge."

“No, I feel like the movies,” I said.

I took my money from the bar, and left a sopping bill for Smiley. I knew I smelled like a bar rag.

“You’ve still got time for one more. Come on. I’m buying,” said Grover.

“No thanks,” and out the door I shot.