Broken Harp
The bar was dimly lit, cigarette smoke drifting from the bar and a booth. Cracked green leather covered the stools, a thousand asses paving the way for my own. Oddly comforting, the warn dark wood bar with all its scratches and chips told a story of those who came before, those there now, and who ever will sit in the thousand ass seat tomorrow. The guys came here to drink, so lots of talking was rare. The radio was usually on behind the bar, next to Ol’ Bill. Bill was sitting in his stool, as he always was, prefering to sit and read a newspaper then stand and tend bar. Which was ok, nobody had a problem with Bill, and that’s what you expect when coming to the Broken Harp, a smoky-quiet place with a little murmuring in the corner. Every time I came, it was like the smoke hugged me, the dim lighting kept me in a dream like state, the general indifference gave me solace, and the drinks kept me warm.
A local college was a few streets away, so every couple of weeks, a group of girls would accidentally stumble through the door, flashing their fakes and flaunting their stomachs. The truck drivers and road workers who frequented the bar would shift in there seats, re-tuck their shirts, pulled up their jeans, run a hand through their greasy mop( if they had a mop to run their hands through). They always went to the same table, a corner booth in the back, and giggled their way into drinks, drinks, drinks. Big guys and skinny youngsters would approach the gaggle, acknowledge a girl, and then get sent to get her a drink. This ritual ask and receive had a prehistoric feel, an male need to provide being tapped into, fueling the girl’s night out. They’d stay for an hour, then after realising the talent the Broken Harp stocked, would leave the table, beers half finished, and a wallet or two on the floor.
At least that’s how it used to be. Ol’ Bill had a son, and that kid went to the college near the bar. He’d come in sometimes to ask his dad for money, and then leave with whatever was in the tip jar. Bill did little more than grunt at this, and by the time he looked up, his kid was gone. Rascal, he might mumble, just like his damn mother. Then he’d take a long drag from his newport, and looked up while he slowly exhaled, asking God for anything. When his kid was a sophomore, Ol’ Bill decided he was going to retire soon. He knew his kid needed a job, so he started making him come around to the bar on weeknights. His kid was a prick, seemed to worry more about his hair and how ironed his polo was then anything else. His friends started to come, and he charged them half of what everyone else was paying. Halfway through his second week, he brought a TV. Suddenly, the quiet solace I once found, was interrupted by whistles, and commercials for nothing.
I moved down a stool that week, the unfamiliar leather making me sit up a little taller than usual, the white light from the TV cutting through the dark bar, the flickering colors keeping me from falling into my slump, into my comfort. The murmuring in the back changed to shouts and cheers, jeers and spilled beers. The kid wouldn’t look at me when he served me my beers, his eyes locked onto the TV, reflecting an empty flicking.
I came in after work on that Friday, to find every seat at the bar filled. I stood in the doorway, mouth falling agape, dropping my cigarette. The place was packed, and they all were wearing college football jerseys, accompanied by an air of suspense and the thin fruity smell of e-cigs. The TV had speakers around it, and was moved in front of the dart board, propped up on a high table, the fans forming a mass around the screen. The lights were on, cruelly thrusting all of the bar’s shy character onto a stage, where it had to deal with a litany of insults and the unappreciative rapport of underage drinkers. I robotically got a beer and sat down in the only empty booth, the one near the bathroom, out of sight from the screen. In the light I could see the dirt under my nails, my filthy arms, my torn pants and sleeves, the shit on the glass, and the uneven stain on the table. A cheer erupted from the crowd, a solitary Damnit! was followed by laughter and slaps. I finished my beer, got up and left the bar, and took a second outside light a camel for the walk home. At least the sun was starting to set, I thought, when I overheard the kid who was outside the bar, taking a pull from his vape.
“200 bucks to reupholster 10 seats?” he flicked the question like it was a bug. “Those piece of shit chairs aren’t even worth that much” he said, spitting into the street.
