Election Night
The pub was packed, a bipartisan affair. It had a clever name: the Tumble Inn. They sold t-shirts and coffee mugs. During the week it was a quiet wood-paneled dive of drinking and shuffleboard. It doubled as a daytime restaurant that served a great Reuben sandwich and a so-so French onion soup. Fridays and Saturdays meant live music and a cover charge, and Sundays were set aside for open mic heroes.
The usual bartender during the week was a gruff, red-and-white bearded Irishman named Tim. He always came to the Tumble Inn on his days off, where he’d take up residence at the middle of the bar, drinking pint after pint of Guinness while doling out invectives, scoffs, and sarcasm, and then chasing it with a shot of Jäger.
Franklin Bishop was a relapsed graduate student with a B.A. in Literature and a C.D.L. for his job. He first came to the pub because of a manic pixie dream girl, who had a thing for boys named Louie. She soon dumped him, but he stuck around, since he enjoyed its mix of scruffy regulars, cute coeds, the rotating crew of bar hoppers, and the long-haired hippies who came to watch the band and dance.
When the pub wasn’t too busy, Franklin could be found talking about books with Mike, the bartender with a PhD in psychology, or ordering Black & Tans from Charmaine, with her ruddy curls and no-nonsense mien. He generally only spoke to Tim when he felt like getting into an argument.
“Frank, come here, you dirty bastard.”
“Hi Tim.”
“Look at this cocksucker,” Tim gestured up at the presidential candidate being shown on TV.
Franklin nodded and said, “Yeah.” There wasn’t much else to say.
Tim then held up three fingers and twirled them around, a signal to either Mike or Charmaine to pour some shots. Franklin despised the licorice taste of Jäger, but hey, free booze. Tim’s friend Jim stood nearby in his beige ball cap that was broken in like a glove. Both he and Tim were in their fifties, much older the stock age of the clientele. Jim preferred to nurse a few beers over the course of the evening and then down a hot cup of a Joe before heading home for the night.
“Let me tell you how it is,” Tim said, holding aloft the tall shot of sticky black liquor.
Franklin silently gulped and lifted his shot to eye level.
“Those bastards with their electioneering and lies are going down the toilet. Fuck ’em. Tonight is the night we’ll win.” He spoke in his usual cocksure way, because there was never any room for doubt in his mind.
“I can drink to that,” Franklin said, though he lacked Tim’s confidence on the matter.
“Cheers,” the three of them said in unison.
Tim slammed his shot back with speed and relish, releasing a Coca-Cola-like “ahh!” afterwards. Jim took his down with the casual ease of a man who knows he’s soon to retire. Franklin drank the ice cold syrup easily enough, but then had a violent gastric episode. All the beer and bile resting in his stomach up-chucked into his mouth. His cheeks blew up like Louis Armstrong.
But Franklin didn’t spew right then, oh no. He was a man of patience and integrity. He raised his hand as if to suggest just a minute and then walked calmly outside. People were standing on the sidewalk smoking in the chilly dark night. Franklin found a semi-private spot and then spit out the vile confluence. Steam rose from his regurgitation.
He glanced up at the gas station across the street with glassy, tear-streaked eyes. He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, then straightened his shirt, brushed back his hair, and went back to the rollicking din inside.
Election night had just begun and Franklin needed another round to rinse his mouth out.
