not quite but almost

on Salamander Jacks

John leaned more heavily into the bar.  His cerise tie dipped indifferently in a small pool of beer foam.  As the fabric absorbed the sweet liquid, it became darker and heavier.  He started to speak. 

"The thing is-" He stopped.  Noticing his tie, his placid demeanor was replaced by a misdirected rage.

"This goddam tie peice of shit!"  Sal quickly moved John's beer, as his elbows began flailing around, attempting to rip the article from round his neck.  The struggling only made the knot tighter.  Suddenly John calmed, his eyes closed.

"Sal, do you have a knife, or some scissors?" he asked, in a very deliberate fashion.

"Sure, John.  One sec."  Sal went into his small office and brought out a large pair of scissors with black handles.  John took them without making eye contact.  With one snip, he cut through the tie at his neck.  He hung it from his finger, and felt much lighter.

"You got a bin?" John asked.  Sal gestured to a corner behind the bar.  John flung the sodden garment, missing the bin by a foot.  It lay in a heap on the ground against the wall, like a cancerous entrail.  "Figures."  John shrugged, and slid the scissors back across the bar towards Sal, and took a triumphant swig of beer.  He looked down, collecting himself.  He looked up confidently at Sal, who was standing expectantly on the other side of the bar.  He faltered.

"Where was I?" he asked.

"You were telling me what the thing was." Sal replied.  He glanced down towards the deeper end of the bar, where a young woman was seated writing a letter at a table.  The lighting wasn't too good down that end of the room, and Sal wondered why the woman was sitting so far from the front.  He poured himself a glass of water.

"Thats right. I was.  The thing is..." John recollected, and was instantly lost again down another thought tributary.  "Do you know how fucking long I've been wearing that fucking tie?"  He pointed accusingly at the crumpled heap.

"I don't know John.  Since this morning?" Sal mused.  His attention was only half given to John and his ramblings.  More interesting was the young lady, who had stopped writing to finish her bourbon.  A broad who drinks bourbon, Sal thought.  Jesus.

"Is that a joke?  Of course since this morning."  John scrunched up his face in a mixture of confusion and repulsion.  "I'm using a fucking metaphor, Sal.  You know what that is?  Or a fucking similie.  I could never tell the difference."  John became angry at his own distraction.  "Its not relevent anyway, who cares?  That goddam tie has been around my neck for twelve years.  Do you know how long that is?"

Sal sighed.  Of course he knew how long it was.  Don't ask stupid questions, you drunk idiot, Sal wanted to say.  John had been selling cars for twelve years.  Before that, he'd been a mechanic.  Before that, he'd dropped out of school.  The water tasted tinny in Sal's mouth.  He poured it away, leaving the glass in the sink.

"You want another drink, John?"  Sal pointed down at the empty glass in John's hand.

John forgot the question he was waiting for an answer to.  He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember something long forgotten,  or remembering an event long since past.  "Sure, I could use another.  You sure you won't join me?"

"I run this bar, John, I don't fuckin' drink at it." Sal said, tired of being asked.  He popped open another bottle of beer and handed it to John, who didn't take it immediatley.  He seemed distracted again, unable to collect his thoughts.  Eventually, he took the beer and a long swig, and lowered the bottle gently to the table.  His head lowered with it.

"Fuckin' twelve years."  he mumbled, withdrawn again.

Sal, relieved to be able to leave John to his own devices, walked round the front of the bar, and walked to the table adjacent to the one occupied by the young lady.  He collected some glasses and glanced to his left, hoping to catch her eye.  Sal didn't get many single women in his bar.  He didn't get many people in his bar at all nowadays.  Business, and people, had shifted closer to the centre of town.  Or away into the suburbs.  Which left Sal in a no-mans-land of derelict cars, street bums and drug dealers.

---------------------

to be continued (possibly).

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