As I open the door, the stench of stale beer and decade old cigarette smoke compels a tear of joy to well up in my left eye. Being a man of principle, I refuse to let it fall and wipe it away with the sleeve of my long, black wool coat. I move towards the decrepit wooden bar, noticing only two other patrons in the establishment, seated at opposite ends of the aforementioned bar. I remove my frozen leather gloves and dirty old ushank, wipe away the thin film of snot that has accumulated on my upper lip, and take my place in the middle; equidistant from the two other men. A large man, the barkeep, turns around to face me, his fat mug is greasy and--despite the frigid temperature--doused in sweat. “You wanna da-ring?” he asks in a barely audible Eastern European accent. “Yeah, yeah, thanks. Gimmie your cheapest beer and a shot of Malort.” “No Malor here,” he says. “Well, just the beer then,” I reply, not bothering to mask my disappointment and fury. No Malort? In this fucking city? The barkeep hands me a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and says, “Tha-ree dollar.” I shoot him a perturbed grimace. “Three fucking dollars for a can of PBR?” “Tha-ree dollar,” he grunts again, holding out his calloused and grimey hand. I pay the fat fuck; no tip.
We repeat this exchange ten or twelve more times. Being well on my way to good and drunk, I recall that I entered this particular watering hole with a purpose. What was it again? Couldn’t be the lost dog I was hired to locate for Mrs. Adams, though maybe he is in here. “Baxter!” I shout--or slur--leaning back on my barstool and goofily turning my head from left to right and back again. I burp and hiccup at the same time, resulting in that almost yacking sound so familiar to drunks. I swallow the sour taste it leaves. No sign of the mutt. I order another PBR.
Read More
