the chapter about a bar

copyright ©2017,2019 arden henderson

The surprisingly colorful autonomous vehicle purred up to the gleaming tower at 604 Neches Street in Austin, Texas. It was night time. The single occupant stepped out onto the extra-wide sidewalk, ignoring the flowing well-dressed crowds. The occupant, a young man in his twenties, had just flown in from some great tech center across the country. This was his new home. The doorman recognized him and opened one of the building’s shiny doors.

Just as he stepped forward, he became aware of the old man walking up.

Gawd, thought the techster. Homeless? All the homeless had been deported back in 2022. In the last of the deportations. Or was it 2032. Decades ago, to be sure. Who was this guy?

The old man had to be in his eighties. Somehow he looked older. The techster realized the grimy old dude was talking to him.

“Want to hear some stories?” asked the old man, standing there in his pitiful attire, neither in style nor clean. “I tell stories. Tales from the old.”

The techster smirked coldly and dismissed the old guy with a wave of a hand, walking forward into the tower, past the doorman, barely aware of the doorman as the doorman held the door and looked past him at the sad sack of a human with a disapproving stare.

After the techster had disappeared into building, as the doorman spoke into his lapel mike to get Security to drum this slovenly fool away, by the time the doorman looked back up, the old man was gone. Shaking his head, the doorman looked up absently at the monorail arcing over, a batch of cars shuttling rapidly, in a rush deeper into the city.

The doorman faded back into the building, locking out the heat. The heat was more unbearable than usual, it seemed, even for a February night. The lack of rain for the last eight months hadn’t helped. Crowds flowed back and forth in front of the tower, all of the towers, spires and columns brightly lit, climbing endlessly up into the forever bright sky.

The security guys had magically appeared by the doorman. They were always loaded for bear. Fully automatic firepower was slung forward, a place to rest their forearms. Security had been only steps away and the younger security guy sarcastically pointed out they had been watching all along, wondered aloud why the doorman – again – insisted on using his radio which seemed a little stupid since they were close by. The doorman smiled a cold smile. Guy’s an ass, he mulled to himself.

Besides that, the security guys remarked they had already notified the nearest scrub team. Can’t have gnarly, unwashed homeless about, even if none had been seen for decades.

The doorman glanced at the techster, now entering the hotel bar, bathed in the light of LCD screens, bright lights, expensive drinks. The guy had to be pulling down a solid million per year, the doorman mused as he moved towards the doors once again. Had to be. To live in this place, anyway.

 

Had either the doorman or the security guys or the techster or the purposefully striding crowds been curious, or even vaguely aware, they would have noticed the old man now walking away, becoming ever more transparent, into an encroaching darkness, a darkness oddly at odds with the sun-drenched street scene, past the four mounted police, their horses, always much larger than imagined until standing nearby, clip-clopping on the cobblestones. The city had invested much in cobblestones, creating a faux yesteryear. The old man, now hardly visible, walked away, crossing alleys, past what the city fathers and mothers had hoped would be a rival to San Antonio’s River Walk.

Not many tunnel entries were left these days. But the old man knew where to go, pausing briefly at an old limestone wall before pushing in. As the door opened, for just a moment, way down the tunnel, a glimpse of a dark bar could be seen. Rock could be heard. Dim yet festive lights could be seen. He trundled forward, each step becoming more sure, more stable. Through a haze of smoke not seen decades, a huge Last Supper mural wavered behind the crowds, the painted characters seemingly laughing and toasting. Suddenly, just like that, he was gone, invisible to a teeming city.

In another place not far away, close than one might think, it was cold as hell outside and growing colder. A fine mist of sleet now whipped down. Snow was anticipated. It was deep in February. The local TV affiliates had long predicted the arctic blast now thundering into Austin. Everyone inside Lovejoys Tap Room & Brewery was quite cozy and warm. The music was good. The beer was cold. And all under the amiable smile of Jesus in The Last Supper mural. Yet, not quite Jesus. But better.

A new crew wandered past the bouncer. The bouncers at Lovejoys were always friendly in a surly way. With just a glance and a bit of glowering, since the bouncer’s conversation with a group of black-tee types was interrupted, they were in.

Often, on a lark, one of the barkeeps would take regulars mixed with the freshies on a tour of the brewery. It was miles and miles of plastic containers draped with plastic tubs. Herein the brews bubbled, a festive party of fermentation. It was not well-known by all but the regulars how deep the bar went. In fact, the building was over old Austin tunnels and deep, limestone-faced places.

 

One night, the barkeep took a motley crew to a series of iron-clad doors, robust with rivets and complicated gears and levers. The barkeep opened one of the doors and gestured at the acres of wheat and barley drifting into the distance, gently waving in the wind, under a benevolent, looming moon that seem larger than possible. It all made sense and everyone nodded in agreement it was quite the set-up. Other doors were never opened. Ah, you must never go there, admonished the barkeep when one of the more ebullient of the group stepped forward and tried to spin one of the large steel wheels to open a door. No one knew why.

As the hours slid into the night, well-known events happened. Or maybe happened. Legends, nonetheless. The casket-as-table was always avoided by the faint-of-heart but made for a goodly, sturdy support for pints of well-dressed beer. On occasion, it was said, a thin, faint voice would come from within the casket but the regulars said that never happened. Yet, the owner of the bar would always walk through and inspect the steel screws holding the lid down, making sure no absent-minded patron had fiddled with them, loosening them.

Sometimes it was Sunday and therefore, invariably, one might see the Sunday Grind roll into the bar. The Sunday Grind was a bar crawl that hopped bars through Austin with a tendency to circle 4th Street. On occasion, the Grind would veer down to 6th by way of Red River, then off 6th, and dart into Lovejoys, part of a well-worn path which included Casino El Camino, Jackalope, and, always, Ed’s Cucaracha.

The main bar at Lovejoys was not unlike the control deck of Star Trek’s Enterprise. In fact, for spell one sultry evening after Austin downtown filming of Miss Congeniality, William Shatner himself sat there, alongside a tall blonde with endless legs, engrossed in conversation until one of the barkeeps called him out. Shatner spun on his stool and indulged the crowd’s question, the bar nearly coming to a halt. Yet he did not forget his date but included her. Such was the Captain.

There were many that sat comfortably around that round bar across the nights. Actually, it was a sort of C-shaped bar, open in the back. Sometimes, a round of shots would be bought for all at the bar. One guy would come in known for this and the barkeep would tell the regulars as the guy approached, whatever you do, be cool and he’ll buy all of youse a round. So shut the hell up. Not a peep, see. No one ever knew what happened to the guy. One day he just disappeared from downtown. There were rumors about a dust-up on what was known as The Waller Creek Walk, maybe a move to the northern hinterlands, but rumors were four-dozen a penny in the feisty Austin downtown, a land of regulars, townies, and tourists. Back when pennies existed.

 

During that cold February night, as the bar crew sat with their smokes, shots, and beer backs, the barkeep leaned forward. Lengthy conversations and permutations of chit-chat halted. Everyone sitting round the bar looked at her, waiting.

“Someday,” she said with a sly smile as she polished a glass, looking at each one in turn, “all this smoke you see swirling around will be gone. Every customer will have a cell phone – everyone – and they will continuously glance down at the devices, the so-called ‘smart phones.’ You’ll never know if they are listening to you or reading their phone. So, you’ll stare at your phone, too.”

She continued, “Towering skyscrapers will rise over Austin, full of people living downtown in dwellings more costly in a year than all the money you ever will make in your lifetime. In fact, this place, our home, will be obliterated by one of those towers leaping up from here. And, winters will be like spring, yet more humid and tepid, and summers hotter than even the hell you already know.”

The barkeep paused for a moment, placing the glass into a rack, looking down momentarily to make sure the glass was set properly. Best to avoid accidents. It was glass, after all. She looked up at her rapt listeners and grinned broadly.

“You mean we won’t be allowed to smoke here, really? That’s ridiculous,” burbled one old salt sitting down at one of the curved ends. The barkeep smiled a knowing smile. The preposterous story had created a moment of silence. But not for long. Everyone chuckled and took a drag.

“You almost had us there for a minute,” someone said. There was smirking.

Others had strolled up, catching the conversation. The barkeep put out new brews. At the door, William Shatner walked in, this time with some of the cast and all of the crew. The sound guy was well-known to the bouncer and they shared some words.

Over next to the bar, the black wall shifted and the old man, now not old a’tall, walked in. There was a flurry of greetings shared with good humor. The barkeep gruffled in mock admonishment; she said again she wished he would not do that. Across the way, ever vigilant, the bouncer looked over and nodded. The bouncer saw all.

The bar was approaching full now. There was a festive air, of being in a dark, happy bar, warm with plentiful libations, good cheer, and the comforts of home. Someone told a joke. All those in attendance began to laugh. The more they laughed, the more uproarious the laughter. Shots were poured. A mighty toast was raised to all the departed and all those there. Right now, in this place, at this time. Laughter drifted out the door, past the bouncer who was in now deep in animated conservation with a group of curious out-of-towners.

The peals of joy faded as the sound moved further away into the dark alleys, past the crowds of black-dressed people walking towards 6th Street, sound fading as the first snowflakes spiraled down, the beginning of a bitter, three-week arctic blast now picking up speed, straight in from the north. From far away.

Inside the forever bar, Lovejoys, was a good place to be.

 

And the night was young.

This is a chapter written for Chip Tait’s book project.