Happy Hour

The bar was overcrowded tonight. In twos and threes they came. Young men in overly starched shirts, ties ostentatiously selected in an attempt to compensate for their shortcomings and shoes polished by poor men just trying to get by in the middle of Penn Station. These men, the direct proof that some couples just should not reproduce, were accompanied by not-so-young ladies with emotionless faces and miniskirts shorter than an irritated boss' incompetence tolerance and tighter than an accountant's bottom line. Yuppiedom at its finest.

Happy hour had just began, but already there was a cloud of smoke emanating from half-finished cigarettes perilously resting in cracked ashtrays, sporadically interspersed amoungst the generic chipped Formica tables cast away from airport pubs. The smoke just about replaced the oxygen in the air and it was inhaled as if it were a suitable replacement. The mournful voice of Bruce Springsteen cackled itself free, by way of the antiquated jukebox in the corner by the out-of-order-since-1992 payphone. No one usually wandered over to that corner anyway; the patrons usually left it up to Sally to put on whomever she fancied listening to on that given evening. It was her place after all. Occasionally, when a new person happened to stumble upon the pub, they'd make the mistake of dropping a few coins into the jukebox and put on music more recent than 1987 and someone more familiar with the customs would either take them outside, or beat them beyond recognition right there…depending on their current level of intoxication. More often than not though, at least as of recently, it had been the latter.

The booths and benches fill quickly and by seven there is little standing room left. The stools around Sally, however, are left for the usual suspects. Hillary and her martinis—dirty and dry, Charlie's right hand clenched around a half drunken glass of whisky with a
morbidly obese prostitute named Wendy toying with the other, Ryan with beers one through three staring down his babyface right in front of him, Pete already six deep into his vodka on the rocks. As per tradition, the first toast of the night went to Sally and her bar for being their everything—therapist, home, escape, call-screener, mother. And the second went to the oak countertop that held their weary heads. A once-gallant piece of great New England oak, marred with cigarette burns, obscene phrases and stains from impolite patrons' glasses. Yes, this ancient wood now placed beneath scar-laden, liver-spotted forearms had seen thousands of nights like this before.

"Pete, honey", Wanda murmured tentatively, "darling. How did it go?"

"What do you mean?" asked Pete.

"Don't give me that crap. It's insulting. We all are simply dying to know."

"Ya? Well it's not your problem now, is it?"

And with that, Pete grabbed a Marlboro Red from the inside coat pocked of his pseudo intelligentsia standard tweed jacket pocked and proceeded to fumble around in search of a lighter.

"Goddamn it!" He mumbled under his breath, "Anyone got a light?"

"Here bro," said Ryan as he slid over his engraved Zippo.

"Thanks man."

Everyone reached for another drink, all with one common goal in mind: to surpass last night's level of intoxication. They were all well on their way, even Wendy throwing back drinks easier than water. Charlie glanced over at Wendy and the four empty glasses to her left and shook his head disapprovingly.

"Maybe you shouldn't be drinking so much. As soon as the blue and whites are gone, you're hitting the streets" he said.

"Fuck you! I am not going to do that shit sober. You all will be seein' me licking up spilt beers to keep my buzz goin' first." spat Wendy.

"Your dumb, fat, trashy ass will be dead on Sally's floor if you ever talk to me that way again."

And with that, Charlie raised his right hand and, without removing his numerous rings, brought it across Wendy's porcine face. His handprint was clearly visible, a sharp crimson contrast to her ghostly pale skin and thick layers of poorly applied makeup. She sat there stunned, mouth open…as if she was about to actually stand up for herself, then she just poured down another drink into her waiting throat.

Pete began to cry. Not just a tear or two, but the full-blown tears of an irreparably hurt middle-aged man.

"Why did you have to hit her? Why? She's an adult! A fucking adult for Christ's sake!" Pete choked, "if she wants another fucking drink, let the dumb cooze take as many as she fucking wants. They probably make it easier for her to fucking deal with belonging to your disgusting, disease-laden ass!"

Wendy, not quite sure how to take being called property, a whore and having her sense of autonomy defended within the same eighteen seconds, threw her drink on the floor and stormed out amidst a flurry of glass shards. Charlie chased after, with her cheap plastic purse, while casting the most spiteful of stares down Pete's spine.

"You stupid slut! Wait! You fucking left my Goddamn money right there!" he bellowed after her, apparently immune to the repercussions of making his profession very public.

It is time for another drink. Hillary, always the classy one, had moved on from the martinis to gin and tonics, just enough to keep her buzz going for a while. Ryan blushed a serious shade of rose. He had drunk enough of the cheap stuff to forget his money woes (not to mention what his wife would say) and started coughing up enough cash for the real good brandy. Pete, a purist, kept with his vodka on the rocks. For him, it's the only thing that works.

"And here's to life," Sally took a second from tending bar to toast.
"Bitch and moan all you want but it's better than the alternative. Or at least more expensive."

Pete picks up his head and glass, "nice gesture Sally. Really, it is. But death's better than some secrets."

"Why babe? What the Hell really happened? Just let it out."

"It's not that. I swear. It's just that you're so delusional and try to solve all of my problems. But Sal- hate to tell you- but your solutions are useless right now."

Hillary began to drink, but stopped. Her ice blue eyes looked glazed over, but still pierced a hole in anything they touched.

"Stop being an attention fiend. If you wanted to tell us, you would have already. Either 'fess up now or quit acting like my toddler and stop whining. It's starting to bring me down."

"You drunk bitch," said Ryan. "When are you not at least somewhat tipsy?"

"Dude!" chimed in Pete. "Lay off. For once, she's right."

Hillary finished her drink and looked up. "So then. How about it?"

"Whatever. Fine. Ok." Pete says. "That bastard showed up at her funeral. He looked so Goddamned slick; I almost didn't recognize him without the splatters of blood on his hands. I didn't want that jacka-"

"So why did he get an invitation?" Ryan interrupted, only to be the warranted recipient of condescending looks from Hillary and Sally.

"Go on," Sally urged Pete.

"He had no right to show up. He put her in the coffin. He took a baseball bat and slammed in into her skull seventeen times- one for each of the years she wasted on him. Doctors told me that the first blow knocked Dana out, the second killed her."

"At least your wife didn't suffer, darling." said Hillary, in a timbre uncharacteristically soft.

"He killed her and came to her funeral, trying to play Mr. Nice Guy." choked Pete. "The cops say they don't have enough evidence to charge him-- no prints and no one saw him or nothin'... but I know it was him.

"How?" challenged Ryan.

"I I I I I" Pete stammered, "I just do. Who else would have the evil in them to kill like that?"

Hillary, Sally and Ryan looked down at their drinks and simultaneously finished them in one gulp. Hillary began to cough and spilled the rest of her gin and tonic all over the bar.

"Oops." Hillary laughed, with a touch of sarcasm. "Sally- throw me another. I'm not quite drunk enough after that one."

Sally obliged. Hillary always got what she wanted.

By now, Happy Hour was long gone. With it have left the college and after-work crowd. Sally was glad to see the yuppies go. They all only had one thing on their mind and she hated that her place was nothing more than a spot to throw back a few drinks and maybe get lucky. It was not exactly the clientele Sally craved, but their seemingly bottomless bank accounts and carefree attitudes helped pay the bills, so she was not really in a position to complain. She did, just once, after one frat boy emptied his stomach contents all over the pool table in back. Turns out he was underage but had a really good fake
ID. The police weren't too keen on Sally kicking him out with alcohol poisoning when he was only nineteen. She almost lost her license after that one, some garbage about it being illegal to supply liquor to minors.

"Such is life." said Sally, as she poured another round for the house.

It's time for midnight shots. As per tradition, every night at midnight, anyone who had been there since 8pm and is still able to go through the alphabet without confusing "L, M, N, O, P" got a shot of whisky on Sally. Tonight, aside from herself, Ryan, Hillary and Pete, only three men passed the test. These men have been around for nearly five hours now and are still talking shop—something about bonds and equities and other Wall Street jargon Sally cannot understand (and hoped like hell she never will need to). But regardless of the number of participants, the instant the second hand on the classic neon-rimmed clock hanging over the door strikes midnight, the glasses were raised and emptied.

"Cheers to not being dead, motherfuckers!" the bar cried and then settles back down in an instant, as if nothing had happened.

All the while, Bruce Springsteen is still singing his melancholy head off.