profiles. The one thing you could probably say about everybody in this bar is they all hate the United States government.
Rough trade.
Marvin Gladstone got that right.
It is 10:00 p.m. on a Monday night and this must be the crossroads of criminal activity in Washington County. Two fat truckers and two even fatter hookers are squeezed rump-to-rump, pitcher-to-pitcher at a table littered with pizza and chips, openly popping pills. Mexican gangbangers hover near a TV showing the fights, palming nickel bags of coke, muttering and complaining, flicking butts, grinding the worn heels of their western boots to jukebox Santana. The female neo-Nazis are big into black eyeliner and leather halters that show off their breasts, but I am wearing one of Darcy’s yellow oxford shirts with a collar, jeans with a belt, and beat-up Timberlands. (“Bad guys don’t have good boots,” Angelo warned.)
The only woman at Omar’s less conspicuous than I am seems to be the lady in a calf-length denim skirt with a flounce, who is standing at my left, patiently waiting for the bartender’s attention. She has been there long enough, and close enough, for me to pick up her scent, like fresh almond soap, underneath the bitter stench of cigarette smoke. And then I notice the sheaves of richly colored gray-and-silver hair caught up in barrettes and falling past her shoulders, and that the woman, although twenty-some years older than I am and as many pounds heavier, radiates the sturdiness and ease in her body of someone who labors outdoors; her finely creased skin seems to hold the moist glaze of cold and foggy mornings.
The bartender darts his chin at her as he blows by. “Give me a sec, Megan.”
“Sure thing.”
“You’ve been waiting a long time,” I observe.
“The waitress is busy,” the woman replies without a trace of resentment, and there is an eager jolt as I recognize this person shows an inherent sympathy for the underdog—such as a lonely stranger in a new city?
Opening move: “I love your necklace.”
A heavy silver pendant of interlocking triangles rests upon her pillowy chest.
“A valknot. Ever heard of it?”
I shake my head.
Megan answers with a forgiving smile. “A Nordic symbol for the three aspects of the universe.”
“Now,” announces the bartender, sweating from his shaved head, “what can I get for you, Megan?”
He pours white wine and mixes up a Salty Dog with fresh grapefruit juice and premium gin while Megan stares across at Mr. Terminate. And Mr. Terminate glares right back at her.
“You know that guy?” I ask.
“That’s John. I think he likes you.”
“No.”
“Yes. He’s looking right at you,” she says without moving her lips.
“He’s looking at
you.
”
It is hard to tell what is going on underneath the top hat and mirrored sunglasses.
“He knows better than to mess with me,” Megan says lightly.
Mr. Terminate has picked up an ashtray. It is a white ceramic ashtray, like the one in front of us, and it says
Coors.
Megan says, “Uh-oh.”
“What’s he doing?” I ask, alarmed.
“If you’re wearing a leg holster for a primary weapon, you’re an idiot,” Angelo always says, but for the second or third time that evening, I wish Darcy DeGuzman were carrying a .45 automatic.
I have noticed we are often burdened by our own creations.
“Look out,” Megan warns.
“Why?”
Instead of answering, she starts to back away from the bar.
Mr. Terminate is examining the ashtray closely, hefting it in his hand as if it were an apple.
Then he eats it.
He chews it, and chomps it with his back teeth, and there is an extraordinary sound, like marbles grinding against one another in a soft cloth bag. A pause, then he spews a great shower of white shards and pink-flecked foam across the bar. He picks the remaining pieces out of his beard, and then, with a meaningful look at me, lifts his glass and drinks the rest of the whiskey down.
Nobody bats an eye. The bartender is there
Rough trade.
Marvin Gladstone got that right.
It is 10:00 p.m. on a Monday night and this must be the crossroads of criminal activity in Washington County. Two fat truckers and two even fatter hookers are squeezed rump-to-rump, pitcher-to-pitcher at a table littered with pizza and chips, openly popping pills. Mexican gangbangers hover near a TV showing the fights, palming nickel bags of coke, muttering and complaining, flicking butts, grinding the worn heels of their western boots to jukebox Santana. The female neo-Nazis are big into black eyeliner and leather halters that show off their breasts, but I am wearing one of Darcy’s yellow oxford shirts with a collar, jeans with a belt, and beat-up Timberlands. (“Bad guys don’t have good boots,” Angelo warned.)
The only woman at Omar’s less conspicuous than I am seems to be the lady in a calf-length denim skirt with a flounce, who is standing at my left, patiently waiting for the bartender’s attention. She has been there long enough, and close enough, for me to pick up her scent, like fresh almond soap, underneath the bitter stench of cigarette smoke. And then I notice the sheaves of richly colored gray-and-silver hair caught up in barrettes and falling past her shoulders, and that the woman, although twenty-some years older than I am and as many pounds heavier, radiates the sturdiness and ease in her body of someone who labors outdoors; her finely creased skin seems to hold the moist glaze of cold and foggy mornings.
The bartender darts his chin at her as he blows by. “Give me a sec, Megan.”
“Sure thing.”
“You’ve been waiting a long time,” I observe.
“The waitress is busy,” the woman replies without a trace of resentment, and there is an eager jolt as I recognize this person shows an inherent sympathy for the underdog—such as a lonely stranger in a new city?
Opening move: “I love your necklace.”
A heavy silver pendant of interlocking triangles rests upon her pillowy chest.
“A valknot. Ever heard of it?”
I shake my head.
Megan answers with a forgiving smile. “A Nordic symbol for the three aspects of the universe.”
“Now,” announces the bartender, sweating from his shaved head, “what can I get for you, Megan?”
He pours white wine and mixes up a Salty Dog with fresh grapefruit juice and premium gin while Megan stares across at Mr. Terminate. And Mr. Terminate glares right back at her.
“You know that guy?” I ask.
“That’s John. I think he likes you.”
“No.”
“Yes. He’s looking right at you,” she says without moving her lips.
“He’s looking at
you.
”
It is hard to tell what is going on underneath the top hat and mirrored sunglasses.
“He knows better than to mess with me,” Megan says lightly.
Mr. Terminate has picked up an ashtray. It is a white ceramic ashtray, like the one in front of us, and it says
Coors.
Megan says, “Uh-oh.”
“What’s he doing?” I ask, alarmed.
“If you’re wearing a leg holster for a primary weapon, you’re an idiot,” Angelo always says, but for the second or third time that evening, I wish Darcy DeGuzman were carrying a .45 automatic.
I have noticed we are often burdened by our own creations.
“Look out,” Megan warns.
“Why?”
Instead of answering, she starts to back away from the bar.
Mr. Terminate is examining the ashtray closely, hefting it in his hand as if it were an apple.
Then he eats it.
He chews it, and chomps it with his back teeth, and there is an extraordinary sound, like marbles grinding against one another in a soft cloth bag. A pause, then he spews a great shower of white shards and pink-flecked foam across the bar. He picks the remaining pieces out of his beard, and then, with a meaningful look at me, lifts his glass and drinks the rest of the whiskey down.
Nobody bats an eye. The bartender is there
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