so the guys could gather
and brag about their vehicles well into the night. The sign outside
read Corner Bar, but only someone not from, or new to town called
it that. Many years ago one of the original owners of the bar had a
dog named Axle. The dog would accompany the man in the bar. A
picture of him is still taped to the cash register; the dog’s, not
the man’s.
A few people lingered and chatted on the
front sidewalk as I pulled up. I left any potential parking spots
open in the back for guys with a praise worthy truck. My rusty four
door sedan didn’t belong back there.
With a bar like Axle’s, you didn’t have to
worry about meeting up with a friend elsewhere in advance or even
picking a specific time to arrive. The second you walked in the
door, all eyes would turn and you instantly were folded into the
atmosphere.
I saw Randy and Chuck near the pool table and
waved, acknowledging I knew where they were. Three conversations
took place on my way to the bartender. Before I reached the highly
polished counter, a beer was already in my hand. I had brought
about thirty dollars with me, but knew I wouldn’t spend a dime.
The evening started early in small towns on
these nights. There were so many people to talk to. If you were
fashionably late you’d be accused of ‘having something better to
do.’ Getting out of that insult took a little time and a damn good
excuse.
All the patrons of Axle’s drank beer, in
bottles. A woman with a glass of white wine in her hand was either
a new girlfriend or an out of town cousin visiting for the
holidays. Most of these women switched to beer after the first
glass anyway because the stale wine tasted awful. The comment of
“I’ll drink anything white” didn’t apply in this case.
The jukebox got shoved in the back near the
pool table. Steve, the current owner, loaded it with only country
music. Not one oldie or pop songs were among the 200 title
choices.
Chuck kept feeding it with quarters and
pushing buttons. He’d had a few too many beers and queued up so
many songs they’d still be playing for the seven a.m. cleaning
crew. Randy took his wallet and keys away and said he’d give him
back both after he drove him home.
The guys from the shop, their wives and
girlfriends and I settled in deep conversation. The same old
stories were told about practical jokes and mishaps at the garage.
Buzz had created a faux frame for my used tire invoice of $55,750.
He teased Stan Kimble, the guy who ordered the tire, that the
interest on the unpaid balance was piling up.
I planned to say hi to a few people, stay the
required amount of time to be able to leave without protest, and
then head home. Before I knew it the clock said eleven p.m. All
ideas of going to bed early went out the window.
The crowd thinned and I started nursing my
beer. If it got below half full someone would buy me another. Two
fisted drinking in a small town is not a sign of a problem, but
instead an indication of generous friends.
Just before midnight all eyes turned to the
front entrance to watch the new face enter. Green eyed, handsome
Dr. Jeremy Nelson stood out in his khakis and his borrowed letter
jacket. He took long strides through the room full of black
t-shirts and leather jackets. The distance between us closed and he
stared at me with an angry, determined look. I wondered which would
be worse, staying in my current position and enduring the
inevitable scene or racing out the back door.
Part IV
I decided to stand my ground. “Hi Dr. Nelson,
I was just leaving.”
“Tracy, we need to talk.” He nodded to the
group behind me. “Randy, Chuck, Buzz, ladies, how are you this
evening?” He didn’t wait for an answer and dragged me off to the
side by my elbow.
“Will you knock it off? People are
starring!”
“I could care less if this ends up on the
evening news. You’re spreading rumors about me!” His face was too
close for my comfort.
“What are you talking about?
and brag about their vehicles well into the night. The sign outside
read Corner Bar, but only someone not from, or new to town called
it that. Many years ago one of the original owners of the bar had a
dog named Axle. The dog would accompany the man in the bar. A
picture of him is still taped to the cash register; the dog’s, not
the man’s.
A few people lingered and chatted on the
front sidewalk as I pulled up. I left any potential parking spots
open in the back for guys with a praise worthy truck. My rusty four
door sedan didn’t belong back there.
With a bar like Axle’s, you didn’t have to
worry about meeting up with a friend elsewhere in advance or even
picking a specific time to arrive. The second you walked in the
door, all eyes would turn and you instantly were folded into the
atmosphere.
I saw Randy and Chuck near the pool table and
waved, acknowledging I knew where they were. Three conversations
took place on my way to the bartender. Before I reached the highly
polished counter, a beer was already in my hand. I had brought
about thirty dollars with me, but knew I wouldn’t spend a dime.
The evening started early in small towns on
these nights. There were so many people to talk to. If you were
fashionably late you’d be accused of ‘having something better to
do.’ Getting out of that insult took a little time and a damn good
excuse.
All the patrons of Axle’s drank beer, in
bottles. A woman with a glass of white wine in her hand was either
a new girlfriend or an out of town cousin visiting for the
holidays. Most of these women switched to beer after the first
glass anyway because the stale wine tasted awful. The comment of
“I’ll drink anything white” didn’t apply in this case.
The jukebox got shoved in the back near the
pool table. Steve, the current owner, loaded it with only country
music. Not one oldie or pop songs were among the 200 title
choices.
Chuck kept feeding it with quarters and
pushing buttons. He’d had a few too many beers and queued up so
many songs they’d still be playing for the seven a.m. cleaning
crew. Randy took his wallet and keys away and said he’d give him
back both after he drove him home.
The guys from the shop, their wives and
girlfriends and I settled in deep conversation. The same old
stories were told about practical jokes and mishaps at the garage.
Buzz had created a faux frame for my used tire invoice of $55,750.
He teased Stan Kimble, the guy who ordered the tire, that the
interest on the unpaid balance was piling up.
I planned to say hi to a few people, stay the
required amount of time to be able to leave without protest, and
then head home. Before I knew it the clock said eleven p.m. All
ideas of going to bed early went out the window.
The crowd thinned and I started nursing my
beer. If it got below half full someone would buy me another. Two
fisted drinking in a small town is not a sign of a problem, but
instead an indication of generous friends.
Just before midnight all eyes turned to the
front entrance to watch the new face enter. Green eyed, handsome
Dr. Jeremy Nelson stood out in his khakis and his borrowed letter
jacket. He took long strides through the room full of black
t-shirts and leather jackets. The distance between us closed and he
stared at me with an angry, determined look. I wondered which would
be worse, staying in my current position and enduring the
inevitable scene or racing out the back door.
Part IV
I decided to stand my ground. “Hi Dr. Nelson,
I was just leaving.”
“Tracy, we need to talk.” He nodded to the
group behind me. “Randy, Chuck, Buzz, ladies, how are you this
evening?” He didn’t wait for an answer and dragged me off to the
side by my elbow.
“Will you knock it off? People are
starring!”
“I could care less if this ends up on the
evening news. You’re spreading rumors about me!” His face was too
close for my comfort.
“What are you talking about?
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