Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic

That time period of my life felt very much like the end of the summer before seventh grade was to begin. I was weary of the summer break and desperately wanted the next phase of life to begin. Back then, pre-seventh grade, I would ride five miles one way to fish my favorite creek, the chubs and grass pike performing wonders on my restless mind. Now all I could do was wait, watching the girls sauntering down Abbott road, their bejeweled belly buttons taunting my aching mind. I was the day shift bartender, with only one side of my aquarium allowing the two edged light in. Endlessly pacing the length of that splintery bar. Sloshing just a hint of this or a little of that into my coffee or cappuccino or coke not having any particular desire to get drunk, but not wanting to rehash the entire tired scenario of just how I found myself at twenty seven years old. I couldn't seem to get above the situation, not in any way, and it seemed at that time, as it had and would for many more, as interminable, and in many ways, inhuman. Thankfully they had removed the taps for kegged beer and the plasma selling sad old men couldn't trade their blood for Bob's beer. It was always the same. They would sit and tell me about her, that bitch, that whore, and how she had fucked him, really put a splinter under the thumbnail, and how the rotten kids just didn't seem to care. It certainly couldn't have been all that bad, but it seemed to be, and I still remember that it seemed much worse.
It may have been a Monday or a Wednesday or a Tuesday, I really can't recall. It was all the same for the most part. But on this particular day a man came and sat at the end of the bowling lane bar top, carefully put a stack of twenties on the bar, and ordered a beer and shot of tequila. He had on a loose fitting gray sweatshirt with the word HOPE obscenely displayed. I had to grin. With his golfers tan, straight teeth, a thin gold chain around his neck, blonde hair turning gray and streaked with brown; I'd guess that he was about forty-five. A very boring, clean, monetarily free human sitting at the end of the bar drinking his Molson, eying his shot. It was time to be interesting and care. Time to earn my dollar. I had no choice, I had found nowhere to hide. I pretended that his plight was interesting. He told me that he wanted to go back to school now that he had sold his advertising firm. He wanted to be a psychiatric nurse. He said that books did not really interest him and that he didn't enjoy reading. He told me many other things which I immediately forgot. Maybe for a minute or two I did care, because I couldn't imagine such a meaningless and stupid life. It took my mind off me for a minute, sixty blissful seconds, and he clearly felt like he had made a friend.
That is the art of bartending, and a miserable dance it can become. You begin to know what they are going to say next, every time. The liars and the lied to. He started to whine and whine about how this life can be rough, and I didn't want to hear it any more. I'd unwittingly given him more insight, and encouragement, and lies than I would normally give, and now I was paying. Then it ended. An elderly couple in their late sixties ambled through the door and carefully placed their helmets on the bar. The helmets had little microphones strategically located for talking while on the road. They were grinning like it was spring and I wanted some of what they had. He asked me to tell them about our beer. They had just motored their Goldwing from Detroit and they wanted to wash a bit of the road dust off their tongues. I was only too glad to help. I brew beer and tend to keep my tongue very clean.
Just as I was getting into some of the finer aspects of hops I heard my name loud and clear in that empty bar at 3 o'clock in the afternoon. I looked over at HOPE and noted that his beer was full and his shot glass only half empty. I really wanted to tell him to please shut the fuck up, but I took a few steps over and asked, "So what do you need?" I hadn't really looked into his face at this point because it seemed that I knew what I would find. He caught my eye with his and answered with a strange anguish, an urgency, "Why are you doing this to me?" I looked into those blue eyes and could see that the shine had left. A deadness which I had never seen before had washed it away. I felt the small hairs rise on the nape of my neck and the air felt somehow different. He asked the question again and my mind raced searching for an answer. As he was asking again he began to pull his sweatshirt up on the right side, and as it came up it revealed an eight inch, spring loaded, commando dagger. He was having trouble getting it to "pop" into his palm. I stuttered briefly myself and then shot my hand across the bar, grabbed his wrist and very seriously considered using the Jack Daniels bottle like an Eskimo to a baby seal. My gut told me to kill him and I thought, even then, chill out, it's just a knife and the baseball bat is a few steps behind me. I pulled his hand up onto the bar and told him to get the fuck out of here- now -as I backed up towards the bar phone three or four steps behind me. My eyes were on his hands and my heart screamed hurry up. I took my eyes off him for the time it takes to glance at the numbers 9 and 1 and I heard him fumble again and this time he had a pistol and he had it with both hands just like on Adam-12, or Hillstreet Blues, or CHIPS and the cops at the range. And I knew that he was going to kill me and I knew that the phone or the baseball bat or the bottle or anything or anybody could not stop that bullet and there was nowhere to hide. It's very, very, odd what happens to our brains when we overload the fight or flight response to the point of short-circuit. A certain level of lucidness is achieved and suddenly you know why and who and what about many things. Maybe that is the much fabled light seen prior to death, merely a metaphor for the stripping away of all of the minutia crowding one until the brain and body know it's almost over anyway. Things had been stripped down quickly to the bare essentials and I knew it. Now it was my turn to plead, and with everything I could muster I did the best I could, "Go easy on me, man, please, go easy." I told the cute old couple to get the hell out of here, and they slipped into the middle room of the restaurant and he laid her down on the floor. I don't know how long I stared at that pistol with its dark hole ready to belch at my chest. I backed up slowly, soothingly, and begged for my life. When I reached the end of the long bar, remember he was at the end of an L-shaped bar, I needed to run and I did. I sprinted for the kitchen, each step expecting the bark and the bite. Once I had turned the corner under the stained glass I knew that it must not have been my time. I slid to a stop in front of the line in the kitchen and confronted an equally bored, pensive, and disinterested soul, Julio. He never blinked and just asked nonchalantly, "What can I get you Melrose?" I looked at him and quickly realized that he wasn't going to be too much help. I ran back to the office and found William busy with the schedule. I blurted out the basic fact, "There's a fucking guy in the front of the restaurant with a gun!" William dropped his papers, jumped up, and appeared to be ready for this situation. I followed behind as he moved towards the bar area. I was impressed. I couldn't figure out just what it was that he was doing, but the fact that he had a plan so quickly was inspiring. I tried to stop him as he sped through the middle room past the couple lying prone on the floor, but he got away too quick and the next thing I knew he was through the bar area and was hurriedly locking the front door to the restaurant. My friend at the bar had the pistol in his right hand, his arms extended out to the bar as a brace of sorts, and appeared to be lost in thought. As William sauntered back in I informed him that he had just locked the gunman in with us. Our misunderstanding now appeared all to clear to him and that purposeful demeanor with which I had found such awe gave way to a confused shock and quick movements. By this time the kitchen had called the cops. Being only a block or so away seemed advantageous for the first time since I'd worked and partied at Beggars. I felt a strange civic elation that armed individuals were on the way to help my friend act properly in public. I remember lying on the floor next to the terrarium with the phone in my hand talking to the police dispatcher and watching our man in case of any change in his thoughts or plans. As I was describing him to the woman the older gentleman crawled past me on the floor and headed towards my unhappy patron. He had his arms tucked in and was using a World War II era technique popular with soldiers traversing barbed wire. I tried to grab his leg and told him to not be a hero. He was already halfway there. He jumped up at the end of the bar, knocked the guy over and retrieved the handgun. He walked over and gave it to me. Now I felt better. Much, much better. It was like that man was granting me my fondest wish. As I would learn later, it was a brand new Glock, custom grip, flat black, and balanced just right. It seemed to be made for my hand. I immediately lost track of just what the woman on the phone was saying. I wanted to get up, go out to the bar and shove the barrel in his mouth. I think I wanted to pistol whip him a little and tell him how rude and obnoxious it is to play with such toys. I wanted to transfer all the fear and terror and humiliation back to him. I wanted recompense. I wanted old fashioned justice. I wanted to shoot him in the knee as a reminder in case he was prone to forgetfulness. I had never envisioned myself in such a scenario before and had no idea these thoughts would surface and feel sane and correct. They just did. I tend to think there have been quiet postal clerks and hurried McDonalds customers who've felt this way, but I don't know. Anyway, now I have the gun trained on the man who has reassumed his position of meditation at the end of the bar. I tune back into the woman on the phone as she says that a reaction team is in place and will be making an entry. I've told her about his desperate eyes and his blonde hair and she assures me that they are ready to get this blonde son of a bitch. I didn't tell her that I had the gun. I saw the men and women with their guns out and very determined expressions on their faces crouched hugging the restaurants front wall as they passed in front of the middle room window. I realized that a bit of confusion may be forthcoming. I panicked a little and blurted out to her that I had the gun and that I had blonde hair and that I looked a bit desperate also. The next thing I knew they were frisking him at the bar. I didn't want to give them that nice pistol, I felt like I had earned it and it was mine. The cop I gave it to ejected eleven (I think) Teflon coated rounds onto the bar, one from the chamber itself, and clicked the weapons safety mechanism to the ‘on' position. He stated matter-of-factly that these were armor piercing, and only good for one thing - cop killing. I felt like fresh pork sausage tightly wrapped in cellophane. Another civic helper showed me a smaller pistol which they had found in a small holster tucked away on his person. It was a pretty little thing. It was a derringer with two barrels, one on top of the other. He showed me the 410 gauge buckshot shell from the bottom barrel and the 45 caliber slug from the top barrel. I felt a little spongy, and things started to make twisted sense. I felt like vomiting and crying and following through on the whipping. The police officers, I'd like to think out of deference to me, but most likely in reaction to his choice of bullets, pushed him around a little and weren't nice to him. I noticed a few of the younger cops fidgeting with their bulky flak vests, eying the pistol and the smooth tan tipped bullets. Within ten minutes they had their report and had transported him to a blue van, and were gone. It was about four o'clock , not quite time for the night shift bartender or the evening staff to arrive. Just me and William and Julio and the cycling couple. I sat and poured beers all around and really couldn't speak. I remember being very high strung, agitated, and a little confused on how to get everything back together. I talked to Dylan, a cook and understanding friend, and he brought up the fact that Omars Show Bar on Michigan Ave. has dollar pitchers on Monday nights. It must have been a Monday after all. It's refreshing to remember how a handful of one dollar bills, a pitcher of grossly inflated cheap beer, and a dancer named River with her naughty grin and rotating hips helped realign my frazzled neurons. Life does grind on. A judge called me at Beggar's a week or so later and wanted my opinion on what had happened. He asked me if I had really felt endangered. He asked in a voice, a tone, an inflection which says, "Come on, it wasn't really that bad was it?". I was dumbstruck for a moment. What kind of a dumbass was this guy? It occurred me that he had heard only Mr. HOPE's story. I really wanted to take a handgun over to his office and help him understand. I told him something to that effect. He didn't like my answer and I assured him that I did not like his question. I ran into Bob a few weeks later on a Saturday afternoon and he said with a trace of incredulity in his voice, Guess who I saw at the gun repair shop when I went to pick up my twenty gauge this morning? and before I could answer he said that Mr. HOPE had found a new occupation. He worked there at the gun shop. I didn't call the judge and ask how or why. I realized that I wanted to read, that I needed to get out from behind that bar, and that there is no such thing as gun control. Kurt Lamour 6/97