Working late at the Office.

No one should have to hunt for their heros at a ginmill. I took a chance in driving out there, but his truck wasn't parked out front like I had hoped. The bar seemed pretty quiet for a Saturday afternoon. I assumed that people were out enjoying the early spring day mowing lawns or riding motorcycles instead of drinking, smoking, and gambling away money that they didn't have. The amateurs had better things to do. What better way to laugh off a life of debt, of living in the red as a true American, than to enjoy the pleasant weather? I pulled into the parking lot to join the dregs for a beer or five. There was no sense in turning down a cold one just because it might be slightly lonelier than usual. I had to get used to that eventually, it was in the cards of a future hand.

Paulie had evidently been there for awhile, judging from the bills of various denominations spread across the bar in front of him. The white sweater that clung to his small frame seemed ridiculous in that bar mostly frequented by construction workers and bikers. I suppose he fit in through the same loophole as me, though: the Rogue Clause. His feathered hair and neatly trimmed beard made him look like a miniature lion, his gray eyes twinkled in a key I've yet to identify. B Sharp maybe? C Flat? I already know, you don't need to tell me.

I'd met Paulie at least three times over the years, but he'd always forgotten my name. We'd greet each other on sight and share a bad joke whenever the opportunity presented itself, but other than that we were just two more barflies drinking away the time, and hopefully, some pain. One night I had a few smokes on the porch with him as he told me his latest sob story about the job interview that never happened as planned. He'd met someone at a party who made him an offer that must've been inspired by the booze. Poor little Paulie went out and bought a cheap suit and downed vodka and oranges at the bar all day waiting for the phone call that never came. It was hard to look at him standing there in the dim light of the neon beer signs as that suit screamed "Department Store" at me through a haze of cigarette smoke. People with tragic tales shouldn't be allowed to have props. I tried to cheer him up by asking him how his prized hunter green Jaguar was doing. He told me he'd just sold it, and for less than he was hoping to get. Talking didn't seem like a good idea for me anymore that night so I stuck to listening from there on out. I heard him confess via phonecall to his live-in girlfriend that the interview never happened and he'd spent all his money on cocktails and the suit. I heard she came and picked him up shortly afterwards, but I didn't stick around to see. There's enough heartache in the world, I don't need a front-row seat.

Paulie didn't remember that night too well, of course. When I saw him today with that silly white sweater he smiled like it had never happened at all. A tall mug of ice water garnished with a half-ripe lemon sat in front of him next to his cash. "Hey, Brother," he said when his song finished playing. He called me Brother instead of trying to guess my name, which I appreciated. I felt like I was at a Union meeting. "Hey, Paulie." I extended my hand and shook it firmly. It was good to see a friendly face, even if it wasn't hiding much of a brain. The lull in the jukebox music between songs was taking longer than usual and Paulie took offense in the lapse. He must've been the one to dump singles into it. "Come on, Barb. Get that thing fixed already." A rebellious smile spread across his salt-and-pepper cheeks as he raised the water to his lips. The bartender ignored him, but he didn't seem to mind. "Play it again, Sam," he said proudly as if to display his cultural breadth. "If she can take it, I can take it," I replied into my pint glass, waiting for some acknowledgement of the classic Bogart film from which the famous line came. That reference was never corroborated. Paulie just looked at me, confused but still smiling. I imagined he'd spent much of his life wearing that expression. The next song came on and he picked up a ketchup bottle to use as a microphone. I rest assured knowing that I was in the right place for the kind of mood I was in, Thursday Night Karaoke be damned.

"What's with the water, Paulie?" I asked, throwing in his name to emphasize the fact that I knew it.
"Rough night. Barb's makin' me drink lots of water before she serves me any alcohol."
"Screwdrivers again?"
"Yeah, and shots of cinammon- and licorice-flavored liquors. What's your name again, Brother?"
"Jesus. And Mike. Well, you know what I mean."
He chuckled and the ice in his mug clinked against the glass as his arm brushed against it.
"Yeah, Mike. I know what ya' mean."
He winked at me slyly to express his masterful comprehension of the conversation. I made a mental note to add one to his tally on the invisible chalkboard of Life.

Barb kept refilling his mug with water and ice, ignoring the sorry-looking lemon, and Paulie kept sucking them down in the hopes that a beer would come next. I chimed in with "The Hair of the Dog" Theory to his defense, but it didn't work. Finally, after witnessing him drink four or five glasses against his will, he smartened up and dumped the contents of the glass out when he went for a smoke on the porch. "What happened to the ice?" Barb asked when he came back inside. "I ate it," said the little man-lion with the Cheshire Cat's grin. "What about the lemon?" she retorted in a motherly superior tone. "Damn, the lemon..." he groaned as he palmed his forehead in shame. A man should know better than to try to outsmart a woman. She filled his glass again as a sort of victory lap. "It's OK, Paulie," I offered in my best Bogart, which is actually pretty bad. "You're just as much fun sober as you are drunk anyway." He shot me a harmless look of playful reproach and I saw something in his face that convinced me that he would've outdone Humphrey any day of the week if given the chance. There is much talent hidden in the dark realms of taverns. Don't be fooled.

I disappeared into a few more solitary drafts and listened to Paulie butcher the verses and belt the choruses of classic rock songs from before I was born. Hunched over the oak like that I could almost tolerate his wail without cringing. F Sharp, it was definitely F Sharp. "Barb, are we square?" I asked after downing the last of my fifth pint. "Yeah, we're square." She walked towards the cooler at the end of the bar to grab a bottle of an all-American brand for an all-American blue-collar man who'd just walked through the door. She didn't need to ask him, he was a regular. It's that kind of bar. Paulie and I love it for that. It's the one thing we have in common. I am grateful for that on multiple levels every day that I lace up my boots. On the Seventh Day, as you know, God rested. I figure I'll do the same.