the Bar Studs)

by Levinson, Len

  Jake ran the remaining bums out with such ferocity that those who were conscious fled in fear for their lives. He threw one frail bum out the door so forcefully that the bum crashed into a car parked at the curb and fell to the ground with a huge gash on his forehead. Another bum had an arm flailing around as he went flying through the door, his arm hit the doorjamb, and Jake heard a snap.

  In ten minutes the bar was empty. Jake locked and barricaded the front windows and front door, and then locked the back door. Trembling and sick to his stomach, he turned off the lights and poured himself a half-glass of Seagram’s Seven. With the glass in hand he shuffled through the darkened empty bar to a table and sat down, leaning his back against the wall. He sipped the whiskey and felt desolate.

  From the direction of the bar he heard a soft clump sound. He peered through the darkness and saw the kitten, which had just jumped from the bar to the floor. It sniffed a barstool and Jake wanted to pet it and feel its warmth.

  “Here, kitty kitty,” he whispered, snapping his fingers.

  The kitten looked at him and walked away.

  “Here, kitty kitty.” Jake tapped his foot on the floor to attract its attention.

  The kitten kept walking toward the rear of the tavern.

  Jake gritted his teeth. He’d picked the little bastard up off the street and gave it a home, and now it wouldn’t even come over and let him pet it. “I said come here!”

  The kitten walked behind the bar to where its food was.

  Jake sprang to his feet, all his anger and pain fastening on the kitten. “Come here, you little son-of-a-bitch!”

  But the kitten had disappeared behind the bar. With a howl of rage Jake went after it, pushing tables and chairs out of his way. “Come here, goddammit!” He picked up a heavy black plastic ashtray from a table and charged around the end of the bar.

  The kitten looked back at him and then ran to the end of the bar, where it cringed against a case of ginger ale.

  Breathing heavily, Jake rushed toward it. “You’re gonna let me do what I wanna to you or I’m gonna fuck-in’ kill you!”

  The kitten leapt to the top of the bar and Jake threw the ashtray. Just as the kitten landed the ashtray hit it on the side of its head, and it fell to the side. Before it could get up Jake pounced on it, grasping it around the neck with his right hand. Jake turned the kitten around so that it faced him, and brought it closer. The kitten thrashed about with its paws and scratched red lines on Jake’s hand.

  “Why the fuck don’t you like me?”

  The kitten meowed in terror and ripped Jake’s hand, and Jake became more infuriated.

  “You like everybody except me!”

  The kitten struggled desperately, and Jake couldn’t control the rage and frustration boiling inside him. He tightened his grip on the kitten’s throat and it wiggled and strained. He could feel its little throat like a twig in his fist.

  “You little fuckin’ ungrateful bastard!”

  Jake squeezed harder and the kitten became stiff, its tongue sticking out of its mouth and its arms and legs straight in the air. Tiny gasp sounds came from its throat. Jake growled and tightened his fist. He felt something crackle in his palm and then the kitten went limp. Blood trickled out of its mouth.

  Jake cried out in anger and wretchedness, and hurled the dead kitten into the darkness.

  * * *

  On the June day Mr. Ralph Dunwoodie was married to Miss Lesley Winchester, John Houlihan rented a Volkswagen and drove to Greenwich, Connecticut, where the wedding reception was to be held at the home of Miss Winchester’s parents. John had received a beautiful engraved invitation that he kept propped against his shaving lotion on his dresser; he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

  On this important day he wore a lightweight blue blazer from Abercrombie’s and a necktie in Black Watch plaid, purchased from a mail-order catalog. Beside him on the other seat was his wedding gift, matched pewter wine goblets that cost him forty dollars at Bloomingdale’s. As he motored along on the New England Thruway he had reveries of the newly-married Dunwoodies sitting alone at a candlelit supper, intimately sipping wine in the goblets he had bought, and perhaps even thinking of him.

  The town of Greenwich looked like a vast forest crisscrossed with paved roads, but concealed behind the trees were the estates of wealthy people. After getting lost for a half-hour, John found the Winchester driveway and turned onto it. He drove into the forest for about one hundred yards, and suddenly upon rounding a bend saw straight ahead the magnificent Winchester mansion.

  It was white, three-storied, had columns in front, and looked like Tara in the movie Gone with the Wind. It was set like a bright diamond on a rolling deep green lawn shaded by huge leafy trees. To its left was an immense tent with colored panels on top but no walls, and under it John could see set tables and people milling about with glasses in their hands.

  Numerous expensive late-model cars were parked in front of the white mansion’s wide veranda, and John parked his Volkswagen on the far right side. He turned off the engine, looked in the rear-view mirror, smoothed his hair, and adjusted his tie. Then he took his package and squirmed out of the little car.

  The air was warm and fragrant; not a cloud was in the sky. The band under the tent played a Strauss waltz, and John wondered where to take his wedding gift.

  A slender lady of about fifty in a diaphanous pale-green silk dress was walking across the veranda toward him. She had short gray hair and wore pearls, and John thought her extraordinarily attractive.

  “Hello,” she said cordially.

  “Hello,” John replied, a little unsure of himself. He’d never been a guest at a big society affair like this before.

  She knitted together her eyebrows. “I don’t believe I know you.”

  “I’m John Houlihan.”

  “I’m Lesley’s Aunt Louise.” She held out her hand and looked puzzled. “Are you a relative of Ralph’s?”

  John shook her delicate hand gently and felt a little embarrassed. “No, I’m a bartender in the Plaza Hotel in New York City. I served champagne to Mr. Dunwoodie and the former Miss Winchester on the night they decided to marry, and they told me they’d like me to come to their wedding reception.”

  “Why how nice!” Aunt Louise exclaimed. “How very romantic!”

  John raised the wrapped gift. “Where should I put this?”

  “You can give it to me,” she said with a smile. “I’ll put it with the other presents.”

  “Thank you.” John handed it to her.

  “Thank you.” She looked toward the tent. “The reception is being held there. Ralph and Lesley will be over shortly.”

  “I’ll join the others, then.”

  “I hope you enjoy the reception, Mr. Houlihan.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  Aunt Louise turned and carried his gift up the steps and across the veranda. John watched her, and the first insidious qualm about coming here crept into his mind. He had thought he would attend and observe the lovely society wedding reception but now he realized he could not simply observe, he would have to make conversation and it would be embarrassing to admit to famous diplomats, distinguished lawyers, and elegant ladies, that he was only a bartender, a servant really. Perhaps he should go home now that he’d delivered his gift. That might be the proper thing to do.

  But it might be a serious breach of manners to leave abruptly. Since he was already here he decided to stay for awhile, have a drink, and play it by ear. There were lots of guests and maybe if he stayed a little aloof no one would talk to him. It would be nice to sit under the tent and see who was here.

  The smell of lilacs and begonias wafted by his nostrils as he walked toward the tent, his hands clasped behind his back. The panels of the tent were green, orange, red, blue, and yellow, and were brilliant in the afternoon sunlight. The band now played a fast Beatles tune, and John stepped under the tent. There, round tables covered with white cloths were set in rows on the grass, an
d in the middle of the tent against its far wall was a band of ten middle-aged men in white dinner jackets. Before them on a square wooden platform young self-conscious people performed jerky dances, and their elders sat or stood around with glasses in their hands.

  At both ends of the tent were tables ten yards long and laden with glazed hams, roast chickens and turkeys, roast beefs, bowls of potato salad, macaroni salad, tossed green vegetable salad, fruit salad, huge dishes of strawberries and raspberries, several kinds of pate, platters of cold red lobsters, pots of caviar, mountains of cheeses, and ice sculptures that dripped onto bouquets of flowers. Near these tables were portable bars behind each of which worked three bartenders. John walked the length of the tent and approached the bar on the far side. He could tell that the bartenders working there, maybe Cubans, had only a superficial knowledge of their trade.

  There was a sizable crowd of well-dressed men and women around the bar, but John had little difficulty getting through.

  “A gin and tonic,” he said to a bartender with a pencil-thin dyed black moustache.

  The bartender put the ice in the glass with his hands and mixed a drink much too strong. John sipped an inch off the top and asked for a bit more tonic. The bartender smiled obsequiously and poured the additional amount. John thanked him, carried his drink several steps away, and with one arm behind his back, sipped it and looked around.

  The band played the “Anniversary Waltz” and guests young and old dipped and twirled around the floor. Other guests stood or sat and conversed with each other, and little boys in suits chased little girls in frilly white dresses around the tables. John couldn’t help thinking how like a fantasy all this was. Here one might imagine that life was glorious, time didn’t exist, and there was no evil in the world.

  “Hello there,” said a portly gentleman with a white moustache. “I don’t believe I know you.” He held out a well-manicured hand. “I’m Bertram Slidell, a cousin of the bride’s father.”

  John clasped his hand. “I’m John Houlihan, a friend of the bride’s and groom’s.”

  “Are you in banking, Mr. Houlihan?”

  John felt uneasy again. “I’m in the hotel business.”

  “I see. Lovely day to get married, eh?”

  “A very lovely day.”

  “Which hotels are you associated with, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “The Plaza in New York,” John said apprehensively.

  “Oh yes, a very fine hotel. I prefer the Saint Regis myself when I have to stay in the city, but of course there’s only one Plaza. I read somewhere that Frank Lloyd Wright said it was the most beautiful building in New York. I think he went a little overboard, but it does look nice there on Central Park. What do you do at the Plaza, Mr. Houlihan?”

  John swallowed and turned red. “I’m a bartender in the Oak Room.”

  Bertram Slidell’s jaw dropped. “I see.” He turned and walked away.

  John stood with one arm behind his back and perspired into his clothes. With a pain in his chest he realized with full horrible impact that he didn’t belong there. Bankers and industrialists didn’t associate with bartenders, and he should have known better than to accept the invitation. He hoped no one else would talk to him, but a grinning middle-aged man and woman with cocktail glasses in hand were headed his way. They both looked a little tipsy.

  The man raised his glass. “To the bride and groom,” he said.

  John touched his glass to theirs. “To the bride and groom.”

  “I’m Randolph Seward,” said the man in a slurred voice, “and this is my wife Florence. We’re the parents of Lesley’s roommate when she was at Vassar.” He looked expectantly at John.

  “I’m a friend of the bride’s and groom’s,” he said nervously.

  “Bertie Slidell just told me you’re a bartender.”

  John swallowed. “That’s right.”

  Florence Seward turned to her husband and smiled. “Ralph and Lesley have such a droll sense of humor.” She looked at John. “Enjoy the party, Mr. Houlihan.”

  There was a commotion at the other end of the tent, and the band began to play “Here Comes the Bride.” John and the Sewards turned to look and saw the married couple and a crowd of guests enter the tent. Other guests rushed to them, shook Mr. Dunwoodie’s hand, and kissed the former Miss Winchester.

  “Why, here they are now,” Florence said to Randolph. “Let’s go over and say hello.”

  They walked away from John without saying goodbye, and John wanted to run back to his rented Volkswagen and drive away. He’d never felt uncomfortable among rich people at the Plaza, but here he was an intruder, a social climber, a party crasher. Mr. Dunwoodie and the former Miss Winchester had invited him on a whim; he should have known that. He should have graciously declined; that would have been the proper thing to do. Instead he had let himself become a joke.

  Leaving early would certainly be a breach of manners, but somehow he had to figure a way to do it. The bar was deserted now, except for the three bartenders. John walked over and asked for another gin and tonic. He watched as the bartender poured gin, told him when to stop, and watched while tonic was added and the wedge of lime dropped on top. He raised the glass to his lips, sipped it, and then turned around and was startled to see the newlyweds, surrounded by well-wishers, heading straight for the bar before which he stood. John walked away quickly and sat alone at a round table a short distance away.

  The newlyweds and their entourage strolled to the bar, were served drinks by the clumsy bartenders, and chatted merrily. Mr. Dunwoodie wore a white dinner jacket, the former Miss Winchester a long white lace gown, and their faces were flushed with excitement and happiness. They were like the prince and princess of an enchanted land, and John felt like an interloper from an ugly world far away. The band played the “Anniversary Waltz” and there was cheering and laughter. A faint breeze rocked the colorful Chinese lanterns strung across the top of the tent.

  The newlyweds and their entourage turned and began walking back toward the house, and John’s heart sank when he realized he was almost directly in their path. He hoped they wouldn’t come close enough to recognize him, but as they advanced he realized grimly that a meeting was unavoidable. When they were near he smiled shyly and stood up.

  Mr. Dunwoodie stopped, recognized John, and smiled. “Why, John,” he said, “I’m so glad you could come.” He looked at his wife of three hours. “Do you remember John from the Plaza?”

  She beamed. “Why, of course I remember John from the Plaza.”

  John held out his hand. “Congratulations to both of you,” he said shakily.

  “Why thank you, John,” replied Mr. Dunwoodie, taking his hand.

  “Thank you so much,” chimed in the new Mrs. Dunwoodie.

  There was an awkward moment when no one knew what to say, but the Dunwoodies got through it gracefully. They simply smiled and walked away.

  John watched them cross to the buffet table at the other side of the tent, and when they picked up plates that was the signal that the meal was to begin. At both ends of the tent guests lined up at the buffet and bar to obtain food and drink, and in the confusion John thought this might be a good time to retreat to his car.

  He stepped back nonchalantly toward the edge of the tent, hoping he wouldn’t be observed. The coast seemed clear, guests crowded around the buffet tables and bars, but as he retreated his eyes were drawn, because of professional interest, to the bar closest to him. There was a pack of guests surrounding the bar, the bartenders were completely disorganized, and in their effort to work faster they were becoming even more sloppy than before. John frowned. Their liquor bottles were not set up conveniently, there should have been three ice buckets instead of one, and no one was clearing dirty glasses and empty soda bottles off the top of the bar. Clearly, a disaster was looming.

  As John continued slinking away, it occurred to him that he was the only one present with the expertise to straighten things out over there. He hesita
ted—he really ought to get the hell out of there while he had the chance—but on the other hand maybe it would be a nice thing if he helped out. Whim or not, the Dunwoodies had invited him to this, the most important day of their lives, and if he couldn’t participate as an equal at least he could make his own kind of contribution. He watched as one of the bartenders hastily mixed a whiskey sour that wasn’t fit for hogs.

  John took off his blazer and walked toward the bar. When he stepped behind it the three Cubans looked at him and then looked at each other.

  “I’ll give you a hand,” John told them. He folded his blazer over an empty case of scotch and rolled up his sleeves. “I’ll work the center station over this bucket of ice,” he pointed at one of them, “and you go to the house and get two more buckets of ice so we can have three stations.”

  “Are you union?” asked this bartender, a bald, sad-faced old man.

  “Local thirty-thirty-six,” John replied, rearranging the bottles behind him. He pointed to the second bartender. “Set up two more stations like I’m doing here,” he pointed to the third bartender, “and you keep the top of the bar cleared off.”

  The three bartenders looked like they wanted to argue, but John gave them a stern look and they went to work. He turned around and faced the first wedding guest in line. “Sir?”

  “Two Cutty Sarks,” said the old gentleman. “One with soda and one on the rocks.”

  With fast precise movements, John reached for glasses, ice, and bottle. His body felt loose and flowing now, not tense like it had been a few minutes ago. He poured exactly one and one-half ounces of whiskey into each glass and then filled the highball glass with soda. After placing a plastic stirrer into each glass he pushed them toward the gentleman.

  “Here you are, sir.”

  The gentleman smiled and carried his glasses away. Next in line was a young man with wavy blond hair.

  “Sir?”

  “Two martinis, please.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Without looking behind him John reached back and grabbed the gin bottle. It was right where it was supposed to be, just as he was right where he was supposed to be. He smiled to himself as he poured the gin over the smooth shining ice cubes in the cocktail shaker. Maybe he wasn’t a banker or a diplomat, but what was a party without a good bartender?