The Looking Glass
I am, the Looking Glass Bar, within me lies the reflection of heartaches, lost souls,
Eager hope, and a legion of dreams.
Mac rouses me with the same tune as he has the past three mornings. “There’s a tear
in my beer and I’m crying for you dear!” Ever vigilant to me, he shows up seven days a
week at 5:00 a.m. to tidy me up, his fantasy of singing on the Grand Ole Opry
sporadically darts like a spider from a dusty web.
He sweeps me up with arthritic fingers that knarl like roots exposed to a pasture of
ravenous cattle. The dust hangs, suspended in the filtered sunlight of the window and
glimmers there for a moment to resemble falling snow. As he stoops his already bent
back to shovel the flakes he has piled, his gleaming buttocks reflect a hideous smile
toward the Budweiser mirror over his head. Afterwards he wipes my counter with Lysol. I
reek like a cocktail of disinfectant, stale cigarettes and sour beer.
My barricade, shaped like a horseshoe, allows the bartender agreeable access to
every patron; now inky-stained walnut, soiled with water rings and boils. The timber,
dimpled like a butcher block at a meat market, created by years of abuse. My door
pitches open, audacious enough to smuggle in a breeze of pure air! I snatch it, pulling it
toward a corner where it ripples the pages of a calendar filled with women in various
stages of undress.
Presently the “regulars” begin to linger inside. They pose themselves on my barstools
to drink coffee with whiskey chasers and speak of things that matter to no-one, least of all
one another. “Did you see the Cubs play last night?” Jim queried.
“No,” Charlie spit through his puckered mouth. “Had a taxi call that took me two
hours! Made me sitn’ wait for em’ outside the Coach House they did. Sons-a-bitches, like
I aien’t got nuttin’ bedder ta do then ta wait for the high-n-mighty! Wouldn’t a been so
bad hadda my radio not broke last week. Good thing I keep a flask under the seat I do. Sat
there an stared at em’ through the window I did.” Jim shut up; already hearing more than
he cared too, he gave no response to Charlie’s sputtering.
Jim stared through himself with my looking glass, lost in another place. My looking
glass is the one remnant of my past that has remained the same. Covering the whole
distance of the west wall like a Picasso masterpiece, it is beveled nearly three inches all
around the border and etched with intricate patterns that mimic the lacy under clothes that
so many of the “ladies” wear beneath their brief skirts.
As the sun begins to descend from its perch over my roof, the habitual group leave
to spend a few hours with their families, pets, or furniture.
It’s Friday night! The “weekend ravagers” are dousing themselves in cheap cologne
and dressing to attract the opposite sex. The humans love to play the mating game about
as much as they love to drink the golden nectar, that is hidden beneath my bar in the cold
silver kegs.
Gloria, the owner, comes to baby-sit the fresh faced customers. She tries to keep them
from harming me beyond repair while she seizes the cash from their extended hands.
She throws my light panel and on bursts a kaleidoscope of color. Outside my door
beams the luminous glow of the indigo fluorescent sign that reads my name “Looking
Glass.” My dance floor, though only a 12x16 foot forgotten corner by day, seems to lift
itself now with the music’s growing tempo, and the myriad display of illuminated clocks,
signs and mirrors of every species leaves me looking like the inside of a spaceship.
My innards are crowded with a mound of growing flesh in every orifice within me.
armpits and alcohol hold equal claim with the little oxygen left inside. A couple of pock
faced college kids shove their way toward my bowels, where they miss the porcelain laid
for them and vomit on the tile between worn loafers. Again and again it sticks to the
treads as those unaware in their own inebriation drag the slime across my floor like a
snail leaves its trail on a rock.
Several tawdry young women begin to climb onto the tattered bases that were intended
to hold their posteriors, to ascend my table and gesticulate themselves, while their reverse
gender encourages them with wild cheers and rude remarks. The nectar sloshes out of the
glasses and down their blouses much to the amusement of the frenzied crowd below their
feet. A buxom red-head pulls her Old Navy tee shirt over her head causing the room to
bound with an unrestrained savage drive.
Gloria has seen enough; the play is becoming dangerous to themselves and me. She
summons her two stone faced bouncers from their posts by the door where they stand
guard like gargoyles on a castle wall, each one more revolting than the other, only the
night dimming the ugliness ever so slightly. Much to the displeasure of those inspired by
the group on the bar, the mammoth arms of the two gargoyles carry the dancers off the
pinnacle.
Smoke swirls, spiraling toward the upper apartment where my owner and her “boyfriend” reside. In the midst of all the noise, I notice the customers finally starting to
leave me alone. They seem to pair off toward the end of the evening. If they entered with
a group of familiar male or female friends, they are soon misplaced in the slur of their
minds and superseded by someone else, until tomorrow morning finds them with their
headaches, empty pockets, and furry teeth.
It’s 2:00 a.m. and Gloria and her hideous duo, are finally dismissing the “ravagers”
until tomorrow night. By 2:30 all is silent. I am left here now, with a few hours of blissful
solitude. The lights are turned down and the mess is left for Mac to scrape up later. Now I
sleep, sometimes my floors will give a groan to relieve the pressure I’ve carried all day
and my rafters moan a sigh of relief for the stillness that is finally mine.
I am the envy of every other tavern on this side of town. My bar is proudly polished
and holds a gleam against the glasses I hold there. My walls of fresh paint and new vinyl.
On my seats, lipstick red cushions. The tables all hold a fresh carnation in pewter vases
and my beautiful looking glass stands proudly on the wall.
And I dream, and dream…
For within my confines exists a reflection of heartache, lost souls, eager hope, and the
dreams of many, including my own.
Originally Posted On Site: 2008-01-21 05:28:38
Last Login: 11.05.11
Visits as of 12-12-07: 529
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