29

 

I walked in and took a stool. The barkeep walked up.

“Hi, Eddie,” he said.

“I’m not Eddie,” I told him.

“I’m Eddie,” he said.

“You don’t want to play with me,” I told him.

“No, you do it,” he said.

“Look, barkeep, I’m a peaceful man. Fairly normal. I don’t sniff armpits or wear ladies’ underwear. But everywhere I go, somebody is pushing shots at me, they give me no rest. Why is this?”

“I think you got it comin’, somehow.”

“Well, Eddie, you stop thinking and see if you can fix me a double vodka and tonic, touch of lime.”

“We don’t got no lime.”

“Yeah, you have. I can see it from here.”

“That lime’s not for you.”

“Yeah? Who’s it for? Elizabeth Taylor? Now, if you want to sleep in your own bed tonight, I’ll have that lime. In my drink. Pronto.”

“Yeah? What ya gonna do? You and whose army?”

“One more word out of you, boy, and you’re gonna have a breathing problem.”

He stood there looking at me, deciding whether to call my card or not. He blinked, then sensibly moved off and began working on my drink. I watched him carefully. No tricks. He brought the drink back.

“I was kidding, mister, can’t you take a joke?”

“Depends upon how it’s told.”

Eddie walked off again, stood down at the far end of the bar.

I lifted the drink, slammed it down. Then I pulled out a bill. I took the lime, squeezed it onto the bill. Then I rolled the bill around it, then rolled it down the bar toward the barkeep. It stopped in front of him. He looked down at it. I slowly stood up, did a little neck exercise, turned and walked out. I decided to go back to the office. I had work to do. My eyes were blue and nobody loved me but myself. I walked along humming my favorite bit from “Carmen.”