Drinks with Brutus

The motley crew of five grizzled, road-weary, yet jocular lifelong friends sat in a row at the bar, ready to toast the end of another long week. As had been their tradition for the past twenty-five years, the self-named Compadres met up at The Rancher’s Cut Bar and Grill every Friday at 5 pm, give or take.

The men worked hard, earning their happy hour tradition: Rick was a chicken farmer, Phil owned and managed a fleet of porta-potties, Ernie was a letter carrier, Mick was an electrician who pretty much fixed everything that went wrong in town, and Chris, the one they teasingly labeled “white collar snob”, was a claims adjuster. 

There had been some breaks in their happy hour tradition: Rick worked on a fishing boat in Alaska for a year, and Mick had moved in with a woman in Florida for a six-month stint before she kicked him out, accusing him of acting like he lived in a barn. Back home in Oakview, he did live in a converted barn, so she wasn’t wrong.

Each of the Compadres had their share of ups and downs, mostly ups, bolstered by the fact that they had each other to laugh off life’s misfortunes. Rick and Ernie were still married to their high school sweethearts, Phil was on his third wife. “This one’s a keeper, I can tell!” he said a little too often for the other Compadres to trust it would last. Chris was too busy with work to have time for a family and Mick, no one really knew how he spent his nights.

A gathering became a party whenever the Compadres showed up. When their former high school principal died a few years ago, they turned his wake into a karaoke competition, ending the night with a group rendition of “Baby Got Back.” Whether it was the local golf course or the Elks Lodge, they were known for being legendary tippers, often getting in animated arm-wrestling matches as each of them insisted on paying the tab. They were available at a moment’s notice when someone needed a tow or a ditch to be dug.

Each year, they take at least one trip together, sometimes a golf trip, other times fishing. They nearly piss themselves every time they tell the story of their ill-fated fishing trip to Cabo that resulted in Chris falling overboard, trying to reel in a marlin. Behind their relentless teasing of one another, they take their friendships seriously, viewing each of the Compadres as part of their extended family. Which meant that each of their kids had multiple godparents, who offered unsolicited advice on topics ranging from car repair to how to make the perfect Bolognese sauce.

Tonight’s mood at The Rancher’s Cut, though, was somber. The entire town had just learned that after more than fifty years of being in business, The Cut, as the locals lovingly called it, was shutting its doors at the end of the month. No one could understand why—the place was packed every night, and the food was generally a few notches above decent. The bartenders were friendly, and generous, and the conversation never dull.

“And you won’t freaking believe this…they’re bulldozing this place and putting in a Starbucks. I mean, at least they could have made it a Dunkin’ Donuts.” Ernie lamented, tilting his beer for emphasis.

“You’ve got to be shitting me!” Phil responded. “Why can’t another local restaurant come in here? They’ve got all the kitchen equipment. It might need some cleaning, though.”

The Compadres simultaneously swiveled their barstools to get a better look around. They saw the cowboy wallpaper that mostly camouflaged decades-old grease and smoke stains, the neon Schlitz sign that was always on the verge of shorting out, the wagon wheel light fixtures that the owner’s wife had lovingly created. The décor was rounded out by the giant bearskin rug on the wall beneath the big screen TV that had endured years of armchair quarterbacking. They took it all in, silent in their reverence for the mismatched furnishings that somehow worked. That is, if you thought plywood was classy and fart jokes were funny.

“Man, we’ve had some good times here. Remember the rehearsal dinner, the night before Phil married Brenda for the second time?” Mick ribbed Phil, waiting for his familiar reaction.

“It technically wasn’t the second time. Our first marriage didn’t count, since the guy who married us in Vegas passed out in the middle of the ceremony. That’s why Brenda was my bonus wife!”

The group fell silent as they remembered Brenda, who had died of cancer ten years earlier. Phil was heartbroken and had only three years ago met his now third wife. Or second if you believed Phil’s story about Vegas.

“To Brenda, the best woman I’ve ever known!” Phil said with a raised glass, the others returned his toast. “Oops, sorry Kim,” he offered in deference to his current, unbelievably tolerant wife.

The group remained quiet in respectful remembrance of Brenda for as long as they could endure not talking, which was about thirty seconds. Ernie pointed at the biggest shoulder mount four-point buck that anyone had ever seen and made the declaration “If Brutus could talk, we’d all be going to hell!”

The Compadres had named him Brutus, reflecting his massive size, the result of the many years he must have lived to reach his stature. Over the years, countless articles of clothing had been strewn over Brutus’s antlers, usually by one of the tourists who had begun to invade Oakview. This perceived disrespect to Brutus would inspire grumbling about the way things used to be, arousing more than one lively discussion about whether Brutus should be safely kept behind glass. Phil had been ready to start a fundraiser; in the end, it was decided that Brutus should stay in his natural state. The fact that The Cut patrons thought a taxidermized deer head might be considered its natural state revealed their lack of any sense of irony.

***

Phil’s son Jason, along with Rick’s son Mark, worked together at one of the seven craft microbreweries that populated their town. They were in the keg room, laughing at how upset their dads were that The Cut was closing. Despite their laughter, they knew The Cut represented years of friendship and community, not just to their dads, but to generations of families in Oakview.

“My dad’s been really bummed out. He was even talking about Brutus, how much he’d miss seeing him every Friday,” Jason commented.

“Oh yeah, Brutus, who can forget about him?” Mark answered. “Dad’s been talking about shooting his own Brutus, but we all know he doesn’t have the heart to hunt anymore. He’s getting soft in his old age.” The ripe old age of fifty-four.

They smiled, remembering their shared hunting trips, when their dads instilled the importance of only shooting what you were willing to eat. They learned honor for the land and more importantly, respect for the power humans had over other species.

“Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could get ahold of Brutus before they close The Cut?” Jason asked.

And so, Jason and Mark hatched a plan to get Brutus. They started by calling The Cut to see if they would sell him to them. No one ever answered the phone; it rang and rang, never going to voicemail.

Their next option was to go to The Cut one night after work, to negotiate in person. Now that everyone knew it was closing, people suddenly became nostalgic, wanting one last drink at the horseshoe bar, one last serving of prime rib and ranch beans. Customers waited in long lines that wound around the building, biding their time taking selfies next to the wooden bull statue. Jason saw those long lines each night as he drove home from work, continuing past when he couldn’t bring himself to endure the torture of waiting with a bunch of sentimental die-hard locals.

And then, The Cut was closed for good. It was scheduled to get bulldozed the next day, forever erasing it from Oakview. Jason and his buddies were on their way to Lola’s, the one bar in town that hadn’t been taken over by transplants. As they waited at a red light, they noticed the darkened parking lot of The Cut. It was eerily quiet, lifeless. This place, which had once been a beacon in a sea of chain stores and tract homes, was already on its way to being a part of Oakview’s lost history.

In that moment, they felt the loss and sadness that comes from not appreciating something until it’s gone. Or almost gone. Without uttering a word, they knew what they needed to do: rescue Brutus.

There was no one around; they parked and easily made their way toward the building, noticing the overflowing dumpsters. They roshamboed for who would do the dirty deed: Kyle lost. “Sucks to be me,” he muttered as he headed toward the twin dumpsters. They waited in anticipation while Kyle threw unrecognizable items from the dumpster, snickering as they heard his protests and exaggerated gagging. Fifteen minutes later, Kyle gave up and started walking back toward the car.

“Oh hell no, you’re not getting back in smelling like that. You’ve at least got to make it worth it if I’m letting your smelly ass back in my car,” Jason goaded.

“What am I supposed to do? Brutus wasn’t there!” Kyle protested.

“I think he’s inside,” Mark offered, pointing to a small transom window that was slightly open. James, the smallest of their crew, volunteered to get hoisted up through the window. They pushed him in, feeling sight concern when they heard a loud crashing sound.

“You alright, buddy?” Jason asked, laughing.

This didn’t receive a response, which they took to mean he wasn’t hurt enough to yell. While they waited, they placed bets on whether James would find anything, and if they would let Kyle ride back with them.

To their amazement, James came rushing out the front door, Brutus in hand.

A rat jumped out of the dumpster; Kyle made a retching sound as he defiantly got in the car.

***

They were gathered at Phil’s house, the Compadres and their families. Phil was hosting one of his famous BBQ nights, which he had instituted after the closing of The Cut. They hadn’t found another happy hour spot, so this was the holdover until they chose a place worthy of being the new Cut. Phil’s BBQ nights were famous because the food he prepared was terrible; no one knew how he could so spectacularly screw up BBQ. The Compadres agreed to find a new spot, soon.

Phil noticed the boys had been acting weird all evening, like they were hiding something. Probably one of them was high, or maybe James had gotten fired. Again. He was grateful, though, that they didn’t have bigger worries about their kids, they had turned out alright.

Jason came up to Phil, carrying something in a giant trash bag. All the boys had suddenly appeared, grinning like idiots. They were definitely high.

“Dad, you’re not going to believe what we got you!” Jason beamed with pride. The boys had unanimously agreed that Brutus should go to Phil, who had been the most broken up about the closing of The Cut.

Jason made a show of slowly lifting the bag away from its contents, making sure the base was all Phil saw at first. Eventually, Brutus emerged. Everyone cheered, and Phil was speechless.

“No freaking way! Brutus lives!” It was possible that Phil shed a tear.

He saw Brutus as his last remaining connection to The Cut, to the Compadres’ shared memories. This gesture left Phil feeling honored by Jason in a way that he was far too proud to admit.

Phil looked at Brutus, examining his rack from every angle. He had never seen Brutus up this close. He wondered what Brutus’s last moments on earth had been like before someone immortalized him into The Cut’s history.

***

Brutus gave Phil an excuse to finish cleaning his garage. For years, he had planned to make it a man-cave, decked out with a pool table and a bar. The maple slab he had salvaged for the bartop was gathering dust in the corner. Phil decided that getting Brutus was the sign he needed to make his garage the new happy hour spot.

After spending many weekends with Jason scrubbing, painting, and garage sale shopping for the right furniture, Phil’s garage was ready. He had borrowed Chris’s laser cutter to make the sign “Bar Brutus,” that was now proudly displayed next to the kegerator. Phil and Jason had saved mounting Brutus until the end, forever solidifying his place in the Compadres family.

Phil could barely contain his excitement, high fiving Jason, “You are so the man! I can’t believe you saved Brutus. I should make this place a museum!”

Jason was standing on the top rung of the ladder when Phil gently handed Brutus over, warning him to be careful. Jason examined the wood backing, getting ready to line the holes up with the screws on the wall. He noticed something sticky on the back of Brutus, squinting to get a better look. He saw that it was a sticker, covered with words.

Jason read the words on the sticker, his expression inscrutable. He couldn’t let his dad see his panic, his knowledge that the words changed everything. They were a mockery of Phil’s time spent at The Cut, his connection to Brutus.

In an instant, Jason determined that this secret would die with The Cut. Phil would never know the blasphemous words hidden behind Brutus.

Jason quickly finished installing Brutus, taking solace in his dad’s exuberant “He’s a masterpiece! I can’t wait for the first Bar Brutus happy hour!” Phil gazed at Brutus adoringly.

“Made in China” would remain safely hidden behind Brutus’s giant rack.

***

The Compadres were assembled in Phil’s garage, paying homage to Brutus. The motley crew of five grizzled, road-weary, yet jocular lifelong friends sat in a row at the bar, ready to toast the end of another long week.