Signs

As soon as he walked in his eyes were stuck on that big, bright neon billboard. The bartender worked to greet him as he burst into the empty bar, but the new patron froze in his tailored suit, his head snapping to the blinding blue and white lights and the little red glow that said “Miller” like a cherry on top.

           Now that’s a sign that works, the patron thought to himself, still standing, still staring. It’s so bright. Any longer at it and I might go blind! And in a lesser mood, that blinding light might have ticked him off, maybe ruined the whole evening. But it was Friday night. The friend from back-in-the-day he never gets to see anymore was popping by after he tucked the kids in, and for some reason, he could’ve sworn he caught the new hire, Kimberly, staring at him at least twice during the sales meeting…

           The neon Miller Lite sign above the left side of the bar only reminded him of all the fun he used to have—nostalgia. And then he sort of smiled…

           “Would you like one?”

           And that’s when he finally realized he had been standing there staring for longer than a normal person would.

           “Uh-bluh, uh—yes! Yes I would, please…” he managed.

           The bearded man behind the bar bent down to a cooler behind him and pulled out what appeared to be the coldest, frostiest glass bottle he could find. The label was pristine—no stains on the white, no tears or creases in its edges. The bartender had to switch hands carrying the beer over because of how much the cold, wet glass burned. Somehow though, the beverage wasn’t frozen. When he got close, but not too close, the bartender raised his massive hand and slammed the bottle’s top as it rested on the bar’s edge. The cap did a few flips before falling to the floor, and instead of finishing his stroll down, he sat the beer on the bar right in front of him and passed it down the rest of the way until it slowly slid to a standstill right in front of where his patron now sat. Just like a movie…

           But his patron didn’t see any of it, because he was still staring at that damned sign.

           Damn, the patron wondered, where do bars like this even get a sign like that?

He finally decided to stretch his neck and play a little detective from his barstool: a buck’s head hung over the restrooms… an old jukebox had about a quarter of its lights out… one of the older gentlemen at the other end of the bar worked very hard not to fall asleep where he sat…

Damn, why’d my buddy wanna meet here anyway?

It was, by every definition of the word, a below average country town dive bar. Maybe it reminded his old friend of the joints they used to frequent before they were men. But what had caught the patron’s eye as soon as he stepped through the door was definitely no below average country town dive bar sign, not like one he had ever seen before.

How does a sign like that even end up in a place like this? he continued to investigate. Is there a store? Does Miller go outta their way to make sure places like this get signs like that? Don’t tell me just anyone can get one of these things on Amazon…

“Everything alright, man?”

He startled back to life to find the bartender staring ahead as he leaned on the backbar behind him.

“Huh?”

“Is everything alight?” the burly voice rang again. “You haven’t touched your beer. Is there something wrong with it?”

“Oh…” the patron looked down to confirm. He had forgotten where he was for a moment… “Uh, no, I-I—”

Don’t ask him about the sign, the patron thought. His hands were sweaty. He kept avoiding eye contact, even when he spoke, “I was just, uh, ya know… easing into things…”

The bartender’s eyes beat down on him like the sun, but the glow in the corner of his eye reminded him that the sign was still there and, for some reason, that gave him the slightest comfort. His eyes quickly shifted from the bartender to the bar to the sign back to the bar and all over again and again as he tried to find the words. Am I getting hot? he wondered as his forehead started steaming.

But the bartender just laughed. “Well, ok then,” he reassured. “Let me know when you’re ready to stare at another one— next round’s on me,” and he walked back down to the other the end of the bar where an older gentleman sat sipping on Scotch in a trucker hat with a cigarette in the brim.

The next round’s on him? the patron wondered. No bartender’s ever offered me a free drink!

And just in time too. Right then his buddy strolled in, so the patron used his free drink on him.

He pointed to the sign, “We’re drinking Millers because of that sign right there.”

“Yeah,” his buddy asked, wondering where this could be going.

“Yeah. Where do you think you even get a sign like that?”

“You in the market for one?”

“I mean… Look at us—we’re drinking one, aren’t we? It worked!”

His buddy laughed it off, and the rest of the night felt like old times. They talked for hours about old girlfriends and old goals, and the even reminisced about a time at a concert with a little too much of this and a little too much of that, and something about waking up in a porta-potty. We haven’t laughed about that in years, the patron thought as he wiped a tear from his eye. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much. He ordered another one, and telling from the empty bottles on the bar, they had ordered another one quite a few times.

But every now and then, in between the stories and the laughs, as his old buddy took a moment to breathe and reminisce about the good old days, the patron would catch that big blue and white glow in the corner of his eye and he’d say, “Where do you even get a sign like that?” and his buddy would just laugh it off...

About an hour and a half before last call, his buddy decided it was time to call it quits. The wife was waiting up and new bar guests were piling in and stealing their comfort. So, buddy settled up and moseyed on out. The patron just sat there, more enthralled with the sign than ever, his stare even stronger now that he’d been drinking.

Eventually, he’d been staring so long that the bartender startled him once again when he came around for last call. The patron put his head on his hand and let out a sigh. What a bummer. I could sit here forever…

His eyes were on their way up for one last gaze at the light above when their path was diverted. Instead, they fell upon the most hypnotizing swirls of green and gold God could conjure, spiraling toward perfect pupils like two blackholes pulling through the cosmos hiding behind reclaimed Ray Bans. Her curly dark hair fell like feathers on soft, broad shoulders. His hands were sweaty again, his forehead was getting warm. She was staring at him, watching him, and he wasn’t thinking about the neon Miller Lite sign anymore. All he could think about was how she knew exactly what to wear to make a man never forget, even if he only ever knew her from across a dark, seedy bar. The petite, figure in the black top and khaki pencil skirt opened her mouth:

“Whatcha starin’ at?” her accent was slightly Southern, girly.

“Uh,” he panicked. Great, talking again…

“What?” she glanced up at the sign. “That neon Miller sign?”

“Uh, well—”

“Don’t tell me you’re drawn to that thing like a moth to a-a… well, a fucking neon sign, right?”

“Well, again, ya know—”

“Holy fucking shit—what kinda fucking freak are you?”

And just like that, something snapped. It had been a great night full of love and laughter and memories and drinks, and he knew how his own mind worked, especially when he had been drinking. The patron wasn’t about to let a little comment like that from a beautiful who, yes, intimidated him, but that he never knew and would probably never see again. I’m not a freak. She’s a fucking freak! He made a fist, and now his hands were more like wet knots. He turned quickly.

“Fuck you!” he sent from across the before just as she went to get up from her stool.

“Excuse me?” and now the bartender was paying attention.

“Who the fuck are you?” he scowled, “to tell me I’m a freak for like this stupid, fucking silly, fucking beautiful sign? Look at that fucking thing. It’s a fucking testament to human advancement and… achievement in both marketing and science. Neon? NEON?! Do you even understand how complex neon lights are on a chemical level?? And on top of that, it’s grabbed and held my attention and everyone in this bar’s ALL NIGHT!” he exclaimed before pointing to an elderly man in a booth— “You’ve been looking at it! I know you have!” The man in the booth admitted to himself he that had as he reluctantly nodded back. “Grabbed my attention better than you! And look at you! You’re maybe the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on! Even made me forget about the damn sign for a second… So fuck you…”

And just like that, just as quickly as it had started, the whole bar—all seven and half-ish patrons still there—fell as silent as a library. All anyone could hear was the buzzing of all the neon signs that were keeping the bar awake.

She looked down for a moment, swallowed, and stood from her stool. The patron watched as she made her way over. To him, it felt like slow motion, it felt like a movie, but this time he was paying attention.

She planted herself in the stool to his left.

“Any chance we could get one last one? Please? Pretty, pretty please?” she begged. But the bartender made them take it on the sidewalk where they laughed about whatever and called for an Uber.

“Ya know,” she mentioned as they stepped into a car, “I liked how mad you got about that sign in there.”

“Really?” he wondered.

“Well, I mean, yeah. How many guys you meet in seedy bars got that much passion about them?”

And then they squeezed into the back of a black sedan before trying to make small talk with the middle-aged woman who drove.

Three days later, the patron walked back in and slapped his check book on the bar.

           “How much for the sign?”