A Night at The Raven

“Mike!”

Darla’s eyes darted around the strobe-lit room, nervously searching for her white knight. In this case, a 350-pound former boxer who she recently hired to keep her bar in check on nights when things got out of hand. He helped drag out men throwing punches, women pulling hair, and both men and women who couldn’t take “no” for an answer. He knew how to handle most situations — by extending his arms and plowing the perpetrator like a backhoe toward the nearest exit. His towering height and emotionless gaze made it easy to dissociate with the unlucky patron who had hit their limit. But this was different. 

Mike and Darla’s eyes locked and she nodded her shaggy red hair toward a spindly old man on the dance floor. Joe Columbus was 87 years old. He’d never been to a place like The Raven. The sticky-countered dives that were scored by the sounds of crunching peanut shells were the norm for him. But a trendy bar with people a quarter his age made him a mound of neon Play-doh in a gallery of Rodins. 

Regardless, Joe twirled to the music he’d not once heard before and swung his arms gleefully from side to side. His legs bobbed, hips gyrated, and toes shuffled — sometimes to the beat, sometimes to a beat all his own. 

The sight of Joe’s enthusiasm derailed Mike’s typical plan of action for a Friday night drunk. Afterall, it was Wednesday, and aside from a bachelorette party giggling and pointing from the sidelines, Joe was mostly a solo performance. 

Mike turned to Darla and shrugged, clearly not the response she preferred. Darla motioned to him in a demanding, “Here. Now,” sort of way as only a 110-pound boss could do to a man of his size. 

“He’s just dancing,” Mike said apathetically as he reached the other side of the bar. His deep voice and thick accent piled onto his already intimidating facade. 

“He’s freaking out my customers and I don’t like it. Ask him gently to leave; it’s not fucking Vaudeville.”

The pair turned to the man who had now invented a new move that resembled an elephant swinging its trunk. 

“He’s having a little fun. Shit, Dar. He might not have many chances left. You don’t think you’ll be dancing on tables in here 'till you’re 100?”

She smirked. “It’s my bar, I can do whatever the fuck I want. And right now, I want you to gently ask him to leave. If you want to keep this job. If you don’t…” She threw her hands up as if to say “c’est la vie.”

Joe reeled in his swinging trunk and paused. The music had just changed from something with heavy bass to a song with a lot of bleeps and bloops.

“Look, he’s done, he’s done,” Mike said hopefully.

Mike and Darla watched Joe as he looked up at the ceiling and furrowed his brow. He brought his head down slowly, and began lowering his whole body to the floor. 

“Mike, go. Now!”

“Alright, alright!”

“Sir, sir,” Mike said as he quickly grabbed a hold of Joe’s arm, pulling him up from the ground. 

Joe looked around confused. 

“Is this not what you do here?” Joe said, with outstretched arms and indignation. 

“It is, yes. You can dance here. We’re just worried you’re gonna get hurt, that’s all.”

Joe caught eyes with the soon-to-be bride, surrounded by her friends at a table. She smiled and quickly turned her head, pretending she hadn’t been watching him dance for the past twenty minutes or so. 

“You’re a very pretty girl,” Joe said. “There’s a very lucky man somewhere tonight. I hope he’s behaving.”

Mike was positive Darla wouldn’t approve, so he preemptively intervened. 

“OK, Sir.”

“What, I can’t be nice? You can’t say pretty anymore? What should I say, gorgeous?”

“I’m not sure if that’s any better.”

“Can I sit at the bar at least? Can she make me a drink?” Joe said, nodding at Darla.

Mike looked at Darla for a response but she had already wandered into the back room. It was a slow night and Mike was feeling generous. 

“I’ll make you a drink, what do you want? Beer? Cocktail?”

“Cocktail? What do I look like?”

“I don’t know, you looked pretty fancy out there on the dance floor. Thought you might like a martini,” Mike joked. 

Joe swung his open hand. “Johnnie Walker, neat.”

“A scotch man, shoulda known.”

Joe smirked as Mike went to work, grabbing a clean tumbler and snatching the bottle off the shelf with the delicacy of someone with hands half his size.

“She your wife?” Joe asked gruffly. 

“Who, Darla?” Mike shot back in return. 

“Yeah the red head.”

“Absolutely not. This is not a family establishment.”

“No, they never are anymore,” Joe said quietly.

Mike examined Joe as he poured his liquor. His button-down gray shirt was frayed at the cuffs and the collar’s wrinkles left it twisted and unkempt. 

“You live around here?” Mike asked. 

Joe didn’t respond. His eyes stayed glued to the bottles of liquor on the wall. 

“I just thought by the way she bossed you around…”

“Yeah well, it’s her place,” Mike responded.

Joe’s face crumpled with confusion.

“She owns the place? What happened to Rudy?”

Mike shook his head. “I don’t know no Rudys, but I’m pretty new here.”

He tossed a cocktail napkin onto the bar and placed Joe’s drink down on top. Joe let out a quiet “huh,” and scanned the place carefully.

“Yeah, I live around here. Used to live upstairs, actually.”

Joe pointed a curved finger to the ceiling. His face softened, and his gruff exterior seemed to crack at the thought of the days he’d spent in this building.

“Behind you…” Joe nodded his head behind the bar. Mike turned around and looked back at Joe with confusion.

“There was a radio there, by those glasses. Spent many nights listening to some big-time matches. October first '75. Frazier vs. Ali in Manila.”

Mike chuckled and shook his head. 

“Yeah, we didn’t have a TV. So what?”

“Oh no, I’m laughing because that’s my birthday. My mom always told me my dad didn’t come to the hospital to see her when I was born because the fight was on. One of the reasons she never supported my boxing career, I guess.”

Joe smiled. “It was a hell of a fight. You look like a man who knows a good fight yourself.”

Mike chuckled again. “What gave it away?”

The conversation was interrupted by a young woman clearing her throat.

“Can we have another round?” she asked, flipping her hair with a smile. 

“Yeah, I’ll bring ‘em over.” Mike responded.

Joe dug his musty wallet out of his pocket and began pulling out some wrinkly dollar bills. They were slotted between crumpled slips of paper and worn out cards from businesses that probably closed decades ago. 

“It’s on the house,” Mike said as he poured vodka into six shot glasses and carefully corralled them all into two hands. He walked in front of the bar and passed Joe to the table of chatting women. He slid the shot glasses onto the table as one of the ladies unnecessarily yelled to put it on their tab. 

When Mike made his way back to the bar, Joe had already left, leaving behind a wrinkled old photograph. Curious, Mike grabbed it off the bar and looked at the photo: a small family in grainy and faded golden hues. A man in a sharp gray suit, a beautiful woman with fiery orange hair and a wide smile, and a bright-eyed, chubby baby. Mike squinted at the photo, taking in every detail, then turned it around to see a scribble on the back.

“My Dear Darla, Mom always said, dance like nobody's watching. Love, Pop”