Barry Tavern

The mustard yellow sign creaked as it swung gently in the chill December air. “Barry Tavern” it read, but with space between the two words. A fluorescent bulb near the bottom flickered like it was on hospice, awaiting its last exhale.

Damon leaned forward into the breeze, striding carefully across the uneven sidewalk. He paused to stare up at the sign for the third time that week, knowing what the missing words were, and hoping he’d have the courage to say something tonight. The icy cold door handle burned his fingers as he yanked it open. 

The dimly lit bar smelled faintly of stale beer and sawdust. He smiled as the warm air washed over him, rubbing his hands vigorously to regain feeling. As usual, the bar was nearly empty.

“Hey, kid, I’m surprised to see you here tonight. Don’t you college boys usually party on New Years Eve?” asked the bartender. He was in his late fifties, with skinny arms and legs and a bulging paunch (barrel-on-a-stick is how the doctor described him). Thinning hair and mustache were neatly trimmed and dyed shoe polish black.

“Hello, Mr. Barry,” said Damon, “yeah, we do. But I have a lot on my mind. This whole Y2K stuff has freaked me out a bit, you know? I mean, if it’s the end of the world then I better figure out whatever needs figuring out.”

Barry frowned and said, “Right, whatever you say kid. Want the usual?”

A vision of the soapy water used to clean the mugs, tepid rather than the 130 degrees needed for proper cleaning, flashed through his mind. It was why he always drank bottles of beer. “Sure,” he replied, as Barry popped the lid off a Bud Light. The cap dropped with a light ping into the trash can. Damon took a long swig while staring at his reflection in the mirror that filled most of the wall behind the bar.

Barry picked up the phone and dialed a number. Speaking softly into the receiver he said, “The kid’s here again.” He hung up and wondered for the millionth time how he ended up owning a dive bar and acting as go between for a couple of two-bit hustlers. “That was Johnny and Boston Bob. They’re headin’ over. I guess they are hopin’ for a game,” he said more loudly.

Damon chugged the rest of the beer, took a deep breath, and said, “Sure, cool. Um, listen Mr. Barry, why does you’re sign say “Barry Tavern” instead of “Barry’s Tavern”, and why the big space between the words?”

Barry looked at the clock and knew he’d need to keep the kid here for at least thirty minutes. Johnny and Boston Bob had to drive here from South Philly. So instead of telling him what he normally said, None of your damn business, he said, “Well, kid, I used to own this place with my ex-wife. It originally read, “Barry and Fran’s Tavern”, but she left me,” he rubbed his forehead with the second knuckle of his loosely balled fist, “let’s see, around twenty years ago. And, to tell you the truth, I was too cheap to replace it.”

“She left twenty-three years ago, and moved to San Diego, right?” asked Damon.

“How the hell would you know that?” asked Barry as he straightened up, letting his arms fall to his side. Silent tension suddenly pulsed in the short space separating them.

The only sound was from the ever-present television. A middle-aged man with thick rimmed glasses spoke in a droning monotone. “We could be looking at a brown out with total loss of power for three months or a black out lasting eighteen months, or more.”

Damon closed his eyes, pursed his lips and removed his hand from his pocket. He held up a colorful chip pinched between middle finger and thumb. Quietly he said, “Mom didn’t think you’d believe me, so she gave me this.”

Barry froze, instantly transported back to that night in Vegas. His hand shook as he grabbed the chip. He smirked and said, “This is a $5 chip from Binion’s Casino. So what?”

“You don’t recognize it?” said Damon, doubt creeping into his voice, “Please don’t do this. Mom left because she was pregnant with me. She didn’t want to see her baby raised in, well, in an environment like this. But she thought I should see you, in case, you know it’s Armageddon.”

“Nonsense,” said Barry. “Now you’re gonna tell me I’m your dad, is that what this is? Forget it. I’ve scammed people ten times smarter than you, I know’em all, and I’m not fallin’ for it. The reason your mom,” he caught himself, “the reason Fran left was because I was an alcoholic with a gamblin’ problem. And you can tell her I haven’t had a drink or placed a bet in nine years. Besides, you told me you were from Philly.”

Damon leaned back on his barstool and wiped a tear from his cheek. “I said I live here. I just graduated from Lasalle College, in three and a half years, and I wanted to see you, to talk to you before I flew home for good. And before whatever might happen at midnight tonight.”

“Well, do me a favor, kid, and drop it. ‘Scuse me, I got stuff to do.” Barry drifted to the other end of the bar and wiped down the counter with a threadbare dishrag.

Damon stood unsteadily on his feet, bewildered and disappointed. He walked over to the pool table in a daze, inserted coins into the slot and racked the balls for eight ball. Leaning down for the break he heard the bell above the door jangle. Johnny and Boston Bob strolled into the bar.

Johnny was short and skinny, and always wore the same bright orange, green and brown faux-camouflage baseball cap with the words “Taco Bell” across the front. He only wore caps with mesh venting across the back.

Boston Bob was six feet tall, burly, with an unkempt beard and bloodshot eyes. He once wore a navy-blue pole shirt from his uncle’s HVAC shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and had been called Boston Bob ever since.

Johnny dragged the palm of his hand across the top of the barstools as he sauntered toward Damon. “Hey, kid, how you hittin’em?”

Wiping the last vestiges of tears from the corner of his eyes, he said, “Just set them up.”

Johnny smiled, “That’s cool. Boston Bob was hoping to get his revenge. You beat him up pretty good last night.”

Barry watched from behind the bar as Boston Bob and Damon shot pool. He knew Damon didn’t stand a chance. Serves him right for coming in here with that silliness. Pulling the chip out of his front shirt pocket he wondered, Could she have been pregnant? His mind drifted back to the rocky years he’d shared with Fran. Most of what he remembered was blurred with alcohol and laced with anger and fighting. Still, she was a wonderful woman. He never could figure out what she saw in him. Chuckling, he thought of their first Thanksgiving. He could see Fran placing the turkey on the bottom of a tin foil pan instead of on a rack, followed by smoke pouring out of the stove as the fire alarm blared.

The clock read 11:15 pm. Forty-five minutes until the end of the world. Glancing over at the table he could see Damon was in big trouble. He’d witnessed the look countless times. The kid was buried, but didn’t quite know it yet. Suckers always chase lost money as they unfailingly race toward the bottom.

“What’s the score?” he asked Johnny.

“The kid is just about tapped out. He had a wad, said something about a plane ticket. I figure your piece will be about fifty bucks.”

Barry clenched the chip in his fist, the pressure of the edge painful against the base of his fingers. Suddenly, he was disgusted by Johnny and Boston Bob and the whole business and thought, What the hell? Moving toward the table he said, “Hey, kid, how about you let me take this shot?”

Johnny and Boston Bob looked at Barry with open-mouthed shock. Boston Bob spoke in a soft drawl, “What’s the joke, Barry?”

“No joke, I just want to take a shot. What’s the difference?” Turning to Damon he said, “You don’t mind, do ya kid?” And casually added, “What’re you down, anyway?”

Damon numbly said, “Ah, sure, go ahead, you couldn’t do worse than me. I can’t make a shot.” Then added sheepishly, “I’m down about three hundred dollars.”

Barry grabbed the queue and shot left-handed. The eight-ball rattled in the jaws of the corner pocket and stayed out. Boston Bob smiled and finished off the game, “tough luck, kid.”

Barry held the cue in both hands, near the tip, and rested the butt on the ground. “Tell you what, Bob, let’s play, you and me. How about $200 per game, race to ten and winner takes all. What do you say?”

Boston Bob looked at Johnny who shrugged his shoulders and smiled slightly. Turning to Barry he said, “Not sure what you’re getting at here, Barry. It’s just me and the kid shooting pool, having fun.”

“What I’m getting’ at is you and me havin’ fun. Now are you in or out? If you’re scared, I understand.”

“Scared of you, old-timer?” he laughed. “It’s your funeral, so rack’em. And you better have the money.”

Barry turned to Damon. “Hey, kid, can you grab my cue from under the bar? It’s at the back of the shelf, below the register.

Damon quickly dipped under the bar top divider. The register was midway down on his righthand side. He was strangely disoriented seeing the bar from this angle. Because the back of the shelf was pitch black, he reached in blindly. His hand bumped into the wooden heft of the back end of a shotgun, which he reached around and found a smooth, oval case.

Barry thanked him with a nod and pulled the top off the case. Inside the two tubes were lined with dark felt. He tilted the case upside down and his cue parts slid out. He deftly screwed the two pieces together.

Johnny frowned, “What the hell is that? You said you were a poker player.”

“What I said was I have a gamblin’ problem. My game was pool, not poker.”  He pinched his left-hand fingers into the well-rehearsed bridge of a shooter and rhythmically stroked the cue back and forth with his right hand as it gently gripped the butt.

Placing his left hand on the table he crouched, preparing to break. He adjusted the cue ball a few millimeters toward the side without standing up, paused, and smashed the balls with a clap of thunder. The balls exploded around the table, two dropping immediately, then the eight ball slowly drifted toward the corner pocket. As it made its last revolution the black number 8, surrounded by a white circle, rose from the green felt into view like the dawning of the sun. With its last ounce of energy, it tipped over the edge into the pocket.

Barry looked at Boston Bob and said, “That’s one.”

The games went quickly. Boston Bob was shaken up after the first game and totally rattled by the third. Barry lined up the last shot and pocketed the final eight ball while looking Boston Bob in the eyes. “That’s two thousand dollars you owe me, Bob.”

Boston Bob’s eyes darted from Barry to Johnny and back. With brows furrowed and teeth clenched he placed his foot on the edge of the table, rolled back his pant leg and removed a thick roll of bills from his sock. He silently handed the money to Barry who then turned to Damon and said, “Take this, kid, and get goin’. Don’t come back.”

Click

Barry and Damon froze. “Not so fast, Barry. The kid ain’t going anywhere with my money.”

They turned to see Boston Bob pointing a small handgun at Barry. Johnny had a pocketknife open in his left hand. “Now give me back the cash and whatever you got in the money box.”

Lifting his hands in the air, Barry slowly backed himself behind the bar. He banged a button on the register which dinged loudly and opened with a clatter. Simultaneously, he reached under the bar and pulled out the shotgun. The gun was between him and Boston Bob. He managed to keep it hidden behind his leg.

Barry placed a small stack of bills on top of the bar close to Johnny. As Johnny reached for the money Barry thrust the barrel of the shotgun into Boston Bob’s chest, holding it steady and staring him down.

Time stood still for several seconds. “Kid, get out of here, NOW, and don’t come back no matter what.”

Damon took a few steps back, turned and lurched toward the front of the bar. The top half of the door was blackened glass. Through the blurry reflection he could vaguely make out the three figures behind him. Suddenly, he saw Johnny lunge, followed by Bang! A scream and a softer popping sound, a grunt and another Bang!

He sprinted back down the bar. Johnny and Boston Bob were dead, there bloody corpses flung backward by the awful power of the shotgun. Johnny’s remains were crumpled in the corner and Boston Bob’s spread eagle over the pool table.

Barry sat on the floor leaning against the bar, his hand covering a bullet hole through the side of his chest. Dark blood pulsed from the wound around his fingers. His face was a ghastly white. He half smiled when he saw Damon. Speaking with a soft raspy voice he said, “Hey kid,” then closed his eyes and coughed up a small amount of bloody froth. Grabbing Damon’s forearm in a surprisingly strong grasp, he said, “Hey…son, do me a favor.” (Cough, cough) “Tell your mom she was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

His eyes rolled back, and he slumped to the floor.

Damon looked around in horror. In the deep recess of his consciousness, he heard a clock chiming. He eased slowly away from the bodies until his back bumped into the door. The contact jarred him into action. Turning, he yanked it open and fled into the night.

Across the street the Mayfair Diner’s lights blazed brightly. The sounds of Auld Lang Syne could be heard from the house on the corner. He paused long enough to realize it was January 1, 2000, it was Y2K. Why were the lights on? Why hadn’t something happened? The harsh whine of police sirens broke his reverie. He sprinted down the street to lose himself in the dark recesses of a new century.