Last Call

Last Call

In my fifteen years tending bar, I worked in a lot of places and I seen a lot of things. But I never seen anything that could top last Saturday. I’ve been working at a bar called Benny’s for a couple years now. My boss is one self-centered son of a bitch, so it shouldn’t surprise no one that he gave his name to the place. We’re open seven days a week all year long. Benny doesn’t give a shit about his employees around the holidays or any other time. “People gotta’ drink,” he says.

During the week we get mostly regulars. We got workers coming off their shift at the chocolate factory, smelling up the place like we just unwrapped a hundred Hershey bars. We got members of the American Legion riders, who blow in on their Harleys. All they ever talk about is Vietnam. And we got Louise and Stella, two broads who look about twenty years older than they should. They work together doing I don’t know what and they drink together six nights out of seven. Our regulars are a rough mix, but they know how to behave. They have to. Otherwise Mrs. Benny will throw them out on their liquored up asses.

On Saturday nights is when things can get dicey, especially during the school year when the kids from campus come around. They’re already drunk when they walk through the door expecting it to be held open. They all got fake IDs but Benny don’t care about that. Just once I’d like to refuse service on account of they’re underage, but I need to keep this job. The tips is good and I’m too old to find someplace new.
Anyways, last Saturday we had the biggest crowd I’d ever served and I was busting my ass trying to keep up. Benny was working the door, letting in anybody and everybody. My eight-year-old niece probably coulda gotten’ tanked at Benny’s that night. I was setting drink after drink on the bar and they was getting drained just as soon as they got set down. The regulars wanted their Budweiser and the kids wanted sex on the beach and amaretto sours.

The jukebox was playing back and forth between that new shit the kids is into and old standards like Neil Diamond and Patsy Cline. People was trying to dance only we don’t got a dance floor. The only space without tables is in front of the dart boards, which is kind of a stupid place to dance if you ask me. Only no one did. I guess birds gotta fly, fish gotta swim and drunk ass college girls gotta dance.
A couple of them girls that just couldn’t help themselves almost got a dart in the eye courtesy of Rudy Brown. Rudy’s our darts league champ and he was more than a little chuffed about two skinny blonde chicks shaking their booties right in front of his bull’s eye. A little skirmish broke out when one of the girls got up in Rudy’s face and he pushed back some. Rudy just did it to get her out of his space, but one of the guys she was with—a big, no-neck linebacker type—felt the need to come to her defense. I noticed things was getting a little heated, so I called Mrs. Benny down from upstairs.

Mrs. Benny bought Rudy a drink to get him to give up the darts and put five dollars of quarters in the jukebox and let the kids pick all the songs. The regulars sitting at the bar all groaned, but they did it quietly. It wasn’t smart to piss off Mrs. Benny.
That’s what I like about her. She always does exactly the right thing. I seen her reason with a 350-pound man why it would be a good idea for him to stop drinking and call a cab. And every Thursday night at nine-thirty, she comes downstairs to lay a guilt trip on Louise so she’ll stop drinking up her paycheck and go home to feed her kids. One time, in the middle of a full out brawl, she climbed up on top of the bar and screamed for everybody to get the fuck out cuz we was closed. It worked too. She should have been one of those conflict mediators they got over there in the Middle East. If they had Mrs. Benny, the Jews and Arabs would be spending Christmas together by now.

After the darts incident died down, we had a full hour of peace. Some of the kids filtered out and the ones that was left was making nice with the townies. Rudy was back up in front of his bull’s eye, slow dancing with one of the blondes. I even had a minute to light up a Marlboro and wipe down my bar.
It was past one when somebody new come in. He was too old to be a student, but I never seen him around town before. It wasn’t the kind of town where people passed through on their way somewhere, so the stranger got a lot of notice when he slid up to the bar and ordered Johnnie Walker Red neat. He slammed it down and called for another. Then he did the same thing three times over. He called for a fifth glass but on the rocks this time so he could enjoy it. I guess that was code for nurse the drink, because he sat there for a half-hour and barely took another sip.

That time of night, I get busy cleaning up so I can get home before sunrise. So, I wasn’t paying attention to much of the conversation. I was cleaning glasses in the sink and I could see the stranger chatting up Mel Van Owen at the other end of the bar. Mel is one of those that comes in every night. He sits in the same seat and he has one gin and tonic every night but Saturday. On Saturday, Mel drinks ‘til he can’t barely stand. He brings his dad in with him on Saturdays so he knows he’ll get home.

Mr. Van Owen is a strange one to depend on. He’s usually drunker than Mel. But Mel’s a diabetic and I guess he figures he better have somebody close by in case he goes into one of those comas. About ten years ago, Mel had to have one of his legs chopped off on account of the diabetes. It stopped him drinking during the week. As far as I can tell, it didn’t stop him doing nothing else. He stands up in the dart league on Tuesdays and unless you knew about the leg, you’d never guess.
Anyways, the stranger and Mel was deep in conversation, heads together like they was telling a secret. The more the stranger talked, the more upset Mel got. He mostly kept his eyes on the bar but every few minutes he would look around for his dad. Mr. Van Owen was standing with his back to the bar, playing darts with Rudy who gave up the dancing when the chickies went home. He wasn’t paying no attention to his son.

I moved a little closer down toward their end of the bar. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. This new guy was upsetting a regular and I was just being protective. Mel’s voice was high and pinched when I heard him tell the stranger to knock it off. The stranger said something about he knew what Mel and his dad was up to. Mel started getting red in his face. He said to the stranger that he was warning him, but the stranger just kept on talking, real low like, right in Mel’s ear.
Mel looked around again for his dad, who still wasn’t paying any attention. I walked all the way down to their end of the bar and asked if everything was all right. The stranger smirked and Mel had had just about enough. He reached over and grabbed the empty beer bottle out of my hand. Then, he broke the bottom off against the bar and threatened the stranger with the jagged end. The smashing glass got his dad’s attention. Mr. Van Owen yelled at the stranger to get the fuck away from his son and go back to his hole in the ground.

Everybody in the place stopped to listen as Mr. Van Owen and the stranger yelled out their whole family baggage. Turns out the stranger really wasn’t. He was the son of Mr. Van Owen’s brother and he felt entitled to a chunk of money Mel had inherited from Mr. Van Owen’s sister who had gone off and married some rich doctor. She felt sorry for Mel on account of his one leg and all, and had left him a bundle. Mel was secretly rich and his cousin was trying for a share by pissing Mel off. Talk about your soap opera.

Well, the nephew just kept talking about how he had been the favorite until Mel went and turned into a cripple. Mr. Van Owen had heard enough, so he launched his can of Budweiser across the bar. I suppose he was aiming for the stranger’s head, but somebody else’s head was in the way.

One of the linebacker types was roused just like a sleeping lion and he charged at Mr. Van Owen, knocking him sideways into the jukebox. He was close to eighty, but Mr. Van Owen was holding his own against the kid, punching him hard in the kidneys and trying to get a knee up into his groin. Benny and Mrs. Benny was both upstairs for the night, so I come out from behind the bar and hollered at the two to knock it off. Just then, Mel drops the bottle and goes for his cousin, grabbing him around the neck and squeezing hard. The cousin was pulling at Mel’s arms, pulling at his hair, trying to poke him in the eyes. He was trying anything to get him to let go, but Mel wasn’t budging. I thought he was a goner, so I stepped in and pulled Mel off.

I yelled, “What the hell is wrong with you?” at Mel and his cousin but I didn’t get my answer because I got clocked from behind by a flying ashtray that come out of the melee behind me. I went down on my knees. My hand went to my head and came back bloody. I don’t like the site of blood, especially my own, so I went woozy for a second. On my hands and knees, I made it back behind the bar and grabbed a wet towel for my gash. I stayed down on the ground for a while, until I thought I should probably call the police or at least try yelling again. I pulled myself upright just in time to see Mrs. Benny coming down the stairs in a pink robe, curlers all done up in her hair. She was holding a sawed-off shotgun. She cocked it loudly and everybody froze up.

The cousin was gone. Most of the people left was lying on the floor on top or underneath somebody. Else they was draped over a table or holding up a broken bottle, ready to strike. Mel was slumped down against his barstool. At first, everybody’s eyes was on Mrs. Benny. But her eyes was on the middle of the floor, so that’s where everybody looked next. And there, standing straight up in the middle of broken glass and puddles of booze, snot, and blood was Mel’s plastic leg with his shoe still tied.

Mr. Van Owen untangled himself from the kid but he didn’t say nothing. He just walked over, picked up the fake leg and then dragged his son up on the real one. With their arms around each other, they did a three-legged race for the door. For a long minute, nobody said nothing. Then Benny yelled, “Last call,” and everybody left in the place busted out laughing.