The man in the dark gray trench coat with matching fedora threw his unfiltered, burned short Came cigarette butt into the orange and blue neon reflections of the puddle at the street curb mud. "Blue Knight Spot" the neon glowed around the medieval armored helmet of the logo. The small, blue and white painted sign above the red-leather upholstered door with the double diamond shaped windows read "No Smoking by Ordinance 01-0387."
"No shit," the man said under his breath as he pushed the front door aside.
He quietly strolled into the bar removing his coat but keeping on his hat and sat down on a dark red leather bar stool, third seat from the end. It was his regular seat by the tall, old, wooden box called Public Telephone. It had a working 1940s-style, candlestick pay telephone in it, but it only called the bartender for a nickel. He never answered it and you got your nickel back, but it kept new people from constantly asking, "Does that old thing still work?" It wouldn't be the same atmosphere in here without it.
The man adjusted his blue silk necktie by his reflection in the mirror behind the Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels, Blue Goose and Smirnoff bottles neatly arranged on glass shelves. The tall, balding bartender pulled-up the red sleeve garters on his white, long-sleeved shirt, adjusted his black paisley patterned silk vest and walked over. In his usual deep, booming voice he said, "How ya' doin', Jim. Long time. What'll it be? The Johnny Walker red or the black label, tonight."
"Haven't had much to celebrate lately, Ray. I'll just have Red on the Rocks."
"Comin' up."
He put two bar naps down on the sweet spot of the bar - halfway between the edge of the bar and the customer within a short forearm's grasp of both men. Turning around, he quickly fixed the drink order with a heavy pour and set it down neatly in the center of the bar naps.
"Had dinner yet, Jim. We could fix something special in the back. Rosie's got a Blue Plate Special if you want to hear it."
"No thanks, Ray. I appreciate the thought. That's why I like coming here. Rosie cooks just like mom used to, but I'm not in the mood tonight. Say, is that "Frank Sinatra" kid coming in tonight or is it that blond bombshell dame what's-her-name this week."
Of course, the real Frank Sinatra had been dead for years, but Jim didn't want to remember the names of these new entertainers. They come and go so fast that remembering their names seemed to be and exercise in futility. They'd come in, give an audition for Ray and if he liked them, he'd let them sit-in with the house jazz and blues band. They never stayed around to hone their craft. They just moved to another town.
They try it on like a fast-food career for a while and if it doesn't work for them, they move on. The good ones, get into drugs or get pregnant and move in with their sugar daddy - meanwhile what they might have had to offer the world or what they might have been, is forever lost to the world and wasted.
But Jazz and Blues - the way THESE guys - the house group, play them - is the way it should be played with soul, emotion and technical expertise that looks so easy for them to play and always sounds so good. Good music, good Scotch and good company is what Saturday nights are made to be. Now, IF only she would come in.
"Neither one, Jim. Tonight, we have a couple of new ones. The Kid plays blues piano like you never heard. They got a girl with him who sings torch songs like in the old days - like before even you and I were even kids. She Looks nice in that blue sparkled dress, too. You'll see. Call themselves, 'Tom and Tonya'. I think you'll like 'em okay. Kinda reminds me of Bobby Troupe Trio and Julie London a little bit. I know you have at least one Julie London album in your collection."
"Yeah, When I was in high school, I used to sit for this little kid down the street. The guy and his wife always played their 1957 Julie London album before they left for their night out on the town. Romance. I guess that's what it was to them. I liked the thought of it, but I wouldn't want to go there. Too much trouble these days. Dames our age are nuts... except for your Rosie, of course."
Jim's face looked like he felt - foot in mouth disease. Ray took no offense at anything his old friend had to say. There were plenty of times the shoe was on the other foot and Jim always understood what Ray meant. Besides, he knew full well that the older we get, the more we become damaged goods. Damaged by our many mistakes in love and life in general, but only by the effects they left us with. Gun-shy whenever something or somebody new comes along. Brick walls go up. Everybody is different. When you're young, fall in love and marry early, you tend to grow up together with the same identity as each other. Ray and Rosie were like that - lovers, pals and all that goes together.
Ray and Jim had been friends since the old days. Jim bounced around from several careers, never settling on anything that made him happy, but Ray retired from the Marines after his 20 years were up, bought this night club and turned it into the type of club Jim and Ray always talked about owning together, some day. It was their dream, but Ray was living it. Jim was jealous.
It was kind of an English pub with dark-stained, wainscot walls, shiny brass wall sconces with lights turned down low, polished-brass rails and a clean, friendly atmosphere. The entertainer's stage was small, and the dance floor similarly sized, but just big enough. This was a new/old blend of things that Ray and Jim always said they liked about various bars they visited when they traveled in the Marines together. It was an homage to the look of the 1930s and 40s (or so they thought). A little something for everybody, small enough, yet large enough to make a profit after all the sin taxes are paid. Nobody was going to get rich in the bar business these days.
A few at a time, new customers came in and took seats in the vacant tables and chairs sectioned near the stage. In the center of each table was a battery-operated candle globe that flickered just like the real thing. The waitresses took their orders and Ray went to work.
Sitting there in his usual seat, Jim could faintly hear the quartet of jazz musicians warming up and tuning their instruments in the anteroom. It would be showtime soon and the house was rapidly filling up. Ray was busy mixing drinks and popping beer bottle tops while the waitresses were just as busy at delivering them at bee's pace to anxious, smiling customers. Bars like this were happy places to be. Saturday night was couples' night, but Jim sat alone at the end of the bar. She would come in, see him, then all would be well again.
Every so often a number would glow above the waitress station to indicate which waitress had a food order ready. Jim watched it all and took it in. It was going to be a good Saturday night.
Satisfied that he wasn't missing anything he hadn't seen or heard before, he took one more glance toward the door and turned around on his bars tool, tipped the brim of his fedora back off his forehead with his thumb and finally took a long sip of his sweating glass of Red Label.
"Damn this stuff is good. They oughta bottle it. It would sell a million."
He said to himself. To Jim, that remark under his breath had some humor to it because he always had a tremendous grasp of the obvious. The first taste is always the best, so he made sure it was a long pull.
As the alcohol glow warmed his insides and slightly dulled his senses, Jim's mind began to wander as he tried to entertain himself until the music started. It didn't take long for him to remember what he thought he wanted to forget. As much as he tried repeatedly over the past couple of years to forget, to think about other things, to avoid the issue altogether, that second long sip brought it all sneaking back to him as if through a secret trap door to his mind.
