Sunday, Three ‘Til Close
This story was first published at Vibewire.net.
Today I found out that John (you know, little John, painter John) tried to kill himself. Me and Tan had been standing behind the bar and she was like
-You know who I haven’t seen in awhile? John. You know, little John, painter John.
And I said
-Yeah! He was such a sweetheart!
And he was, I wasn’t lying or nothing, ’cause John was the first guy whose drink I remembered, ’cause every day he’d say Middy-ah-Super-luv, just like that, so then I started going (with a cheeky grin) Middy-ah-Super-John, which made him laugh. And soon I would be pouring him his drink the second I saw him coming, and have it down on the bar before he’d even sat, which he used to love.
So we’re both standing there wondering where sweet little John has pissed off to. Tan jokes that he better not have pissed off to the Waki, even though they supposedly have better skimpies there, and I frown and say that John was always too nice to be into the skimps. Then Pugs, whose been drinking so much Super he’s starting to think he’s made of it (and he really is no goddamn Clark Kent), says, really loudly and shocked
-What? Didn’t youse hear? He went nuts!
And we say to him, eyebrows arched and hands on hips
-Fuck off, Pugs. You’re full of piss. Literally.
And Pugs turns to our bar manager, Craigy, who’s pumping out TAB tickets like they’re hookers in a mining town, and goes
-Didn’t he go off his rocker, Craigy?
-Who? says Craigy.
And Pugs says
-John. You know, little John, painter John.
-Oh! Craigy says. Yeah, he tried to neck himself!
Tan and I can’t believe it ’cause he was such a nice bloke. Pugs goes on to say that he was in heaps of debt, and I thought to myself that he was so generous, and if I’d known I wouldn’t’ve let him buy me drinks all those times. He was only a tiny bloke, who could barely see over the bar, but he had a nice smile and he was always generous.
I look up and see Arthur H. Even John isn’t as tiny as Arthur H, who can barely walk but can always make it to us for a beer. He hobbles to the bar with his walking stick and always gets me to check the TAB tickets he finds on the curb outside. He must be a hundred, I reckon, but he’s got a toy-girl, who brings up five bucks every Sunday and says
-Five bucks on the chook raffle for Arthur H.
And then she gives me a plastic bag full of more plastic bags, and I never know why, but I take them to be polite. But Arthur H’s bound to cark it, probably gripping his glass of midstrength in his tiny, liver-spotted hand. Which makes me think.
I whisper to Tan
- If little John can go over the edge and nobody know, how many others do you reckon have kicked it? They could just stop coming one day and we’d never know, would we?
And this makes Tan think real hard for a second. Then she says, looking down the end of the bar at a craggy man with a face like a bloodhound
-I wish bloody Phil would fucken kick off.
And we both laugh, ’cause anyone whose met bloody Phil wishes he’d just drop dead right in front of you. Even bloody Phil probably wishes that. I remember one day Phil coming in, bitching about how he can’t draw his cartoons ’cause his hands are shaking too much, and I wanna say Well stop drinking then, you dickhead, but he brings in a fair whack of business. It’s just that he sits down there, and he acts thoughtful when you ask him if he wants another, like there’s the chance he might say no, but he never does and every drink is One more for the road. Tan paid him to do some pics of her and her man, and she told me later that she wished she’d asked John to do it, ’cause she said he uses real paints, not just cheap pencils. Except nobody knows if John still paints, but Tan says he used to be good. Phil drew some caricatures of a few regulars ages ago. None of them look right, except for the one of Rayeleen, the oldest barmaid. Everyone else reckons he’s exaggerated all her wrinkles too much, but I secretly reckon he got her absolutely perfect, except that she looks happy, which is bullshit ’cause I’ve never seen Rayeleen so much as crack a corner of a smile.
Every goddamn shift I have with her she sits at the end of the bar with a cigarette between her pruny fingers, hunched over, dragging away for hours and going
- Oy! Handle of mid in the corner!
And I’m juggling three goddamn pints and trying to bring up a tray of glasses, and I wanna scream
-Do it yourself, you old hag!
But that wouldn’t be polite. And that’s what the bar business is all about, I reckon. Smiling when they say what nice boosters you’ve got, and laughing when you hear the same joke five times in a shift (Love, it looks like the skimp ain’t gonna show, so we’ve taken a vote and we’ve decided that tonight’s your lucky night! - Our lucky night, the smartarse next to him always says) and they all laugh, completely fucken stonkered.
So Tan and I are serving away (Another one, Phil? Oh…um…okay, one more for the road), and I can’t stop thinking about poor John, and I wonder whether or not everybody else knows and we’re the last ones to find out. He and Deaf Steve were top mates, they always drank together, and I remember that when Steve won $2500 on Chase-The-Ace he gave some of it to John. But Steve’s downing squashes and looking totally fine, so maybe he doesn’t care. Or maybe it happened ages ago and everybody’s just over the shock. Except I can see that Tan is thinking about it too, ’cause she’s just served Dick T an EB, which is like sticking your finger up at the Queen.
And everyone around has fallen silent, and Dick T is so fucked he’s just sitting there, swaying back and forth on the stool. He picks up the mug takes a sip, and his bloodshot eyes crease up into tiny black slits. He can barely read but he still knows the difference between an E and a V, and he shouts sloppily
-What’s this goddamn fucken shit?
And Tan runs to fix her mistake, but it’s too late, ’cause Dick T’s calling her a stupid bloody bitch, and he’s trying to knock the glass over but his hand keeps missing it, which is good ’cause it gives Tan a chance to grab it off him. And he keeps going on, his words just a mass of grunts and finally Tan goes
-Ah fuck off, Dick, it was just a mistake.
And amazingly he settles down and lights a joint, ’cause Dick T always likes to be 50/50—that is, 50% full of piss and 50% full of weed.
I can’t stop thinking why did nice John have to turn into a loon? I horribly wish it was one of those other pricks who makes the day drag as they leer at my tits, or one of the ones who change their drinks halfway through the day without telling us, so we pour them a middy and then they go Nah, I want a Bundy ’n’ Coke now, so we’re left with a useless, flat beer.
So when I get a moment, I say to Pugs
-Do you know where John is now?
And he goes
-John who?
But that’s ’cause he’s so fucken drunk he can’t even lift his eyes past tit height, which makes him happy. But I insist
-You know, little John, painter John.
And he shrugs and says
-Beats me. Steve says he’s in a nuthouse somewhere.
Which answers whether or not Deaf Steve knows. And I wonder which nuthouse, ’cause he’s probably down the city, and nobody from here goes into the city. We’re only thirty minutes away, but it’s like a bloody country town, and real country folk always hate the city. So maybe nobody even visits him.
Then JD is yelling at me from the end that he wants to put his name down for the chooks, which means he’ll also put his dog’s name on there, ’cause he never eats the meat he wins anyway. He just plays for the chance to win the ten free middies. Five bucks for him and five bucks for Yap, his smelly blue heeler who sits by the door while he drinks for hours on end. Every now and then he takes out an ice-cream or some beef jerky for her, even though he always says
- Nah, she’s a bloody pain, hey.
JD always finishes his sentences with hey, like that helps him make sense. Except he’s just like Dick T, both of them grumpy Neanderthals who drink til they can’t walk and then stumble home. And today’s JD’s birthday, which means everyone’s buying him bloody pints, so he’s getting pissed faster than usual, and his drawled, asshole comments are coming earlier than I’m used to.
- Oy, you’re leaking, hey.
And I look down at my top and there’s a spot of water on my tit, and I smile coldly and wish there was somewhere hidden where I can spit into beer as I’m pouring it. But everybody can see everything here, even spots of water on black shirts. Instead I make myself happy knowing that later in the afternoon JD’ll walk home with Yap, get tired halfway and pass out in the middle of the road, like he always does, where hopefully an eight-tonner’ll come hooning round the corner and take him out, just missing Yap of course.
JD demands another pint, Dick T lights another joint, and obnoxious Geordie George shouts that he’s saving up all his five cents to buy me a back-brace to support those massive boosters of mine, and I don’t want to admit it, but my back is really starting to throb and every night when I lie down my back seems to sing in relief and I always wonder whether or not I’m going to be able to get up again in the morning to do this all over again.
And all I want is for little John to come back and give me a smile and say Middy-ah-super-love ’cause he was my saving grace. He never complained, he was never rude. He’d just stand there with his newspaper spread in front of him, the races highlighted with all these different colours, shining like wet paint. I asked him one day what the colours meant. He looked at me like I’d snatched him away from somewhere, but then his face went real soft. He looked at the newspaper and traced the colours with a finger. Then he’d said with a crooked smile, You can’t explain Art.