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In the Crystal Bar

Jim Meirose

    Sunny it should be, on a day for something like this. Not overcast with snow starting to fall. Let’s meet in the Crystal Bar, had said Vincent. Funny how similar their names were; Vinsen, and Vincent. Almost like it was all meant to be. He took a sip off his screwdriver and thought How much longer am I going to have to wait, he is twenty minutes late. Funny how you feel sitting alone in a joint; you feel like everybody is looking at you. You have to look busy with something other than just drinking vodka. So he flipped the yellow sheet before him over and scanned down the names. He ran his finger down the list and tried to look as though he were very busy, lost in thought, but actually he was extremely irritated at Vincent. Should be on time. Not leave him here like this. Look at the names. Read the names.
    Claire Constanza.
    Donald Montrose.
    Lance Devilian
    Harry Rotochristi
    “Crunch” Gilmore.
    Milton Scaramouche.
    Crystal Coleman.
    Medulla Corcoran.
    He read the names a second time. How long could he sit here running his finger down this list? He drained his screwdriver. He motioned for the waitress to come over—need to be a paying customer, sitting here taking up space. She came up.
    Yes?
    Another screwdriver please.
    No problem.
    She took the empty one and he decided that what he could do to pass the time was to look at each name and make some kind of note on the list next to the name—yes. Then he would look like he was working. You have to look busy while waiting. You don’t want to look like someone who’s been stood up. You want to look like someone important and productive. But then he realized he had nothing to write with. He could go to the bar and ask for a pen—that’s what he will do he will go to the bar and ask for a pen. He rose, and went to the bar.
    What can I get you, asked the bartender.
    Pen, said Vinsen. I need to borrow a pen.
    I’ve got a pen, sure, said the bartender, handing one over to Vinsen.
    Thanks. I’ll give it back.
    I know you will.
    I know you will, thought Vinsen as he went back to his booth. I know you will—like the bartender thought he was a very nice polite little boy—and then he decided he would not give the pen back, just because the bartender had thought that about him. He was not a little boy! He was important! The waitress had brought over his screwdriver—he considered the first name on the list, as he took a drink; Claire Constanza. He tapped the pen on the paper. He didn’t really know Claire Constanza. He knew who she was to look at her, but she didn’t work for him. He decided that Vincent would probably know better what Claire Constanza’s position was. He went to write a question mark next to her name. He similarly went down the list of all the names, and when he was done he realized he had written question marks next to all of them. He really didn’t want to be making this decision. He thought if only Vincent were here—Vincent would lead the talk and tell Vinsen all about each person and what their strengths and flaws were—and then Vinsen would have something to go on. But sitting here, like this—the room seemed to be growing darker. Outside the sun was disappearing and he pictured in his mind what it must look like setting and he suddenly wished he could be watching it set and he tapped the pen on the page and took a drink—but he had to be careful. Better not have a buzz on, when Vincent got here. That would not look good. Vinsen was Vincent’s right hand man—he’d told him that a dozen times—and Vinsen knew Vincent drank but he didn’t know how much. He didn’t know if Vincent ever got a buzz on. He’d seen Vincent drink wine at corporate functions but didn’t know how much or how fast—and he tapped the pen on the page and looked at the names again, then at his watch—where was Vincent? He was annoyed now—so annoyed that he looked at the names one more time and decided to write something meaningful after each one. Next to Claire’s name he wrote inconsistent. It just came out, like the pen had moved on its own and written the word. Being inconsistent was not good—but then Vinsen tried to think what inconsistent behavior would be and drew a blank. Can’t make a decision—yes write that. Can’t make a decision and chronically late. Does not contribute in meetings. A poor talker. The pen just threw out so much information about Claire Constanza that he thought he had enough. He tapped the pen on the table and thought that if what he wrote stood, she would be let go. What’s it like to be let go? Vinsen had never been fired from a job in his life, the closest he had come was when he was in high school working nights for an office cleaning contractor as a janitor in a big office building, and he took part in so much horseplay that security ejected him from the building. He wasn’t really fired though—the cleaning company he worked for simply shifted him to a different location. Claire would really get fired—what in the world is that like? His stomach sank—he sipped at his screwdriver and the pen slipped from his hand and he sat up straight. Damn it—where was Vincent? He looked back at the door. No one was coming in and Vincent was now—forty minutes late. Why would he stand Vinsen up like this? The next name came up; Donald Montrose. Ah, Donald. Always wears a nice suit. Always has a smile. But what does he do? Vinsen really resented Vincent for standing him up so he wrote that Donald does sloppy, hasty work and not a lot of it. Yes, yes—sloppy and hasty and unproductive was Donald. When Vincent finally came, Vinsen could start the conversation off with these observations. Vincent would quickly put him right, if he was off and if Donald was really sharp and careful and very productive. But—no. Vinsen would look bad. Why are you writing these things when you really don’t know the people? The pen is writing these things. Not me. The pen. The pen and the screwdriver. Vinsen sat back in the booth gripping his drink. The first thing that would happen to Claire and Donald would be that they would be called to the big shot blank faced manager’s office—the one in the corner with the door that could close—and they would wonder why because it never had happened to them before—Donald especially would be nervous, he’d be running his hands back through his hair like he did when he was nervous, and he’d put on his suit jacket and leave his cubicle and head for the manager’s office thinking what is this about what is this all about is this like dying something big’s about to happen the old life is about to end and the new life begin, just like in dying the screwdriver is there take a drink what is this all about—sit up straight now, and open your eyes, Vinsen.
    But it’s true it’s like death.
    Dying.
    I’m dying here.
    Go to the next name.
    Keep moving. What’s the next name—Lance Devilian came up. What could he write about Lance Devilian? He saw one memo written by Lance once, a one-liner about the coffee club. It was well written. Vinsen thought it might be a good idea to write something positive about some of these people, not just negative as he’d been with Claire and Donald. Good writer, he wrote by Lance Devilian’s name. He looked at the three names he’d just done. Of the three, Lance was the best. Vinsen wrote Don’t lay off next to Lance’s name. He thought Vincent would correct him if he really should be laid off. And Vinsen thought again of Donald, who would wear his clean suit into the manager’s office and he would be asked by the big shot blank faced manager who was going to chop him to sit down and relax—relax! How could Donald relax, he did not know what he was going to hear next, this big shot never wants to see him, never looks twice at him—Vinsen straightened and looked toward the bar door. Where the hell was Vincent? Vinsen sat back in the booth and closed his eyes a moment—could it be he was here at the wrong time, or that somehow he was in the wrong place, or that somehow else he had screwed up and somewhere else, at some other Crystal Bar, Vincent was waiting for him and growing just as impatient and he thought to ask the bartender or the waitress if there was another Crystal Bar in the area—but then he thought it was better to stay shut up, because he would be advertising how stupid he was. He went to the next name on the list and looked at what the pen was already writing, about Harry Rotochristi.
    Slow. Too slow to do the work. Too slow, not suited to the work. Should be doing something else with his life. Well, that can be arranged. Should be finding this Vincent and dragging him by the ear into the Crystal Bar—no don’t write that don’t write that—then the pen stopped. He went back and underlined too slow. Then he felt bad for Harry but he had seen Harry around the office and he was convinced that he was right about Harry. He looked like he had the brain of a snail—his face was always blank and his eyes were dull. Dullard, wrote the pen. Dullard and lazy. Vinsen looked down the names he had made notes by and thought of all of them, only Lance would be kept. The pen circled Lance’s name, twice. Vinsen wished he had Vincent’s name on the list what would he write—rude—rude and inconsiderate. Qualities for which one should be let go—like the big shot blank faced manager would now say to Donald Montrose, Donald, you are on the list of people who are being let go—it’s like standing before a big-bearded God and being told you must go to hell, son, it’s too late for you, there’s nothing to be done, you’ve been judged and that’s that because of what Vinsen wrote it’s all because of what Vinsen wrote—Vinsen’s hands formed to hard fists. It was now a full hour since Vincent said he’d be here. But what the hell—Vinsen was being productive. Dullard and lazy got underlined and then he took a drink, a big one—half the glass’ worth. He went to the next name, the vodka fumes come up in this throat. What a name; “Crunch” Gilmore; now, who has a nickname like Crunch and who uses their nickname in the office and writes it in quotation marks, unless the girl who wrote up the list put it in quotation marks because it was a nickname—but based on the nickname, this guy is a real jerk. Vinsen sat back and reflected on how a person would get the nickname Crunch. Maybe he used to be a football player—yeah, that’s it—he used to be a football player and he was fast on the field and was a good blocker. Probably a lineman. Vinsen knew nothing about football but he remembered in high school sitting next to one of the big football jocks and he saw that the jock had a blue-covered book called Fortitude that he would read while the teacher went on about Voltaire and things like that—and Fortitude was capitalized and he thought this must have something to do with being a football player, so the pen wrote FORTITUDE next to Crunch’s name and went on to write Not to be laid off—and now Vinsen figured he had saved two—Lance, and Crunch. Why exactly he had saved Crunch he was not sure but he figured he must have fortitude. And it would be with fortitude that Donald Montrose would sit up straight in the chair before the big shot blank faced manager who had just given him the sad news, and he would say Oh! Oh, you’ve had it in for me since I first came here—you rotten son of a bitch, letting me go—who said I should be let go? Why am I being let go? Who said it—and Donald would be full of regret at that moment—if only he’d done those reports a little better—if only he’d spoken up in meetings more—if only he’d kissed up to the manager instead of just passing him by in the hall rushing to his next meeting, averting his eyes, arms full of reports. Vinsen shook his head, took a sip, and moved on to Milton Scaramouche.
    He sat back.
    Milton Scaramouche? What kind of a God-damned name was Milton Scaramouche? He could extract no qualities from the name, except that this boy probably was bullied in school. Weak. Bullied for his sname. Weak and shy and no backbone. The pen wrote no backbone next to Milton Scaramouches name. Then Vinsen looked at his watch and saw that Vincent was now an hour and fifteen minutes late. Where the hell could he be—shy with no backbone. The pen wrote lay off next to the name. Then Vinsen thought that Vincent would probably ask him what he meant by the boy having no backbone—and he would not have an answer for Vincent—except that it has something to do with how he carries himself—something weak about him. Some weakness of the constitution. Bullied in meetings. Then Vinsen wondered if Vincent had been bullied or been the bully when he went to school. He figured Vincent was probably the bully, because he was a bully at work. Like the big shot blank faced manager who had just told Donald Montrose he was getting let go was a bully to Donald—he sneered back at Donald when Donald told him fuck you—and Donald pushed the chair back and bolted from the manager’s office and headed back to his desk with the grey sea of cubicles all around him closing in on him, as if to crush him, like he’d just been crushed—but there was no point in thinking these things. Vincent was not here, was what was important. Vincent was not here and it’s now one hour and twenty five minutes past the time he was going to arrive at the Crystal Bar.
    The waitress came up.
    Would you like something else?
    Why?
    Your drink is empty. Another screwdriver?
    Ah—yes.
    She smiled at him.
    Vinsen thought he really should be watching how much he’s drinking. It wouldn’t do well to be doing this kind of work and making these kinds of decisions with a buzz on. This involved people’s lives—people’s futures—people’s livelihoods. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to find comparable jobs—maybe this would be the end for one or more of them. Vinsen pressed his fingers down on the sheet of paper before him, tapped the pen on the tabletop with the other hand, and considered Crystal Coleman. At last—someone he was mildly familiar with. Made me hoarse, he thought. Made me lose my voice for a week. Terrible experience. More trouble than she’s worth—no! Don’t write that—write kind things about Crystal, because you’re in the Crystal Bar. It’s a sign. Training her, yes. You spent a full day training her and then lost your voice. There! She always took the job very seriously. I would say we should keep Crystal—the pen wrote Do not fire—underline it—but no—do not write that, do not call it firing, because that would be a slap in the face to those who have already been targeted for termination—firing is too strong a word. Like Donald Montrose, who had just been told he was being let go by the big shot blank faced manager, would never find a scrap of paper anywhere that would ever use the word fire—back at his desk, he would sit and his hands would grow cold and he would eye the telephone. Need to call someone—need to let them know. Need to scream—need to scream loud into the telephone. I mean, thought Vinsen—it’s not like they’re being let go because of some personal thing, or because of some specific instance, like if one of them kicked Vincent in the butt that would be a cause to fire them—no these are just being let go because they don’t fit what we need right now in the corporation—and they, like Donald, must go through the red hot stone door leading to hell; trudging toward it, trudging toward the waiting flames—but next to crystal’s name put An asset to the corporation—okay; we’re keeping Crystal. The pen rolled out of Vinsen’s fingers onto the tabletop and rolled into his screwdriver glass, which was half full. Musn’t have too much—he picked it up—musn’t get a buzz on—he drank—and then he thought of the office busybody who’s name should be on the list but isn’t, who would say you should get the company to pay for those drinks—you should—but Vinsen couldn’t be bothered with the paperwork it’s just a few dollars anyway and where is Vincent—it’s now an hour and thirty five minutes since he should have been here. Anyway, Crystal Coleman’s job is safe. Now here is the next name; Medulla Corcoran. Medulla—what a name—Medulla “Brain” Corcoran is what it should say—he’d heard of this Medulla but wouldn’t know her if she walked into this bar and sat at this booth right now so what can he possibly have to say about her—invisible. Makes herself invisible in the office. Name known but that’s all. Manages to shy away from doing any real work. Medulla Corcoran—write what by her name—let’s see—Donald Montrose picked up the phone and called his wife and blubbered into the phone I have just been let go! I have just been let go! Oh, what will we do Carla, I have just been let go! I have been consigned to the flames of hell, and now reside there for all eternity! Vinsen popped his eyes open and tapped his pen against the glass and the waitress must have been waiting for that because she came over and asked him again.
    Another screwdriver, sir?
    Uh—ah—yes why not get a buzz on you’ve gone through all the names you’ve put next to each name what you thought—except for Medulla Corcoran—no—people like that are probably favored by some higher up—their name is all over the place—better write Do not let go by Medulla’s name. The new screwdriver was served. He downed a swallow—let’s recap, he thought—let’s make it nice and neat for Vincent, though he doesn’t deserve it—now, here it is. He wrote in the space above the names a summary, like this:
    Claire – Let Go
    Donald—Let Go
    Lance—Keep
    Harry—Let Go
    “Crunch”—Keep
    Milton—Let Go
    Crystal—Keep
    Medulla—Keep
    Claire, Donald, Harry, Milton—all consigned to the flames by a remorseless God! There—his head felt large—he put down the pen and looked at the sheet—Keep four and let go four—it seemed fair overall—though he hadn’t been trying to be fair at all when he was doing it. Good, he said, sitting back—Good. He felt well puffed up. Now to wait a while to see if Vincent shows up and leave in a hour if he doesn’t—
    Vinsen? said a voice. Vinsen—good to see you. Sorry I’m late the damned traffic was awful—oh—I see you’ve been putting some work into this, you didn’t wait for me—that’s good—shows initiative—
    They shook hands.
    Vincent, said Vinsen—sit down—look at my work. Let’s talk about these I can tell you why I have categorized each of them the way I did I thought you would have some good input—
    Vincent sat, picked up the sheet, and looked it over silently.
    Vinsen thought now he can put reality into this I really just made most of it up I don’t even know these damned people except for Crystal Coleman if I’m wrong it will be set right now Vincent will fix it make it fair make it right the way it is now it’s wrong and ignorant—
    Vincent looked up.
    We’ll go with this, Vinsen. Good work.
    But—you don’t have any changes you need to make? No questions?
    Nope—looks like, as usual, you have done a good job. I’ll take this sheet with me. I really got to go, have a late dinner engagement.
    Oh—okay.
    But its just guesses—guesses and unfair—
    Vincent rose and was gone without another word except to pat Vinsen on the shoulder. Vinsen lifted his screwdriver and downed it and thought it is my fault those people will be let go—I just guessed—I—
    And now, all at once, Vinsen had nothing more to think or say as the vodka fumes came up in his nose and he saw the waitress making her way toward him again.
    —I don’t even know them—
    He turned.
    He looked out of the Crystal Bar window at the falling snow and thought of the drive home.
    The snow slowly covered the cars in the false light.
    It will be cold driving home. Cold, and hard to see. Very damp, heavy air.
    Damp, heavy—fit to smother flames.
    Reality. Winter is real.
    Sir? she said, reaching for his glass. Another?
    No, he said quickly—I have had enough. He rose, put on his overcoat, laid a handful of bills on the table, slipped the bartender’s pen into his pocket with a feeling of triumph; and quickly went to his car.

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