SUBURBAN BAR
Kurt Nimmo
I'm in a bar. I can't cut the mustard. Not with the other guys.
Most of them are younger than me. Sometimes I think the whole
world is younger than me. Even when I see an old man in one of
those motorized things at the grocery store. Older women ignore me
and flirt with the younger guys and the younger guys smile. I see
a woman about my age in a pleated skirt and a revealing top. She
drinks a tequila sunrise. She looks at a younger guy across the
room. He looks at her and smiles. His friends are also young and
handsome and nicely dressed in office clothes. I'm the only person
there who looks older than forty. Even the waitress ignores me. I
have to flag her down with my arms to get another drink. She nods
at me and then walks over to serve a table of twentysomething
women. All of them look the same. Like models out of a balsam
shampoo commercial. I can't cut the mustard. I'm like grandfather
time in his old clothes and worn street shoes. I drink cheap gin
and smoke generic cigarettes. I have a terrible job in the city. I
drive a ten year old car. I'm overweight. I have a wart on my chin
and one behind my right ear and another on my forehead. I have not
had sex with a woman since I was twenty-eight years old. I buy
magazines with pictures of naked women in them. I'm not
attractive. I have a bad job in the worst part of the city. People
look right through me. I give the waitress a dollar tip. Maybe the
service will get better. More than likely it will not. I want to
sleep with a woman from a balsam shampoo commercial. I will never
be allowed the chance. I have no redeeming qualities. I don't
believe in Jesus. I don't belong to a club or fraternal society. I
earn nothing in return for the hours I give to a boss. He flirts
with the secretary. Both of them are twentysomething and
attractive. She smiles and when the phone rings she answers it
like Rita Bell. Her voice is wonderful. It chimes. I empty her
wastebasket in a gondola and then at the end of the day I drive my
ten year old car to a suburban bar. I sit there. I wait ten
minutes before the waitress serves me. I tell her gin and tonic.
When it comes I take a sip and notice it is watered down. It costs
three dollars. I pay with a five. She forgets to bring my change.
I sit there. I wait for something to happen. I know nothing will
happen. I wait and the clock moves around. It is a round clock
mounted on the wall. I strain to see it. Made in USA. This is
printed in small letters on the face of the clock above the Roman
numeral six. I look at the second hand. I wait for it to move. It
moves all too quickly. I want the batteries of the clock to run
down. But they never do.
