14 May 2013

We were at our bar, a pronoun I use with humility and pride. It’s not ours but we know the owners and the bartenders and they know us. Jimmy is almost always working and now that Kirby and I go there two times a week he’s begun, per my request, choosing what I’ll drink without me asking. Give me a beer, Jimmy and he picks what he likes. I don’t know anything about beer and I don’t care much to learn. I’d rather glean from his experience and I’ve yet to be disappointed. One less thing to think about.

Fischman’s will not get featured in some expensive quarterly magazine for young adults, no low contrast photos of beautiful people in tight pants, suspenders and hair product that molds hair to look as though there’s no hair product. No, the only hair product in Fischman’s is sweat and the only suspenders are holding up the heavy pants of firemen and postal workers, Cliff Clavins at the edges of the bar. Actors and improvisers and comedians from the theater down the street are there nightly, never performing but always performing. They all walk around the world thinking that an invisible microphone floats in front of them. Courage! I listen; it’s a gift. Their irreverent jokes are sacred, for everything that was once called holy is no longer holy; all we have now is the profane. If that is true then these people are the new saints. If there is a bar of mercy and forgiveness for all walks of life, it’s this one.

Fischman’s is fodder for some expensive quarterly magazine for young adults.

We were there on a Monday night, something afforded by being married to a woman with a mutual admiration for going out for a drink and a laugh. Her love for Fischman’s correlates to her love for me, her husband with a uniform of the same pants and same flannel shirts, despite the weather, because he loves not having to think about what to wear. The consistency is calming, a blanket or memory of the womb; she understands.

There’s a digital jukebox on the wood-paneled wall, one that streams music and even has an app for phones so you can play music without getting up from the bar. How about that! I put in $5 each night we’re there, chalk it up in the budget as an extra drink, and ritually put on 5 or 6 Waits tunes, always Hoist that Rag, The Earth Died Screaming, Make it Rain, Come On Up to the House, and maybe something from Small Change if I want to channel the beat poets. So we’re there and I put on the music from my phone and sip from my glass of Maker’s Mark on the rocks (Jimmy was off that night). First tune plays and my soul has settled. Second tune plays and cuts out after 30 seconds, I chalk it up to computers. Third tune plays, same thing after 30 seconds. Fourth tune, same.

Kyle was with us, an actor from the theater down the road and a friend. He asked Dawn the bartender if she knew what was going on with the music.

“Was that you all who were playing Tom Waits? I’m so sorry! I changed it after I looked around trying to figure out who was doing it. It’s not those guys over there; they don’t know how to work the machine. That guy is basically asleep. You all looked too young. I thought it was someone from their home pulling a prank on their phone.”

She gave me $3 compensation and apologized until we left. It’s alright, Dawn. We’ll be back.

there’s nothin in the world

that you can do

you gotta come on up to the house

and you been whipped by the forces

that are inside you

come on up to the house

well you’re high on top

of your mountain of woe

come on up to the house

well you know you should surrender

but you can’t let go

you gotta come on up to the house