What’ll it be?”
He smiled. “Scotch rocks.”
“Big rocks?” the bartender said.
“Yes.” A litany, right words.
The bartender reached the right shelf. He’s good, he thought as he watched the glass choice. This really was more a beer place, he knew. They both did.
He ran his fingers over the rough bar top, which looked as if it were a dance floor. It was, on occasion, he knew. He picked at a splinter in the dark wood and pried it up past the varnish, finding a younger shade. And thought of tree rings. The bartender set his glass dead center in a circle stain to his right.
He looked around the place a bit, letting the ice do its job for a few seconds. The door opened and another customer clumped up the stairs and sat a stool away.
“What’ll it be?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?” the man asked. And laughed at the bartender’s eye roll. The man had a good laugh. He looked at mine and said, “I’ll have the same.”
The man was wearing a herringbone jacket with elbow patches and nice jeans. English teacher, he guessed.
“Wow,” the man said. I thought they tore this joint down.”
“They will,” he said. “They always do.”
The man saw the T-shirt.
“You play?” he said.
“Yeah. You?”
“No, I’m an English professor.”
He laughed. “I thought about that at one time.”
“Really?” the man said. “I wanted to play guitar. What stopped you?”
“A few forks here and there,” he said. “People standing there, pointing.”
“Ah,” the man said. “Scarecrows.”
“Yes,” he said.
“To Oz!” they said, and clinked glasses.
They sipped. “And you?” he said.
“I never could get past the point where folks would run out of the room. And my fingers hurt,” the man said.
“Would you change anything?” he asked.
“Actually, no,” the man said. “I love music, even if I don’t play. You?”
“No,” he heard himself say. “I love the English language, even if I don’t teach.”
“You should write,” the man said.
“You should take guitar lessons,” he said.
“Deal!” the man said.
The door opened again. Someone took a seat.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender said.