Bar Stools by Casey Lewis
Her Two Cents
The Savannah missed connections forum has had a number of short stories posted to it since the summer. There isn’t a “Grog House” per se, but there is the touristy-famous Pirates House and the touristy-haunted Olde Pink House – and let’s not forget the literary-famous Mercer House from Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. In a city full of students, travelers, and intoxicated wanderers, there’s never a shortage of Tommys struggling with the weight of the world.
The Grog House, Revisited
Missed Connections in Savannah
Tommy leaned against the doorway and chatted with the smokers, who had been banished to the sidewalks in the name of public health. It was well after midnight and the party crowd was out in force.
When the man caught the corner of his eye, Tommy immediately recognized him. Whenever he showed up this time of night, he was usually well into the bag, and the unsteadiness of his gait proved that tonight was no exception. As he stumbled closer it became obvious that he was muttering to himself in an agitated tone, arms waving as he cursed. But his countenance brightened when he saw the bouncer and he slurred, “Hey! Tommy!”
Tommy just smiled at him as he weaved his way to the bar and plopped onto an open stool. This town had more than its share of drunks, and this bar usually had a surplus even for a drinking town. Maybe Jocko just knew how to make them feel at home.
There was no sign of the girl he’d come in with the last time he’d seen him, a couple of weeks before. This wasn’t unusual, the man came in alone as much as he did with company, but Tommy had hoped to get another look at her. She was trouble, no doubt about it, but what’s life without a little trouble? And what harm could she do him? Tommy turned his attention back to his friends on the sidewalk, it was obvious that the man wasn’t going to be a problem.
Around 2 things died down and Tommy sat down at the bar, next to the man who sat slumped over an untouched glass of whiskey. He was barely conscious, but seemed to not be his usual cheery self. Something was bothering him. “Girl troubles, Mister P?” he asked.
The man slowly raised his head, leaning it back to look at Tommy under heavy lids. Then the eyes opened. “This is way bigger than girls, Tommy. Girls aren’t the problem, love isn’t the problem, sex isn’t the problem. Do you know what the problem is?”
“Obviously I don’t. Please share.”
“The pro-, the prob-, the probblemm is EXSHPECTATSHUNS! We go into shituations ecshpecting thingsh to go a certain way, we carrry these nosshhhuns in our heads, when we should know full well how shilly it is to asshume we have any control over ovver people! Hell, we can’t control ourshelves! I pride myshelf on having no expectashiuns, I know better, yet I fell right into that trap! And it turned me stoopid. And now I’ve bollockshed it all up.”
Then he began so softly sing.
“But no more apologies
No more, no more apologies
Oh, I’m too tired
I’m so sick and tired
And I’m feeling very sick and ill today
But I’m still fond of you, oh-ho-ho”
The man looked as if he was about to burst into tears, but he bit his lip, shook his head, slid off the stool, and marched off into the middle of the night, his left side leading slightly. Since the Dappled Tree Inn was in sight, Tommy knew he’d find his way there. He always did.
