TALES FROM A DIVE BAR
“Just the facts,” said the officer.
“The fact is,” said the barkeep,” that this man is no longer welcome here.”
“Ze fact is not,” said the drunkard, “Fair Orafice Sir, that that ze fact is that that this woman is not welcoming to this man.”
Silence enrobed the trio as ol’ Pitch stood in the glorious afterglow of a point nearly made. The snow fell over their cone of silence as Marge and Orafice Sir Handyman tried to make out what he had said. And because they were thoughtful people, they tried to make out what he meant.
“On what grounds?” asked ol’ Pitch.
“On the grounds,” Marge said, that you’re my best customer,”
“Yeah”
“And that’s bad for business.
“Oh, I’m the show, you bog witch,” Pitch asserted. “They come to hear the piano man, but we all know that I’m the show.”
“Sure thing, Pitch. Officer Handyman, show him out.”
And the officer did. He took Michael Pitchfork to a holding cell to sleep off the night’s imbibed brews. But the night wasn’t over for Marge. There was blood to clean up. Customers to entertain. False memories to implant.
Keep ’em drunk enough, and you can get away with anything, she thought.
Deep in her mind, though, anxiety nagged. What if Open Mic was right. What if he really was the draw. He sure knew how to make them laugh, putting down every musician she spent more than five hundred dollars on.
The crowd would laugh and laugh.
But they came for the jazz, right?
Suddenly Marge wasn’t so sure