Punch Line

Three guys saunter into a bar.

[The blade skids across the dappled surface of the lime, plummeting into the flesh of her left hand.]

“I’ll have a Sex on the Beach,” the First Guy says, adjusting the collar of his light pink Polo shirt and pivoting his Ray Bans up over his brow and onto his crown.

[She releases her grip. The knife collapses onto the cutting board.]

The Second Guy unlatches his backpack, dropping it next to his bar stool. A puff of dirt billows up from the pack as it hits the ground. He wipes his hands on his navy chinos, the fabric cut off at the knee and rolled up to mid-thigh. After polishing his glasses with the hem of his green, I Brake for Stalactites t-shirt, his now bespectacled eyes scan the bar. “Does anyone work here…or do we serve ourselves?” he asks.

”Dude, she’s standing right there in front of you,” the First Guy says.

[Blood oozes from the freshly hewn crevices of her flesh and cascades over her hand onto the bar.]

“Oh right, right, right, right,” the Second Guy says. “Just give me your darkest microbrew.”

[She grabs a damp, soiled towel near the sink and wraps it around her left hand. She inhales through her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut as the fabric contacts the wound.]

The Third Guy rolls up his sleeves and unbuttons his loose-fitting linen shirt to just above his navel. Clasping the placket, he fans himself with the fabric. He walks across the room toward the entrance and slides open a window near the door. As he returns he says, “Sweetheart, can you turn the fan up? Broken? Oh, that’s not good. Ok, well, can you recommend a drink? I usually don’t come to bars. I trust your expertise.”

[The towel on her hand transitions from taupe to red. She compulsively uses both hands to prepare their orders. Meekly placing their drinks on the bar in front of each of them, she hopes they won’t notice the reddish smudges on their glasses.]

“Ah, danke dear,” the Third Guy says. “A mojito is perfect. Did you know mint is found all over the world? In Medieval Europe mint was used as a digestive aid and to keep rodents from eating the stored cheese. In Greek mythology, Persephone caught Hades flirting with a water nymph and turned her into a boring, low-lying plant that people would trample on. But Hades gave her a beautiful scent so people would still notice her. You can make a tincture with mint for many conditions, like headaches. And since it’s a cooling herb, it’s perfect for this heat.”

“I like the heat,” the First Guy says. “I’m really into tropical places like Miami and Hawaii.”

“My goal in life is to be fat, rich and tan,” the Second Guy says.

“Girls are always impressed by all the world traveling I do,” the Third Guy says. “They are jealous when I come home with a tan. Sweetheart, I would love an apple juice with sparkling water. Would you be able to do that? Ah wonderful. I knew you were the best.”

“I’ll have a Malibu Rum and Coke,” the First Guy says.

“Are you the one who is taking orders?” the Second Guy asks. “A dark microbrew for me.”

[Swaying, she woozily swipes her forehead with the cool condensation of each glass before placing them on the bar.]

“Sweetheart, you really should get that fan fixed,” the Third Guy says. “Ok, well I don’t understand why you aren’t making enough money. You must not be that smart.”

“My girlfriend doesn’t like it when I help my friends meet girls in bars, but I tell her that someday when we are married I will be nice to her and we can do cute couple things together,” the First Guy says.

“I told my younger brother that if any girl likes him he should act like he doesn’t care about her and be mean to her. That’s how I got a girlfriend,” the Second Guy says.

“My girlfriends tell me they always feel lonely with me, but I like a sexy independent woman who can teach me the ways of the world,” the Third Guy says. “Darling, please, I would love a milk coffee. Oh thank. You are so sweet.”

“I’ll have Fuzzy Navel,” the First Guy says. “ I can see myself with a real athletic girl, like a volleyball player. Or a girl who is sweet and motherly and takes care of me...and dresses real preppy.”

“Is she still here?” the Second Guy asks.

The First Guy points and says, “How can you not see her with that ugly outfit?”

“Yeah, a dark microbrew for me,” the Second Guy says. “I don’t care what a girl wears, but I hate it when they put all that goop on their face and try to make everything all clean and pretty.”

“People are conditioned by their culture to think marriage and families are a good thing. I never want to be like an old married couple. When a girl I was with told me she was pregnant, I wanted to jump out the window. Sure I gave her money to raise the kid, but I need my freedom and independence,” the Third Guy says.

[She can’t control the proliferation of her tears, multiplying and coalescing into spheres, plopping onto the bar.]

“Marriage is just a piece of paper…and free sex,” the Second Guy says.

“Hey, where’d she go?” the First Guy says.

“Where did who go?” the Second Guy asks.

“The lady running this terrible bar,” the Third Guy says.

They all walk around to the other side of the bar. They each see her crumpled body on the floor.

“Even though I was embarrassed to be seen in here, I think she was a good bartender,” the First Guy says. “I will have good memories of my times here.” As he leaves, he slides his shades back down over his eyes and heads to another bar across town known by some for its generous hospitality.

The Second Guy follows the First Guy outside. He sees a similar bar across the street. He shrugs his shoulders and enters nonchalantly, as if he has never been to any other bar.

“This is why I don’t go to bars,” the Third Guy says. He hails a taxi and catches the next flight across the ocean. He calls his daughter and marries an old girlfriend. He dies in his sleep the next night.

She inhales deeply.

She notices her body feels glued to the surface beneath her.

With each breath, she perceives a slight unmooring.

She encounters the same tacky sensation when she tries to open her eyes.

She wonders why she is looking up through the darkness at a wobbly ceiling fan.

Slowly and carefully she rises.

The blood stained towel on her hand unravels and falls off.

She brings her hand to her chest.

She finds a scar from a deep wound, palpable and still tender.

She squints and scans the place, disgusted by what she sees.

Fresh air from the open window diffuses into the room, mixing with the stench of rotten beer.

She feels nauseous and goes to the window.

She breathes in the outside world.

She hears birds sharing their love songs.

Her hand shields her eyes from the sun as she exits the bar.

She wants to run away, but walks instead because she is unsure of her destination.

After about twelve steps, she turns to look back at where she just came from.

The door of the bar faces the corner, its red paint peeling and the frame rotting in some places. The once-white siding now matches the grey buckling shingles of the roof. The decaying plants in the window boxes, crushed by beer bottles and miscellaneous trash, contrast with the WELCOME mat at the door step.

She stares at the bar, as if seeing it all for the first time. She has to admit, to herself, and maybe the birds, maybe the sun, that she has been unable to manage all of it: the bar, the window boxes, the limes. She realizes she felt especially powerless over her patrons.

She walks back in and opens the cash register. She gathers all the bills and slides them into her pocket. Then she lifts the till out of the drawer so she can dump the change into a plastic cup. A document lines the drawer. She picks it up to examine it. It’s the title to the bar.

“I own this mess,” she says.

She imagines ripping the paper into pieces so small they serenely float to the ground like ashes from an arson.

“God, what a mess,” she says.

She feels a sudden urge to run away again, but instead decides on a different tactic.

“You know what God, if you’re so awesome, you fix this!”

She waits.

Nothing happens.

She surveys the bar, noticing the litter of glasses on the warped counter, the rusted stools, the dusty shelves, the burnt out light bulbs, and the busted handle on the fridge.

Again she feels the urge to run away.

She takes a few steps towards the door. She imagines walking out and never looking back.

She is still holding the title.

“Who would buy such an overwhelming disaster?”

She has a flashback, a memory of what it was like new, when she was optimistic and hopeful, when the future was an exciting vision and not this current depressing reality.

She goes behind the bar and slips the title back in the drawer under the till.

She picks up one of the glasses. “Why would anyone order this drink? I can’t believe I allowed myself to even make it for him. Why didn’t I just say I don’t offer that here?”

She places the glass in the sink and washes it. She finds a clean towel to dry it and puts it back on the shelf.

She picks up another glass and cleans it.

And another.

And another.

And another until all the glasses are back in their proper spot, all clean.

She finds a partially used napkin in the trash and a pen in a cup next to the register.

She takes a deep breath.

Knowing she doesn’t have the resources to make the improvements, she makes a list anyway of every thing wrong, all the defects. She fills both sides of the napkin.

“It would take a miracle to fix all of this,” she says as she finishes the list.

She doesn’t believe in miracles or prayers, but she prays for one.

She gets a spray bottle from under the counter and mixes a solution. She cleans the surfaces: the counter, the bar, the stools, the shelves, the windows.

She mops the floor with the solution.

Wiping, swishing and rubbing with careful, concentrated, repetitive motions she cleans the entire space to the best of her abilities. It’s not done, but she rests on the stool behind the counter, content with the improvements.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” a guy says sauntering into the bar.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m closed for remodeling.”

“Oh that’s ok,” he says as he sits down. “I can see you have all the ingredients there. I don’t mind.”

She takes a bottle off the shelf and sets it on the counter. She gets a lime from the refrigerator and places it on the cutting board.

She stares at the lime.

She brings her hand to her heart, evaluating the scar.

“Is there a problem?” he asks.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t do this. I’m closed for remodeling. This is no longer a bar.”

She walks around the bar to the door and opens it.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Geez, I can’t believe you won’t even help a guy out when you have everything I need,” he says.

“I’m really sorry,” she says. “I made a mistake.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he says as he walks out of the bar.

She follows him out and exhales deeply as she watches him walk away.

She notices again the sweet love banter of the birds.

She tilts her face up to the sun and closes her eyes.

“Thank you,” she says,

To the sun,

And maybe to the birds,

Probably to herself.