On the corner of Hope and High Streets, you’ll find a cozy little bar called the Cross-Eyed Cricket. Jacky “Hoss” Forsyth has been the owner / bartender of the establishment since 1979. Jacky inherited it from his uncle after he was killed that same year. First-time visitors often get to hear about the tavern’s transition of ownership and to tell the truth, it’s a classic.
      The couple had been debating the purchase of an automobile for weeks. It seemed that Uncle Bruce wanted a pickup truck but Aunt Jane wanted a shiny new sports car to zip around town in. He would probably have settled on any make of truck, but everything she liked was substantially out of their price range.
      "Look!" Jane said. "I want something that goes from 0 to 200 in 4 seconds or less. And my birthday is coming up. You could surprise me."
      So, for her birthday, Bruce bought her a brand new bathroom scale.  Services were held at Downing Funeral Home on that following Monday. Due to the condition of his body, it was a closed casket service. To this day, Jacky has a tip bar on the counter that reads, ‘Think Before You Say Things To Your Wife Foundation,’ which of course, he is the sole benefactor.
      Jacky’s nickname is well deserved and he acquired it in the Marines. At a formidable six foot, four inches tall and a solid two hundred-twenty pounds, most other fifty-year old men would be jealous of his shape. Or as he likes to brag, ’I’m 19 hands’ tall and can whip any man half my age or twice my shoe size. Oorah’. Needless to say, most folks at the Cricket didn’t cross the “Hoss”.
      To say the bar is a dive would be a gross understatement. The neon signs and cold beer posters hanging on the walls were mainly installed to cover holes in the plaster caused by a multitude of barroom brawls. The floor boards have not seen a good polishing in years, so sawdust is routinely spread around to absorb spilled drinks and to aid the occasional tobacco chewer. And no one knows...but maybe Uncle Bruce, what the original ceiling color was. It is presently a deep, dark brown, stained by ages of haze bellowed out by the smokers in the bunch.
      To its credit, the place does have a separate game room with an old Brunswick pool table and a Bally’s “Capt. Fantastic” pinball machine that works sporadically. The food isn’t half bad, if a couple of stiff drinks are ordered beforehand. An antique jukebox in the back corner still plays two songs for a quarter and there’s one television above the bar that perennially stays on some news channel. Jacky opens the place every day about eleven a.m. and closes it when he damn well pleases. And to the loyal congregation of the Cricket, it’s their home away from home.
      This particular Friday started off no different than most. Jacky kissed his wife of twenty-six years goodbye and left for work. Upon arriving at the Cricket, Jacky noticed a corner of the banner he hung last week over the door had come loose and was flapping in the breeze. Retrieving a ladder from around back, he proceeded to repair his work. Afterwards, he gazed upwards at the bold, block letters that simply read, ‘END OF THE WORLD PARTY 12/21/2012’. Jacky returned the ladder to the storage shed and walked into the kitchen through the back door.
      “Good morning Bella,” said Jacky as he saw his cook at the prep table shredding some cheese.
      “Hiya Hoss. We’re running low on hamburger again.”
      “I’ll send Kirk down to the butcher shop when he finally decides to show his face.”
      “Oh, he’ll be here. Kirk knows it’s payday. And since today is the end of the world, he’ll probably want cash.”
With a slight grin, Jacky turned and headed to the office around the corner. Unlocking the door, he slipped inside the cramped quarters and sat down. Piles of invoices and other assorted paperwork lay before him on the imitation oak desk. It had been his plan to tackle those stacks this morning but with the impending doom of the sun not coming up tomorrow, he thought better of it.
      A knock at the door got Jacky’s attention. Not having enough space for multiple bodies in his self-described “sardine can” of an office, the owner rose from his Naugahyde chair and walked outside.
      It was one of his liquor salesmen, with whom the owner had no rapport. The “oily-haired slicker,” as Jacky referred to him sometimes, was about as poor a vendor as he was a dresser. For a man as advanced in years, you’d think he’d know his polyester slacks were out of style and about two inches too short in the cuff. The suit coat had seen its better days and Jacky could tell what the man had eaten for breakfast that morning by looking at the menu on his tie. Nonetheless, he dealt with him since Jim Beam didn’t get in the stockroom by itself.
      “You get my order right this time Stanley?” barked Jacky as he turned and headed towards the barroom.
Following closely behind, Stanley was shuffling papers, adjusting his glasses and generally not watching where he was going. Bumping into a table and nearly tripping over a chair, the order manifests came loose from Stanley’s clipboard and washed over the floor, gently landing in a scattered mess on the sawdust floor.
      Jacky turned and simply shook his head as he poured himself and the blundering buffoon a cup of coffee. After gathering everything together and taking a seat across from Jacky at the bar, they got down to business. Stanley cleared his throat and prepped himself to deliver the speech he had rehearsed multiple times on the drive over this morning.
      “Now Mr. Forsyth, the wholesale price of liquor is going up across the board in 2013. You’ve known this was coming and we discussed it thoroughly on my last visit. I’d say a five to seven percent increase is on tap. You’ve garnered some of the lowest prices on my route for years but this time I fear you won’t escape the impending rise in costs. It’s just a fact of life that products will cost more next year and we have to pass those increases down the line.”
      Jacky had “escaped” many price increases over the years since his brother-in-law had a prominent seat on the state’s liquor license review board. His wholesaler needed more liquor licenses to be granted, ergo, an increase to their revenues. But poor old Stanley wasn’t privy to that. So it gave Jacky all the leverage he needed to shoot down the wayward salesman once more.
      “Listen Stanley, you’re as full of crap as a Thanksgiving turkey. If you think I’m paying one red cent more for your product next year, you’ve got another think coming. Times are hard and the economy doesn’t look like it’s going to uptick anytime soon. So if you want a raise next year, you’d be better off shaking down the next tavern. I’d serve sarsaparilla and goat’s milk and turn this place into an eco-friendly, electric car charging establishment before I’d give you a nickel more for your hooch.”
      Pointing his long, beefy index finger towards the befuddled salesman’s nose, Jacky added, “And one more thing. Have a merry Christmas on your way out!”
      With that, Stanley shuffled his way out the back door. Bella was trying poorly to hide her giggles as Jacky walked back through the kitchen.
      “Well, he had it coming. I’m tired of being nickel and dimed to death by these drummers. I’m just trying to make a living, not a killing. If I wanted to do that I’d be a stock broker.” Turning to walk back to the office, Jacky grumbled in a low tone, “Aw hell, I couldn’t do that, I’ve got a conscience.”
      Bella continued to giggle and shred more cheese.
      After once again declining the task of catching up the paperwork, Jacky got the tills ready and decided to open up a little early. He thought there might be a smattering of people that swore off work today, in lieu of the circumstances of 12/21 and he wouldn’t want them to not have a place to tie one on.
      When the back door slammed closed, Jacky knew that Kirk had arrived. At a mere twenty-two years old, Kirk was a legend in his own mind. Or at least, that's what his boss had told him repeatedly. A good-looking kid that simply lacked direction, Jacky had taken Kirk under his wing after both of the young man’s parents were killed in a plane crash a couple of years ago. Kirk had just started college before their untimely deaths and with poor planning on the parent’s part; they hadn't the foresight to purchase life insurance. So Jacky helped Kirk get a place of his own and gave him a job at the Cricket. Though he wouldn’t admit it, Kirk was like the son he never had.
      Poking his head into the office Kirk said, “Bella told me I needed to go get some hamburger.”
      “Yeah, but first set up the table and chairs. I want to open a little early.” With a sheepish grin, Jacky continued, “Well, how’d it go last night?”
      “How’s what go?” feigning a puzzled tone.
      “If you don’t want to tell me what happened with you and that elderly lady you left with last night, it’s none of my business.”
      Realizing he had not slipped out of the bar as covertly as he thought, Kirk decided to change tactics. “Well I was just helping her with…car troubles.”
      “The only trouble that woman had was getting to her car. Hell, she even left her walker behind.”
Knowing he was busted, Kirk turned around and said, “I think my breakfast burrito is about to say hello. I’m going to set up.”


      The larger than normal lunch crowd came and went, probably drawn in by the banner outside, thought Jacky. Some new faces even promised to be back for the festivities later in the evening. By mid-afternoon, the regulars started to wander into their favorite watering hole.
The old antique doorbell jingled as ‘Bald Harry’ strolled through the door. As Harry bellied up to the bar he said with a grin, “Happy holiday Hoss.”
      “What holiday?” replied Jacky, while wiping a few glasses from the drying rack behind the bar.
      “Well…Christmas.” Harry replied with a puzzled look.
      “Then, merry Christmas to you too.” Jacky said, never being too fond of the politically correct version of Harry’s seasonal greeting. Making small talk, Jacky continued, “You’re looking good Harry. Have you been exercising?”
      In a standard “Bald Harry” response he said, “Whenever I feel the need to exercise, I lie down until it goes away.”
      After serving him his usual highball of Tennessee sipping whiskey, Harry began to slowly troll the floor, looking for someone that might listen to his dribble.
      In a few minutes, Maria shuffled over to the bar and abruptly slammed her empty glass down on the shellac surface. “Hoss, I needs a refill.”
      Slowly turning around, Jacky looked the middle-aged lady down and said, “Maria, don’t you think you’ve had enough for today?’
      Ignoring the comment, the inebriated lady continued, “And by the way, I was just lookin’ under the Chritmas tree and I…I didn’t see a present wit my name on it.”
      “Maria, those presents aren’t real. They’re just decorations. They’re empty boxes.”
      Almost breaking out in tears, she replied, “Aww, can I have one. I don’t have any presents to open this year.”
      Jacky knew this was true as Maria had been living on the streets for some time now. After losing her husband several years ago and her sister kicking her out for the severe drinking binges Maria went on, there wasn’t much left for her in this old world. Some people pull themselves up by their bootstraps when tragedy strikes and some just crumble like overly stale bread, Jacky often thought.
      “I’ll tell you what, you can have one of those presents, but I think I’m going to have to cut the drinks off.”
      “I’m not as think as you drunk I am.”
      With an inward smile, Jacky walked from behind the bar and picked out the biggest box from under the tree. With his back turned, he sliced a small slit in the side of the festively wrapped package with his pocket knife and slipped a twenty dollar bill inside. Turning back to the slightly wobbling woman, he handed her the gift and eased her towards the door.
      “You have a bed down at the mission?”
      “Yeah, Sister Carol always saves me one.”
      As the two made their way outside onto the sidewalk, Jacky said, “Now take this straight back to the mission and don’t open it until you get there.”
      “Oh I won’t,” she said, slurring the words slightly and clinging tightly to the present. “Merry Chrissstmas Hoss. I hope you and your…” Her words became indiscernible as she tried to walk up Hope Street. Jacky noticed the chill in the slight breeze that had begun to blow. It was the first day of winter and with that, colder temperatures were coming. He hoped Maria would make it to her destination.


      By a little after nine o’clock, the place was packed. Kirk was busy shuffling between busboy and waiter duties. Bella had all she could do to keep up with chicken wing and French fry orders. So far, Jacky had only two incidences of fisticuffs to deal with, but they didn’t warrant bringing out the Louisville Slugger from behind the bar. All-in-all it had been a good day. That was until Clyde came strolling in.
      Clyde Stokes was a mean and vicious drunk. His immense size was daunting to most everyone he encountered. Jacky had periodically banned him, but kept reneging on the promise after Clyde’s wife would call and apologize for his actions the following day. Jacky figured she didn’t want him around her as much as she’d rather have him at the Cricket. And as long as he didn’t bust up the place too badly, his money was as good as the next person’s. Clyde walked quickly into the darkened barroom trying not to be noticed and headed for the game room.
      As Kirk walked by the bar with a tub full of dirty plates and glasses, he gave his boss an upturned eyebrow and Jacky responded with a nod and a ‘Yep, I saw him’  kind of look. For a while, everything was fine.
      Tommy, the local dogcatcher eased his way through the crowd and gleefully announced to Jacky that it was his anniversary.
      “Damn Tommy, I swear if my memory was any worse I could plan my own surprise party. This was about the same time last year when you got soused to the brim and ran your dog catching truck into the mayor’s house.”
      “Yep, if he wasn’t my brother, I’d probably been fired.”
      “Wife kick you out again?” asked Jacky.
      “Well it’s just too much for her. We’ve been married fifteen years now and the stress of knowing what she could have had is just too much for her.” Both men laughed at each other's banter and Jacky topped off his brew from the tap.
      In a little while,the doorbell jingled again. A few college kids came in and took an elevated table near the jukebox. After ordering drinks, they pumped a few dollars into the machine and it began to play their selections. Now Jacky thought himself to be a man of the times. Of course, he had many of his favorite country selections to choose from on the old Wurlitzer but for more of a cultured, younger crowd he also had the occasional hip hop tune programmed in. The first couple of raucous numbers were ignored by most of the older clientele, but when Jay-Z’s ‘D.O.A’ began blaring from the machine, an eruption of profanity came boiling out of the game room around the corner.
      With cue stick in hand, the now drunk Clyde Stokes was aiming for a fight as he entered the barroom. He moved quickly over to the kid’s table and said, “Who played that crap?”
      One of the larger students rose from his seated position and said, “It’s RAP you dumb redneck.”
      “Naw…they just forgot to put the “C” at the beginning of the name is all,” replied Clyde as he swung the pool cue, landing it on the kid’s left cheek. Crashing to the floor, the kid’s buddies now joined into the fray, but with Clyde’s size, they didn’t stand a chance.
      The commotion drew Jacky’s attention as he was in the store room at the time getting a new case of scotch. Placing the cardboard box on the bar, he hurried back to the corner of the room. By now, Clyde had dispatched all of the college boys and was standing over them, cue still in hand, waiting for one of them to get up for a further thrashing.
      Slipping up behind Clyde, Jacky grabbed the stick so quickly from his hand, he barely knew it was missing. When Clyde turned around it was just in time to field a smashing blow from Jacky’s right fist. With Clyde’s size, the impact of the shot landed solidly but fazed him little. Raring back to take a swing at the owner, he was cut off in mid-retraction as the elder Marine began to work on his torso. Blazing fast punches to the lower abdomen and solar plexus brought the trouble maker to his knees as he gasped for his next breath. Just to top it off, Jacky balled up his large right hand, grabbed a handful of hair with his left to bring his Clyde’s head back and applied the knockout blow in a downward fashion. His years in the service had trained him well and his years of working in the bar business had showed him when to stop. The fight was over. Too many times the regulars had seen Jacky’s display of self defense. But they still stood there in awe of how the larger man was defeated in a keen display of technique and skill.
      “Kirk, throw this piece of shit outside...and don’t forget his hat.”
      Nonchalantly, Jacky set about his business again, retrieving the case of Johnnie Walker and making his way back to his place behind the bar.


      At the height of the festivities, Jacky needed a breath of fresh air. Even though he hadn’t smoked cigarettes in years, sometimes he just needed a break from the smell. He stepped to the door and walked outside. The biting cold had now set in, so he put on the jacket slung over his shoulder. It was funny, he often thought, that a man who didn’t drink alcohol or smoke anymore would end up running a bar such as the Cross-Eyed Cricket. Looking up at the night-time sky, he also wondered how the Mayans had come up with this particular date as the end of the world. 'Did they just run out of numbers?’ It was just some of the crazy things that went through his head. Turning around, he saw the big green neon cricket sign in the window.
      “Uncle Bruce, I hope I did you proud,” Jacky said as he reached for the door knob.
      About that time, what sounded like a loud thunderclap could be heard in the distance. Well, not by most members of the hammered crew inside the noisy Cricket, but to Jacky it had a familiar ring. It was eerily similar to the cannonade he remembered in his service days. An M102 Howitzer made a distinct sound when you’re only fifty yards downrange of it. The thing was, the echo wasn’t subsiding…the explosive sound was getting stronger and more powerful as it drew closer.
      Glassware on the shelves behind the bar began to shake, causing some patrons to notice their surroundings. The antique doorbell started jingling uncontrollably and suddenly the entire brick building shook with the force of a severe earthquake. Everyone now stopped what they were doing and grabbed onto whatever they could to ride out the shock wave. Then everything went dark, except for the battery operated digital clock on the Coors Light sign above the front door. It had stopped progressing at exactly 12:21:12 a.m. Saturday morning.

It seems the Mayans were off by twenty-one minutes.

Impressum

Texte: © GlenMarcus 2012
Bildmaterialien: public domain
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 13.12.2012

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