A Rant and a Road Trip

Excerpt from ‘A Rant and a Road Trip’ On Second Street, two doors from the local police station, I happened upon the Rustic Café. It was an insignificant looking place, though strangely inviting. Something about it seemed familiar. But what? There were neon signs in the window, though apart from noticing the colours (green, red and blue), I paid them little attention. I opened the door, took but one step inside and then it hit me. Yes. The smell hit me. This wasn’t just a café. No. This was, wait for it……wait for it……A BAR. Oh, no. Several patrons turned and stared at me, as if expecting to see an old regular. I desperately wanted to turn around and beat a hasty retreat, but something wouldn’t let me. I felt compelled to enter, with the intention of having nothing more than a bite to eat. The beautiful neon signs, of green and red and blue, were advertising Miller Lite and Budweiser, and I could hear them shouting, ‘DRINK ME!, DRINK ME!’. So many memories came flooding back. Good times and bad times. I strolled over to the bar and spoke to a woman who was sitting on a bar stool, but looked as if she worked there. “Do you serve food?” I asked. “ Yes we do.” she replied. “Would you like a menu?” “Yes. Thank you.” I replied, and walked towards one of the many small booths. The booths were basic. Simple wooden seats and tables. Not particularly comfortable, but then this was a bar not some high class restaurant. I studied the menu carefully, though it was far from extensive. Simple fare, but, as it turned out, good nonetheless. I surveyed my surroundings, like an undercover agent on a mission. On the wall behind the bar, were two large television sets. One was on the weather channel, while the other was on, what appeared to be a programme about construction (or was it destruction?). Two booths from where I sat there was an old guy drinking coffee while staring at the second screen, as if somehow trapped by its hypnotic power. And that was with the sound turned off. The room itself was long and narrow, as if not originally designed to be a bar. No. I suspected that it was a converted store, that had long since gone out of business. Delphos is a small town. And, as we all know by now, small towns, with their small populations, sometimes find it difficult to survive. At the back of the bar was a pool table, where four guys noisily competed against one another. From time to time, one of the guys would walk over to the juke box (which was situated close to the door), and put a few more songs on. Was it Creedence Clearwater Revival who sang, Have you ever seen the rain? I don’t know. But, yes thanks. I have seen the rain. All the fucking way from Tennessee, right up New Jersey, and then some. I’m just waiting on a lady: The Rolling Stones. Yeah. I know what you mean. About six booths down from me sat a young couple, who laughed and joked, though I didn’t catch any of their conversation. At the bar sat two guys, who drank beer, chatted and occasionally stared at the mute, second television. A young woman (in her early thirties, I guess) walked into the bar on her own, and sat down just two stools away from one of the guys. She had fair hair, wore jeans, a tee shirt and a zip-up sweat shirt. She ordered a beer and then some food, though I couldn’t see what she ate. The guy closest started up a conversation with her. Did they know each other, or was he trying to chat her up? I had no idea. There were shelves on the walls, with a variety of tacky trophies on them. You know the ones I mean. They look like they are made of silver, or gold, but are mostly just plastic, with silver and gold paint on them. Two women worked behind the bar. One served the drinks, while the other prepared the meals. It was a strange set-up. The food preparation area, with its grill and fryer, was behind the bar, adjacent to the beer pumps and optics. One would normally expect to find the food being prepared in a separate room. But it didn’t bother me. I ordered the chicken tenders (three pieces of chicken breast, coated in breadcrumbs and fried), along with hash browns (which were mixed with onions and topped with melted cheese) and a side order of breaded, fried mushrooms. With my meal I had several beers and, after paying the bill, I left the bar feeling ever so slightly intoxicated, yet happy. All in all, it was a pretty good evening. But how would I get back to my motel? After all, I’d never driven whilst under the influence of alcohol, and the police station was only spitting distance away. Damn. What the fuck was I going to do? ‘Yeah. That’s it.’ I said to myself. ‘I’ll walk back to my motel, and then come and pick up the car in the morning. Hey! It’s only two miles.’ I’M JOKING! Do you think I’m that fucking stupid? I haven’t had a drink in over 23 years, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to ruin it all now. Now, don’t lie to me. I know exactly what you were thinking. You thought I’d weakened and had a drink, didn’t you? Oh, ye of little faith. How could you? I’m very disappointed in you.