Five Aces
By Shirley Rorvik
That fall of 1986 my husband and I had traveled from Polson, Montana, into the easternmost corners of the state. After five nights of progressively sleazy motels and bars, I insisted on a nice motel on Saturday night. That sent Jim into a sullen pout that carried over into the next day.
We barreled up Highway 212 with nothing on the horizon except the town of Alzada. One bleak building – the Old Stand Tavern – hunched beside the road.
A hitching post with a faded red stop sign nailed to one end stood out front with a sway-backed white horse resting its chin on the rail. Two battered pickups nosed up to the porch, requisite rifles in rear window racks. An old, elegant Cadillac was parked near the corner, a crocheted afghan--red, white and blue ripple design--in the back window.
I glanced at the clock and resigned myself to another prolonged rest stop. I could tolerate the dilapidated buildings, the dirty windows, and the dark interiors. But I hated the smell. Sinus-swelling cigarette smoke. Rancid sweat. Revolting urine. Putrid grease. I steeled myself and climbed out of the pickup. Ducking my head against the wind, I glanced over my shoulder at the Cadillac's polished grill and noticed a white crocheted cross hanging from the mirror. A traveling evangelist aiming to save the citizens of Alzada, Montana?
Inside, I dared to take a breath. No foul smell. I blinked a few times to clear the grit from my eyes. No dirty light fixtures. Instead, an ornate mahogany bar, an antique mirror, a bartender sporting a handlebar mustache, a white apron, and a bent-brim cowboy hat.
Jim sat toward the middle of the bar jawing with two other customers in sweat stained Stetsons, Levi jackets and scuffed boots. Toward the end of the bar, a portly gentleman in a dusty black suit held a squat glass filled with honey-colored liquid. I figured him for the Cadillac, but I had second thoughts on the evangelist notion. As it turned out, the horse belonged to him.
My gaze wandered to the back where an intense card game was in progress. Five women sat spaced around the circular table. Each looked like she'd just come from church. I guessed their ages ranged from sixty-something to eighty or more. All wore fancy straw hats, some with veils over their foreheads, some with artificial flowers. All wore white, wrist-length gloves. One lady could have passed for Minnie Pearl, sans tag. Another resembled Andy Griffith's Aunt Bea.
The game was poker, the tender nickels, dimes and quarters. The players dead serious.
I watched these ladies throw themselves into the game with panache and good humor. They reminded me of . . . Jim. Free spirits, enjoying simple pleasures. I glanced toward the bar. Jim and the two strangers looked like old buddies.
Is my world too narrow? Am I missing something?
My attention was drawn back to the card table as one of the ladies raised her voice.
"I'll see you and raise it a quarter," said Miss Red Dress.
"Call," declared Minnie Pearl.
"Too rich for me. I fold," said Miss Purple Flowers.
Aunt Bea scratched her nose, frowned, and laid her cards down. "Fold."
The last woman, Miss Polka Dot, cleared her throat daintily. "Well, I think I can--"
"No, you can't, Marian. You've only got two nickels left."
Marian looked at the coins on the edge of the table. "Oh, I thought those were quarters."
"When are you going to get new eyeglasses? Getting so's I don't want to ride with you any more. You're so proud of that car, but it won't be pretty for long if you can't see the road."
"All right, I fold," Marian said.
"Let's see what you've got." Miss Red Dress eyed Minnie Pearl.
Miss Red Dress arched an eyebrow and flipped over her cards. "Full house, queens high."
Minnie Pearl squealed, showed her four kings, and raked in the winnings.
But I won the jackpot: The Five Aces of Alzada, Montana, inspired me to mosey over to the bar, slip an arm around Jim's waist, and say, "May I join you?"
P.S. Shirley won a weird rain hat designed by a Bristol Bay fisherman. It's a sort of neoprene rice patty hat, which she says works very well, and is a conversation starter to say the least.
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Gods in Bars
(A Monologue)
By Todd Cardin
Bartender, come down here. The crushed ice in my glass has finally
surrendered all the Vermouth from this slow comfortable screw I’ve nursed for the last forty-five minutes. I’m in need.
The name’s Trevor and that song on the juke has me thinking.
...baby, baby, baby, bitch.
...and you ask how long it’s been.
A year?
Every time I look at the mountain through that window over there, I wonder when my obsession started. I wonder why I travel to the ends of the earth to climb mountains, and why there is always a dive like this, even here in Kathmandu. A steaming pile of wilder-yuppy, Seattle-grunge, Brit-brat, North Face-wearing, trust fund-grabbin’, CEO-twenty-something-fuckin’ human waste.
A club smack in the land of Hindu and Buddhist purity. A whiskey and
nicotine tit we tourists suckle for a little taste of home. Man, hurry up
with my drink. I'm in need. Make one for yourself and we'll get slowly
screwed together as we wait for Buddha to show. That song really has me thinking.
...baby...baby...baby...bitch.
I’m better now, please fuck off!
I don't understand any of this. Men build bars on the edges of our lives
just to sit in them and remember the women who made us feel like gods. And yet, the Bourbon and Vermouth do little to cauterize the wounds they leave behind. Why do we get high? Why am I about to try climbing that fucking mountain again, and why in hell didn’t I drive Lisa to Portland to see her mother when she got sick?
Okay, okay...don't leave me sitting here by myself. Come back down here, and I'll promise not to talk about my ex anymore. I bet you've heard this story a thousand times before from a thousand guys just like me. There really are no new stories in a dive. No new songs, just the same old sentiments sung to a different beat.
...you’re perfect, you’ve got nothing to hide.
I know the bitch you’ve locked up inside.
There's comfort in the predictability of bars. And thank God it's Southern Comfort.
Look man, I think I’m gonna die this time. Gonna go head-first off the
Hilary step maybe, I don’t know. I just wanted to say something to another guy before it happens. I hope you don't mind listening just a little longer. What I wanted to say is I think I'm gonna die without a woman to hate poetically.
...go conquer someone else, you stinkin’ ass ho.
You have to get back to work? I understand. But before you go, please join me in a toast: To those crossed ice axes on the wall. To the smell of death on all these climbers. To the crackling two-way radio on the bar ready to tell us of another goddamn tragedy. To the dive of Kathmandu. Doesn’t matter who you are in a place like this. We’re all ordinary gods here. I think she’s gonna kill me this time.