Liar's Poker

A flurry of activity as I strive to keep up with the demand. Washing glasses in the little sink trio, stocking napkins and matches and straws and stirs, dispensing with care the spirits as they are requested from the throng. Throng, indeed, just the old Mexican man and me here tonight. The younger crowd having all made their way to the dance floor down the stairs in the back room, evidenced by the flood of orders being bellowed at me over the half-door that serves as a waitress stand. I can pour six pitchers in two minutes, off of two taps mind you, which is impressive I guess. Couldn’t keep up with demand if I had six arms and twelve taps though. Once the tables are filled it slows down, the Mexican man and I get back to our game during the lull. The Budweiser clock, hung off kilter above the cash register, says it’s three o’clock. It’s been hanging askew since before I learned of its existence, it always says three o’clock. The Clydesdales continue to draw the old wagon around the inside of the globe, ceaselessly climbing and alternately descending; and the manager thinks it adds something to the decorum. Nothing that the gaudy rack of cheap cigars on the counter doesn’t detract from, I always think to myself. The rack sits next to the magnificent shelf filled with bottles. Three rows high strategically placed in front of a mirror to make the stock look doubly impressive, spanning the length of the back of the bar down to the make-shift waitress window. All the finest liquor available at your fingertips, with thirty-two brands of beer in the coolers below and the well of mystery tucked inconspicuously out of sight. The well contains the off brands, nameless bottles of lesser quality that are used in the mixed drinks unless the customer orders a highball off the back shelf. The highball bottles from the back shelf are topped off the night before with liquor from the well, but no one seems to notice. The Mexican man says he has six aces. I have to call he‘s been bluffing all night. As he starts to count the ones in the serial number of his dollar I see the lines on his face illuminated by the intense fluorescent lights hanging over the shelf of bottles. Dark trails running through his brown face. Eyes that have seen the inhumanity of man stare up from underneath an old felt cowboy hat wrapped in a hatband of eagle feathers and beads. He tells me he is short one and slides his dollar to me across the onyx black Formica of the bar. Gouged in spots and peeling away in others, Jorge always talks about replacing the

Formica top of the bar, when the landlord is around. As I deal out another pot the old man picks up where he left off in a story about the old days. He thinks he once rode with Poncho Villa. They’d been holed up in a secret hideout last I heard; now they were divvying up the loot. He and Poncho never quite saw eye to eye; all the old man’s stories depict a selfish, ruthless Poncho Villa. He remembers the last time Jorge threw a party in the back room as he adjusts his hat. Heroic in the face of certain peril he had fought off two at a time before things were brought back under control, he remembers it differently than I do but I don’t say anything.

Commotion erupts at precisely three o’clock with the apparition of the manager in the waitress’s half-door. Blood was trailing down his chin, beckoning me to call the police. 911 what’s your emergency? No emergency really, it’s me again, things are really rolling tonight, and the toughs brought friends. Shots fired, the radio’s squawk around town, though no one said these things. Code 2 they come with lights flashing. Up from the stairs come fighters circling around the two shirt-and-tied, good-old-boy, redneck types that pass for security who are manhandling the group outside. Stepping around the commotion, open the door, pushing them out. We fan out in the parking lot, circle and regroup. Two more rush out, three try to re-enter. Jorge emerges to confront the mob, retreat and evade. Lock the doors. Bum rush stance and one last attack, doors ripped out of hands and flung open wide, our line pushes back. Outside you heathens, this party’s over, or something to that effect was muttered under breath. The sound of breaking glass draws a quick silence that is broken as quick with a glancing blow to a nose. Fists fly and faces cringe. Squad cars arrive; police wade through the mess - As the worst of the fighting is being brought under control the old man walks up to me, throwing me a quick jab to the forehead. Shouts go up as I stumble to regain my footing. Touching the tips of my fingers to my forehead I can feel the blood trickling down. The old man is being cuffed and led away. The young ones cheer his virility; he shoots me a wink that says ‘see you next time,’ as the cops push him into the car.