Story by Bob Church


            
A Study In Pastel


            


            "For the love of God, Linda, turn down that damn jukebox!
            I like Pearl Jam as much as the next guy, but enough is enough…
            Jeeeez…"

            
Linda stopped washing glasses long enough
            to stare at the fortyish man in the simple dark sport coat and
            blue shirt. The guy had been coming in every day for the past
            week or so, and she couldn't remember him ever speaking to anyone
            other than to order his Glenfiddich double-malt-- straight-up…
            never with ice or a splash of water. Doesn't he have any other
            clothes? He always wears the same thing… strange duck.

            
The cute blonde bartender wiped her hands
            on a bar towel and adjusted the band holding her ponytail in
            place while sashaying over to the volume control knob directly
            behind the cash register. That cuts it. He doesn't get to
            tell me how loud to play the jukebox... A quick counter-clockwise
            twist bathed the area in total silence as Linda silently sauntered
            closer to the stranger's position at the bar.

            
"I'm going to keep this real simple,
            Nimrod, because I know you're a simple guy… this is a neighborhood
            bar. Take a look at the people sitting around you. Some of them
            are good people; others, like that fat loser, Cecil, sitting
            at the other end of the bar, are real assholes… but they
            all have two things in common. Know what those are, per chance?"


            'Nimrod' cocked his head and pushed his hand out, palm up. "Oh,
            I don't know, let me guess… abominable taste in clothing
            and music, perhaps?"

            
Linda broke eye contact with the man and
            looked around at the others sitting at the bar. Everyone suppressed
            grins and several looked away, avoiding eye contact lest they
            instantaneously be turned to stone by Linda's gaze. "Well,
            I was shooting for having a good time and unquestioning loyalty
            to their bartender, but I'll give you that one…"

            
Spontaneous laughter filled the room as
            people began to vacillate toward Nimrod's seat, introducing themselves
            and shaking hands. Beaten at her own game, Linda took a five-dollar
            bill from her tip jar and placed it in front of the man. "Here…
            go play some music."

            For the next few hours, the bar more closely resembled a homecoming
            than an assortment of casual acquaintances, as new friends told
            eclectic stories and laughed in counterpoint to the Irish Rovers,
            always led by Nimrod's singing and dancing.

            
Sometime after midnight, the small fortyish
            man in the simple dark sport coat and pastel blue shirt checked
            in at the Avis desk and surrendered the keys to the Ford Taurus.
            After a quick walk to the ticket counter at Grand Central Station,
            shortly past one a.m., he sat down in his window seat and stared
            into the blackness beyond. Very soon, his brief interlude completed,
            he'd be en route to the real world.

            
Michael Patrick Flannery laid his head
            against the rest and closed his eyes. When next he awoke, Father
            Michael Patrick Flannery would greet the Abbot and once again
            enter his world of silence.

            

            
Bob Church © 3/08

            
 

            
Bob Church resides in mid-Missouri
            with his wife of three decades, Louise, their poodle, Carla,
            and their cat, Callie. After thirty years spent raising five
            children, he has reached the point in his life that allows time
            to pursue his real love, writing. You can find more of his stories/observations
            at notquiteright/