8. Books Theorizes
Revolutions come and go in the cycle of history. More than Marx, I prefer Vico. But would that describe what Tommy wants to say? More mystical, I have to make a note to study Joaquim di Fiore. There is a question of a change of age, a millenarianism. But it's a bit more political than that. I have the pieces of what Tommy wants to say, but they won't fit together until he says it to Mike. Maybe I could help. If I could translate them into German, or Latin... Make a note. Study Sanskrit...
9. A Resigned Old Lady
Mildred listens to Frank tell her his plan. Yeah, right, Mike's face impaled on a Budweiser tap. His body slips down, opening the tap, and the blood mixes with the beer flowing out. A strong image, worthy of the importance of the act. But Frank is full of shit. If he really planned to do something that important, he'd have to say so in front of Mike, wouldn't he? And that would do in the surprise factor, wouldn't it? She holds out her hand to Frank, motioning for him to shut up. Then she picks up her glass, waving it at Mike to get his attention. Her other hand trembles over to her pack of menthol Kools for another cigarette, the previous one dying in the ashtray. Mike refills her glass with Southern Comfort. Yeah, she thinks, keep smiling Mike. You know your head ain't ending up impaled on no beer tap. We're so damn comfortable hating you and feeling sorry for Tommy you've got us here every goddamn afternoon. Well, here's to you.
She downs half the glass and motions Frank to continue. He begins to describe the state of Al's skull after having the pinball machine drop on it, and she lets his voice drone on like it does every day. The smoke from her cigarette curls upwards like incense, but is trapped in the battered lampshade of the florescent light above the bar.
10. The Bartender Speaks
And so Tommy storms out again. Why let him speak? I know what he's going to say. Al thinks we shouldn't even let him in, Al's afraid of him. Al is not a subtle man, that's why I'm behind the bar and he's at the door. A bar like ours needs a Tommy, needs a perpetually budding prophet. A prophet like Tommy is worth his weight in gold because he almost gets there but never does. I make sure he doesn't. An experienced bartender can instill doubt with a word, a smile, a gesture. Of course everyone hates me for it, but I can't help that. As long as they fear me. It is better to be feared than to be loved.
11. Tommy Outside
Tommy's heart is pounding and his face is feverish as he storms out of the bar and continues along the sidewalk. The blinding sunlight, cool air, and subdued street noise washes over him like a massage and he slowly comes to a stop and breathes deeply. Above him a maple spreads its branches over the sidewalk, the leaves shimmering with green as the afternoon sunlight pummels them from above. He turns and sees the unlit neon sign of Mike's Bar a hundred yards down the street, takes a step towards it, and stops again. No, not today. Something bad happened there, but he can't remember what. Passing from the night-dark of the bar into bright day confuses him. His two or three whiskies suddenly seem to rush through his brain, dizzying him, and he wonders about the time. Yes, he was going to say something to Mike. But what? To hell with it. Time to go back to his apartment and watch some TV. Have some dinner. He'll go back to the bar the next day, like he always does.
12. The Broken Shot Glass
The door slams behind Tommy, cutting off the brief flood of afternoon sunlight that had entered the bar. Mike looks at Al, and motions towards the floor. Al looks at Julie. She sighs, putting down her tray and taking the dustpan and broom Mike offers her. She sweeps up the shards of Tommy's rage-broken shot glass and walks behind the bar to the trash. It is full. Mike only has to look at her. Huffing, she picks up the can and carries it out through the back door, swinging it up and emptying it into the fetid dumpster. Then she looks down the narrow ally, the bright sun forcing her to shade her blue neon-accustomed eyes. A cat meows and the traffic hums in the distance. She turns, picks up the trash can, and opens the back door to go in, wondering if she had ever, at any time, lived in some other way.