An outdated TV with knobs for controls was mounted on bare metal brackets above the liquor bottles. It played
a college football game. The sound of the game could barely be overheard over the vintage rock ’n’ roll (the
Stones, Joplin, Hendrix) blaring from old stereo speakers. The screen’s colors were muted and bled into one
another, making everything very orange and fuzzy. But no one was paying close attention to the game. It was
just a backdrop. Everyone was talking, and no one seemed to be drinking alone. I was grateful that the old set
was on, because it provided me with something to gaze at while the barroom absorbed my presence. There
were no menus and no daily specials scrawled on a blackboard for me to ponder. No chips or peanuts for
snacking were anywhere in sight. There were just drinks and cigarettes.
“I’ll have a beer, please—one of those.” I pointed to the Killian’s Red draft dispenser handle while trying my
best to avoid making eye contact with anyone in particular.
The bartender, a large woman with a protruding belly and wide hips and backside, wore her grayish brown hair
in a ponytail, which seemed girlish on someone probably in her mid-fifties.
Behind her, just above an antique-looking mechanical cash register, were two signs. The wooden one hung
precariously on a nail and simply said: NO WHINING. The other, a typical hardware store plastic notice, was
yellowed with age and nicotine and read: THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING. Ironically, just about everyone at
the bar, including the bartender, had a lit cigarette, or at least an open pack of smokes in front of them next to
their drinks—beer in bottles, drafts in tall plastic cups, liquor in shot glasses. It was obvious that the state’s new
ban on smoking in bars was not even remotely enforced way out here. This was a place with its own rules, and
most of them were posted clearly about the room in one form of wacky signage or another.
From my seat I could see out the
large window set in the wall behind
the bar. Though the window was
badly in need of a good washing,
the view was pleasing and
consisted of row upon row of
commercial fishing boats with nets
and gear on board and tied down
with heavy lines to docks in the
cold gray harbor that spilled into
the wintry Atlantic Ocean just past
the granite-boulder jetty.
