The Sport of Men

In a recent fit of sobriety, I recalled that this is the marrying time of year. With that in mind, I’ve resuscitated and remodeled the following for all you muthafuggahs in love out there…

“But what's this to the purpose? you will say.

Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation,

For which my sole excuse is -- 't is my way;

Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion

I write what's uppermost, without delay:

This narrative is not meant for narration,

But a mere airy and fantastic basis,

To build up common things with common places.”

Nancy is the fourth Town Tavern bartender I’ve suffered in the last two years. For some reason, Red, the owner, keeps firing ‘em and then hiring new ones on an odd yet regular cycle. I’ve told him he really needs to consider asking some of us before he acts this way, maybe we could help him select better help. I mean, man, it’s sorta irritating to be constantly getting accustomed to a new bartender. I know I am one of the few who pays my tab each month. I shouldn’t have to spell my name for weeks after each new hire. (“Put it on my tab, Nancy … yeah, it’s just like it sounds.”) But that’s what is happening here.

The most recent hire came at the worst moment, too. Betty, the day bartender, went on the DL with a bum ankle, out of action for 4-6 weeks. So, New Nancy has been working double shifts trying to cover. That can only make things worse, in my opinion. I worry about the potential for fast burnout. New Nancy should get some more time to sit on the bench, maybe just pinch-pour every now and then, to get better used to the stress and speed of working the Tavern. This is the big leagues, baby.

Looking back, I knew it was going to happen. About two months ago I came in a bit late one evening and found the old night bartender, she was of German heritage, can’t recall her name, closing up. This German gal had a tight little body, long blonde, with big boobs. Even if she could barely pour a beer without spilling it, she kept most of the populace pleased with her performance as a long as she wore a slim T-shirt.

The place was empty that night but there, helping her clean up behind the bar, was Fat Mack. Fat Mack is known far and wide as a sticky-fingered, unreliable worm who never has any money yet with a penchant for starting fights and going to jail. Hanging with Fat Mack or even letting him near the cash register is not a good move. Not long after that night, the German girl was gone.

“Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet;

Her very nod was not an inclination;

There was a self-will even in her small feet,

As though they were quite conscious of her station”

This New Nancy is a nice enough gal, she’s been around the block a bit at about 45-ish, pleasant but not striking, witty without being bitchy, pretty good ability to keep everyone under control. I can see why Red hired her. But I’ve noticed she “attacks” cooking up burgers and fries for the local turkey hunters with a certain amount of premeditation. By that I mean I don’t think she’s done a lot of cooking in her life. When she cooks, she gets this seriously determined look on her face and she momentarily loses “beer pouring” focus, like she’s made up her mind she’s not gonna fuck this up again, sorta like when I decide I have to change a tire on the car or something. Being one who notices those kinds of things, I’m always quick to order a backup beer when it appears she may move over to fire up the Geo. Foreman.

So, I guess I just question her multi-tasking skills.

But the most unusual thing about New Nancy is that she really doesn’t fit the mold. Now, the German gal didn’t fit either, but like I said she had other attributes. New Nancy, though, is unusual. She’s from Malibu, California and damn proud of it. I nervously watch my fellow turkey hunters at the bar when she happily describes past shopping mall experiences with her girlfriends. She’s particularly pleased to relate the time she visited Costa Rica, the beauty of the rain forest, the solitude of clean beaches, the opulence of $1,000 a week Central American hotels.

These guys she’s serving talk about NASCAR, they know the difference between a 1980 and a 1990 version Johnson two-stroke outboard motor and they can give scientific, detailed responses when asked how much cement it takes to do the average driveway. When faced with an insider’s view of Malibu and Costa Rica, they all nod, they all smile, but they have nothing to say about that. It just doesn’t click, ya know? But just being there, waiting behind the Tavern bar, makes me think twice about New Nancy.

“Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought;

Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed

It might be seen, with diligence was sought,

And when 't was found straightway the bargain closed;

There was no end unto the things she bought,

Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused;”

I’ve come to the opinion, though, that none of my concerns will stop Long-Haired Ned.

Ned is everybody’s big brother. He’s loud, opinionated, stubborn, and rules over every bar in town. He attracts people. He loves to argue but even when he says things that make no sense, people are still naturally prone to agree with him. He has a force, like a powerful personal black-hole in the local universe which pulls all known matter into it. He could probably run for Mayor and win, even though he has no ambition for such responsibility.

He shakes hands with people all the time, sometimes several times a night with the same people he met earlier in the evening. It starts when he enters the bar as he works his way down the hall, past the pool table, in front of the juke box, shaking hands with everyone along the way, interrupting dart throwers and beer drinkers alike. He does that on purpose. Being a construction laborer who has wielded wooden-handled tools for all of his life, he has big and strong hands with a grip like that of a large scaled mammal of some sort, leaving the uninitiated with the odd impression that they just shook hands with a man wearing 120-grit sandpaper gloves. Even with all his loud grandstanding, those worn, burred hands are his trademark and I think it pleases him to see the hint of an eerie reaction show on another person’s face when they touch him.

“The scars of his old wounds were near his new,

Those honourable scars which brought him fame;

And horrid was the contrast to the view --

But let me quit the theme; as such things claim

Perhaps even more attention than is due from me:”

But Long-Haired Ned’s incurable downfall probably lies well hidden in his heart. He is, in spite of his rough bravado, a romantic. Twice divorced, he’s picked up every new bargirl since I’ve been here. Sometimes he takes on new girlfriends in between and during each particular affair. And Red, the owner, keeps Long-Haired Ned very busy sorting out all these new hires.

At one point he was seeing a scrawny young lady known to be a coke addict. None of the local women were impressed during that period and all were pleased one day when she showed up alone at the bar. She sat there drinking, making occasional yet lengthy trips to the restroom, only to return more angered and in tears. That night, for once, Ned entered quietly to sit at the other end of the bar and sip his beer in silence, only now and then nodding that he didn’t give a damn while the very public display of maddened, drug-fueled passion went on in front of us. Aw, it is really a difficult order to stay up with all his wanderings.

“At length, in an imperial way, she laid

Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes

Which needed not an empire to persuade,

Look'd into his for love, where none replies:”

Yeah, not that long until New Nancy and Long-Haired Ned began to see each other. Could it have been any other way in this world? I think it may have taken about 3 days, which might be a new record for him.

Another fortnight and New Nancy would be sitting at the bar with Ned, his hand on her lap, both pleased to be in such good yet conflicting company.

Eventually, all these affairs caught my attention. As you know, I am not always quick to catch the significance of such things. But soon I began to wonder what drove Ned to do what he constantly does. I also wondered why New Nancy, with all of her polished Southern Cal ways, would even bother with a tough guy like him. Was she serious about old Ned, who apparently had no serious “attachment” to his body, or was she playing his game even better, casting her net further than him in a such dangerous competition?

“Had Adeline read Malthus? I can't tell;

I wish she had: his book's the eleventh commandment,

Which says, "Thou shalt not marry," unless well:

This he (as far as I can understand) meant.

'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell

Nor canvass what so "eminent a hand" meant;

But certes it conducts to lives ascetic,

Or turning marriage into arithmetic.”

I am appreciative that Ned and I have had several philosophic barroom discussions over the last few months. After a few brown ales, I have told him on more than one occasion that I know him, that I’ve seen his kind before. He typically scoffs and bellows, “Don’t give me that psycho-analytic bullshit!” But then, not so oddly, he quickly withdraws from the verbal fray and buys me a beer, changing his tack against the stormy winds of his own distinct personality whenever possible. And, typically, he recognizes when I do the same.

I even took him to personal confidence and asked him if I should attend The Wedding of The Great Counselor in New York, giving my slight credit to whatever advice he could offer me. After the details and the connections were all laid down, he laughed and agreed it would be impossible for me to do that. So, I think he is not un-wise. But, I admit, his addiction to constant affection is still difficult to diagnose.

New Nancy, on the other hand, rapidly came into focus. Over the course of several nights, humorously under the suspicious gaze of Long-Haried Ned as he sat next to her at the bar, I swung my old dialectic machete honed by Anheiser-Busch and family. Deftly cutting through the thickly overgrown underbrush of her Costa Rican travel stories, I finally found her hidden secret desire and recognized it as such immediately.

“When Adeline, in all her growing sense

Of Juan's merits and his situation,

Felt on the whole an interest intense, --

Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation,

Or that he had an air of innocence,

Which is for innocence a sad temptation, --

As women hate half measures, on the whole,

She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul.”

Oh, yeah, a story as old as time itself. I saw something in Nancy, something that Ned had blindly misunderstood. After that, I knew it was time for me and Ned to take a drive.

Two things had gone wrong. First, one of the cables that support the tailgate on my truck had snapped. Secondly, I chose to transport a 250-pound piece of sheet metal a few weeks before. The metal was too large for my truck bed and had bent one of the hydraulic lifters on the bed shell. I knew that was going to happen but I stupidly did it anyway. Within a few days, all the fluid had drained from the lifter since the bend had broken the fluid seal and the top gate had become completely useless. I kept bumping my head on the shell every time I tried to put any load back there. Such irritating issues are the bane of delivery drivers everywhere, I suppose.

Not knowing about these kinds of things and having no practical mechanical ability to speak of, I enlisted the help of one very willing Long-Haired Ned. The weather had turned rainy that week, placing him and his chosen profession in a convenient holding pattern. So, I picked him up one Saturday morning and off we went in search of fresh auto parts to resolve my problems.

Soon, the details came out. During the muted drive along Highway 29, I steered the truck over and around the rain-filled potholes and slick hills while slowly edging the conversation in the direction of my delicate destination, the place where truth hides around the corner from the local Ford dealership.

“He was a Greek, and on his isle had built

(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades)

A very handsome house from out his guilt,

And there he lived exceedingly at ease;

Heaven knows what cash he got or blood he spilt,

A sad old fellow was he, if you please;”

And, then, just as the bottomless gaps were being filled in, as the road magically leveled and straightened out ahead of us, where muggy sunlight poured between threatening thunderclouds to shine brightly in the recently plowed corn fields, before we made it past the junction of Highway 16, he asked me to stop.

I pulled the truck over on the muddy shoulder along the road and he told me to follow him as he hurriedly got out.

We walked about 20 feet behind the truck and there the ass of a doe stuck up from the tall thick grass, gaunt legs broken and mangled, horse flies gathering loudly for an open spot on her bloodied head buried in the ditch.

Ned reached down to touch her immobile flank with his large, coarse hands and whispered, “She’s still warm … whatchya think?”

Now, honestly, I wouldn’t boldly compare one’s uncontrollable human passions to the avid hunter’s misplaced attraction for road kill. But standing there alongside that quiet country road, listening to Long-Haired Ned talk excitedly about the gruesome possibilities of an endless future, I admit, the thought did cross my mind.

"But droop not: Fortune at your time of life,

Although a female moderately fickle,

Will hardly leave you (as she's not your wife)

For any length of days in such a pickle.

To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife

As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle:

Men are the sport of circumstances, when

The circumstances seem the sport of men."

With congratulations to you all and apologies to Byron,

Cheers,

Mb