appointment with Chantal. “College Drugs,” Tim read as I drove down the main drag. “Is it just me, or is that funny?”
“I like that it’s next door to College Liquors,” I said. “So how’s your dad? Still working at the deli?” Tim’s parents worked at the largest grocery store in Endicott.
“Yup. And Barb is still checking.” Barb was Tim’s mom. Since she wore a name tag, Tim’s friends had always called her by her first name, even as he had called his friends’ parents Mrs. This or Mr. That. It had always bugged him.
Tim suggested we check out a Mercer bar. We found one easily enough. The Snake Pit was situated on the main street. A banner in the front window read, rather prematurely, “Welcome Incoming Freshmen!” Underneath, in itsy bitsy decals, a notice on the window informed us that The Snake Pit would not serve alcohol to anyone under the age of twenty-one.
We perched ourselves on stools. The bar was slick but sticky. Decades of stale cigarette smoke clung to the air.
It was early afternoon, but so little daylight filtered through the heavy green curtains that it could have been any time at all. I ordered a soda. Tim ordered a beer. I considered changing my order but decided to just act confident, like I hadn’t even noticed the discrepancy. Besides, there wasn’t any fitting in to be done; aside from the bartender, we were the only ones there.
“So, what are we going to say to this girl?” In truth, I dreaded meeting Chantal.
Tim elbowed me in the ribs. I drew back and gawked at him. “What?” He held a finger up to his lips and tilted his head toward the bartender.
The bartender was about fifteen years past college age, with a thick body and frizzy brown hair. His mustache was bushy. Either he was growing a beard or he simply hadn’t bothered shaving for the past few days. He wore a kelly green polo shirt and stained khakis.
Tim sipped his beer. “Sure is quiet here when the college is out.”
The bartender glanced briefly away from the television, then back again. “Mmm.” One of those antagonistic talk shows was on the set, the sound turned off. A sullen girl with permed yellow hair, red lipstick, painful-looking acne and an extremely short skirt stared at the camera. Next to her, an obese woman with equally unnatural blond hair gestured wildly. The tag line at the bottom read, “I found my daughter in bed with my boyfriend.”
Tim sipped his beer, squinted at the television, and tried again. “Bet you see a lot of wild stuff around here.” The bartender glanced at Tim. He retrieved a remote control from under the bar and flicked around the stations, finally settling on a soap opera, still with the sound off. He stared at the set. On the show, a skinny, long-haired brunette sat on a bed and sobbed. Refusing to take a hint, Tim tried again. “It’s probably better than TV, the kind of stuff that goes on with those college kids.”
The bartender wheeled around. “Are you from the ABC?” His accent was pure Boston: Ah you frawm the ABC?
Tim stared, open-mouthed. “Television?”
“This place is clean,” the bartender snapped. “I’m sick of you guys sniffin’ around like I’m runnin’ a crack house. Okay, sure, there’s no bouncer here today. It’s July, for Chrissake! The eighteen-year-olds aren’t here yet. I keep tellin’ you guys we check ID’s.” He gestured to me. “When Polly Purebred over here gets around to ordering her Cape Codder, I’ll ask for the license, okay? Then you can go away and write up a report saying we’re playing nice.”
“You think we’re what? From ABC News?” Tim shook his head. “I did meet Peter Jennings at a cocktail party once, but we’re not who you think we are.”
I elbowed him in the ribs. “Alcohol Beverage Control,” I muttered. “The ABC.”
He stared at me for a minute, then his eyes widened. He stopped shaking his head and began to nod instead. “Okay—right.” The head continued to bob.
“I like that it’s next door to College Liquors,” I said. “So how’s your dad? Still working at the deli?” Tim’s parents worked at the largest grocery store in Endicott.
“Yup. And Barb is still checking.” Barb was Tim’s mom. Since she wore a name tag, Tim’s friends had always called her by her first name, even as he had called his friends’ parents Mrs. This or Mr. That. It had always bugged him.
Tim suggested we check out a Mercer bar. We found one easily enough. The Snake Pit was situated on the main street. A banner in the front window read, rather prematurely, “Welcome Incoming Freshmen!” Underneath, in itsy bitsy decals, a notice on the window informed us that The Snake Pit would not serve alcohol to anyone under the age of twenty-one.
We perched ourselves on stools. The bar was slick but sticky. Decades of stale cigarette smoke clung to the air.
It was early afternoon, but so little daylight filtered through the heavy green curtains that it could have been any time at all. I ordered a soda. Tim ordered a beer. I considered changing my order but decided to just act confident, like I hadn’t even noticed the discrepancy. Besides, there wasn’t any fitting in to be done; aside from the bartender, we were the only ones there.
“So, what are we going to say to this girl?” In truth, I dreaded meeting Chantal.
Tim elbowed me in the ribs. I drew back and gawked at him. “What?” He held a finger up to his lips and tilted his head toward the bartender.
The bartender was about fifteen years past college age, with a thick body and frizzy brown hair. His mustache was bushy. Either he was growing a beard or he simply hadn’t bothered shaving for the past few days. He wore a kelly green polo shirt and stained khakis.
Tim sipped his beer. “Sure is quiet here when the college is out.”
The bartender glanced briefly away from the television, then back again. “Mmm.” One of those antagonistic talk shows was on the set, the sound turned off. A sullen girl with permed yellow hair, red lipstick, painful-looking acne and an extremely short skirt stared at the camera. Next to her, an obese woman with equally unnatural blond hair gestured wildly. The tag line at the bottom read, “I found my daughter in bed with my boyfriend.”
Tim sipped his beer, squinted at the television, and tried again. “Bet you see a lot of wild stuff around here.” The bartender glanced at Tim. He retrieved a remote control from under the bar and flicked around the stations, finally settling on a soap opera, still with the sound off. He stared at the set. On the show, a skinny, long-haired brunette sat on a bed and sobbed. Refusing to take a hint, Tim tried again. “It’s probably better than TV, the kind of stuff that goes on with those college kids.”
The bartender wheeled around. “Are you from the ABC?” His accent was pure Boston: Ah you frawm the ABC?
Tim stared, open-mouthed. “Television?”
“This place is clean,” the bartender snapped. “I’m sick of you guys sniffin’ around like I’m runnin’ a crack house. Okay, sure, there’s no bouncer here today. It’s July, for Chrissake! The eighteen-year-olds aren’t here yet. I keep tellin’ you guys we check ID’s.” He gestured to me. “When Polly Purebred over here gets around to ordering her Cape Codder, I’ll ask for the license, okay? Then you can go away and write up a report saying we’re playing nice.”
“You think we’re what? From ABC News?” Tim shook his head. “I did meet Peter Jennings at a cocktail party once, but we’re not who you think we are.”
I elbowed him in the ribs. “Alcohol Beverage Control,” I muttered. “The ABC.”
He stared at me for a minute, then his eyes widened. He stopped shaking his head and began to nod instead. “Okay—right.” The head continued to bob.
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