Next Whiskey Bar

By Charlie Moodie

A collection of short stories and plays links characters on the edge of self-destruction with their favorite watering holes highlighting their stream of whiskey consciousness.

Sidle up to a bar stool and stake a claim. In Next Whiskey Bar: Stories, Plays, and Drunk Talk, Charlie Moodie shares an eclectic collection of entertaining tales that bring to life the kinds of lonely characters who teeter on the periphery of self-destruction, lurk in dark watering holes, and tell timeless stories to anyone who will listen.

Moodie begins with three tales about people who are on a perpetual quest to find themselves. Declan is a young man who attempts to drown his troubles in a glass of whiskey; Katrina is a maid who lives in Parisif only on Sunday afternoons; and Cara has a big heart, but only she knows if she can achieve her dreams. With a common theme of music, Moodie weaves a tapestry of stories that illustrate his characters challenges as they struggle to understand each other in an uncertain world where love, loss, acceptance, and grief swirl within streams of whiskey consciousness.

From the Great Depression to the driving buzz of the todays cities, Next Whiskey Bar takes you to the back of a bar, where listening to the music and eavesdropping on the sweet drunk talk make it all worthwhile.

Moodie begins with three tales about people who are on a perpetual quest to find themselves. Declan is a young man who attempts to drown his troubles in a glass of whiskey; Katrina is a maid who lives in Parisif only on Sunday afternoons; and Cara has a big heart, but only she knows if she can achieve her dreams. With a common theme of music, Moodie weaves a tapestry of stories that illustrate his characters challenges as they struggle to understand each other in an uncertain world where love, loss, acceptance, and grief swirl within streams of whiskey consciousness. From the Great Depression to the driving buzz of the todays cities, Next Whiskey Bar takes you to the back of a bar, where listening to the music and eavesdropping on the sweet drunk talk make it all worthwhile.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450286527

Charlie Moodie

CHARLIE MOODIE is a graduate of the University of Waterloo Film Studies Specialization program, where he focused on screenplay writing. Now an award-winning writer of both short stories and plays, he currently lives Toronto, Ontario, where he works as part of a senior manager team with a national telecommunications company.

Book preview

Contents

Introduction

The Stories

Drive the Dust

The Sunday Bomber

Black Branch Bleeding

Down Vegastown

Backdoor to Graceland

12 Bar Blues

King of America

Killer on the Road

Wine and Turpentine

How Long?

Two-Minute Love Song

The Whiskey Song and Superman

The Plays

57th St. & 7th Ave.

Reason to Believe

Many Miles Away

Drunk Tank Tales

A Homecoming (Sort of)

His Last Song (Coda)

The Drunk Talk

Ballad of the End

Introduction

When I think of introductions, sometimes I think about talking about the sexual experience I’m going to have prior to the actual act. Should I describe it and break it down or just do it? In most cases the doing is the best route, but sometimes I’ve been told a little pre-knowledge to help guide a person makes the act a more enjoyable experience … so I’ve been told … yeah.

The first thing you’ll notice is that the collection is a mix of short stories and plays (with rambling at the end). Many people will want to read the stories but not the plays and vice versa. I say when you go to a bar and begin eavesdropping on conversations you don’t get a choice of what style of conversation you want to listen to. What makes it all the more enjoyable is the mishmash of talking that hopefully keeps you enthralled. And a great listener finds something in all styles of chatter, as does a reader. Hence my reasoning for the different genres—I could communicate some tales in one fashion while the others had to go the other route.

The first three stories are about people who are, as Shaw would say, not finding themselves but creating themselves. Then we move on to what I deem the WTF portion in which people deal with other people they don’t for some reason understand. 12 Bar Blues and King of America stem from my love of New York City. I have loved, lost, and bowed to the places that heightened my senses. The next two stories deal with loss of one form or another, and like acceptance, the last of the stages of grief, Two-Minute Love Song is just that—the last stage. I’m done. This is what it is, and I’ll leave it at that. Thank you to Mr. Shaw, as he influenced The Whiskey Song and Superman with its streams of whiskey consciousness.

The plays come from another part of my voice and vision. The first two try to create the modern-day dilemmas but through a historical context of The Great Depression. History does repeat itself, folks. The next three really ask the questions: Where the fuck am I? How the hell did I get here? Why did I do this to myself?

And finally, His Last Song is a tale of hope that I’m sure we can all relate to in a fashion.

These are all stories where sometimes you want more information but won’t get it (unless you want to ask the drunk to do a deep dive for you as you were listening in—better be prepared to buy the next round!). And sometimes you get way too much information. It’s all part and parcel of bar life and its literary version.

Also, it’s all part of the journey, and I hope to see you at last call, where you can add to that sweet, sweet, drunk talk I call The Ballad of the End.

Cheers!

Charlie

The Stories

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Drive the Dust

I don’t know why your Honor … Maybe I’m just mean, Declan said as he stood staring toward the judge. His eyes showed nothing.

*****

Declan was twelve years older than his little brother Colin. Like most big brothers, Declan could do no wrong in Colin’s eyes. After the Arizona State Police came looking for him that brisk March morning, Colin ran to warn him his car was found at the scene of a hit-and-run where a state trooper was hurt. Just like a bad episode of some detective drama that played on the radio, Declan had listened to his little brother ramble on about the state trooper. There was no way that Declan could have done the things the state trooper said. No! Big brothers rated alongside superheroes and other flawless characters.

Go away, Colin, Declan said, his Irish accent now almost imperceptible.

Thirteen years ago, just at the break of the Second World War in Europe, Declan and his parents moved from Lismore, County Waterford, to this dirty factory town. As with many tales of immigration, theirs was the same: the family moved in search of work. Some of Declan’s relatives had already been here for sometime, and they moved right into the Irish-American community. I’m still Irish, Declan would say. The little one, he’s American. Very proud of his heritage, Declan reminisced of the old country, but he knew he wouldn’t go back. His friends and family liked Declan, and his employers had nothing but praise for his work. He was the best machinist in the plant and three times was offered the position of foreman. But every time he was elevated to a higher position, Declan would do something that would bring himself down just like when he was a young boy. He didn’t want the light shining on him. He didn’t want to be part of this place. Like so many other Irishmen, Declan did frequent one place that left him at ease for a few short hours: the tavern.

Jesus, Declan, Gayle blurted as she jumped out of the way of the spray of foamy beer. Keep it in your mouth.

Sorry darlin’, Declan said with a laugh as he wiped his mouth. That was just too funny.

Like that, do ya? she beamed.

Yes’m.

Well there’s more. Got time?

Declan nodded and listened intently to the young barmaid. She was very attractive with olive skin, dark eyes, and a Southwestern lilt to her voice. Gayle was the draw for the afternoon crowd that filled the saloon. The group was mostly men from the factory. Men who would drop coins, without a second thought that they had families to go to later, just so they could catch a moment’s notice with her. Gayle’s boss wished she’d take the closing shift to really fill the coffers, but her nights belonged to a three year old. Declan wasn’t interested in that way. She poured a great draft—the head was limited to a slight drip on the side of the glass. This was an artist at work, he thought as she lifted him from the day’s events.

Declan had just finished restructuring a process that saved ten man-hours per day, and in acknowledgment his supervisor made the fourth attempt to make him floor foreman. Declan grinned and declined.

Dec, the supervisor bluntly stated, this is the last call for it.

Give me the day, Mike.

The day, Dec, or I’ll have to move on, he said with a smile. It’s yours, son. Always has been.

Declan’s quiet nod of acceptance was all he needed. The other men immediately began the hum of excitement as they saw their supervisor walk away. Few had come up to question if Declan took the job. Declan just shrugged and went on with his work realigning a drill press as he tried to shut them out. Letting the sounds of the shop fill his ears, the music blocked out their voices and brought him to that place where he belonged.

The music started years prior on the eastern shores of Ireland with the simple crashing of the waves on the rocks. Later it was the sole bell from the church steeple. As he grew, it was the calling of the ship’s final boarding call to another land. They all pulled at him to a place outside his circle—a place of solitude.

The factory whistle blew, and many of the men patted Declan on the back for his promotion while he punched his time card. In fact, Declan hadn’t told anybody. He avoided them completely as he concentrated on his work. But they knew anyhow.

The music was still in his head when he pulled up to Gayle’s Tavern. Some of the guys were already there. They waved as he walked in, and the beverages started flowing.

Not unless you’re willing to pay for it, Gayle said while laughing, bringing him back to the present.

Declan wiped another spray of foam from his mouth and said, You’re someone to take home to mother!

You’d be so lucky, green eyes.

On that note, Declan smiled, bowed, and took his leave.

As usual, Colin was staring out the front window while waiting for his older brother to pull up. He’d then race to his mother to set the dinner table. Declan came in, washed up, and then sat down to eat. He didn’t say a word. Fork in the right hand, knife in the left, Declan worked at his plate without making eye contact. Colin quietly imitated his actions except for looking up every now and then to make sure he got the moves right. On first sight of this scene, anyone would think that this was not a close family, what with everyone just eating and not saying a word when in actuality the table was abuzz with silent communication. Declan’s father would grunt while reading the newspaper, and his mother would pass over the salt. Colin would burp and Declan would grin. Their mother would pass a heavily orchestrated sigh, and all three men would lower their heads to speed up the eating process. She craved real conversation, and since they wouldn’t indulge, she relied on the gossip of the neighborhood.

Declan, I understand you’re a new shop foreman, she said.

Declan just shrugged and continued with his meal.

His father took notice and said, What’s that, boy? You a boss? Bloody time they see your talents.

Declan shrugged again. Colin sprang to life half leaning over the table. His mom shot a quick look, and he slid back into his seat. She signaled for him to start clearing the table. In the meantime, the senior of the family had lumbered off into the parlor and returned with a bottle and two glasses. He poured liquid light, and the men raised their glasses.

Son, I knew you’d make a head someday, the father said as he put an arm on Declan’s shoulder.

It’s nothin’ really.

Shite it is, his father came back. You’d think back in Lismore you’d be doin’ this? You’d be workin’ in a field somewhere or on the sea for wages that wouldn’t choke a bird.

That’s what I was thinkin’ when I took the job, Da.

You’re a real boss at the factory? Colin said excitedly.

Help your mother, boy! their father bellowed. This table’s for men now.

Colin shuffled his feet toward his mother. Declan gave him a wink.

The night rolled into early morning as the oldest son listened to his father boast about the opportunities that he never had. With a constant bang of the fist he went on and on about how he had to drive the dust just to make a day’s wage. Working dirt farms till they ended up here. Declan rubbed his head and reminded his father that they moved right here from Ireland.

Mind yourself, boy! he slurred.

Declan let him ramble on. The well was going dry as he swirled the last of the whiskey in his glass. His father’s voice became a buzz, which became a whisper that became the music he wrapped himself in at the factory.

Getting up from the table, Declan grabbed his coat and walked straight into the approaching dawn. The streets around his house hadn’t woken yet. But Declan kept walking. He had no direction in mind—the music just pulled him along. Past the last echoes of his neighborhood, past the downtown core, past the shadows of the factory. Gayle’s Tavern was in the corner of his eye. Too bad it wasn’t open—a breakfast beer would taste mighty fine at the moment.

The music pushed him forward. Declan’s footsteps took him to the highway that led to the border and Needles. As he stood looking at the blacktop, he could see a blurred vision down the road, a gnarled figure rising from the desert floor that seemed to be pointing. It looked like a crippled old man of some ancient stature just standing there in the dust, pointing. One crooked arm showing the way while the other beckoned him forward. All the while, he bent in the wind but didn’t move from his stationary spot. The sun’s red light came up hard to beat down on the desert floor. The figure became a mixture of blood and stone. Declan ached. The music roared and then suddenly stopped. It was replaced by the sound of a honking horn. Declan had wandered into the middle of the highway.

Get off the road, you clown! yelled the motorist. Christ! Sorry, Dec. I didn’t know it was you.

Hey Mike.

What the hell are you doing out here?

Out for a stroll, Declan mumbled. Figured get a good one in to kick off the weekend.

Well I’m headed for the bakery. The wife wants a fresh loaf. Need a ride back?

Yeah. Why not.

Morning turned into afternoon, and Declan eventually found himself back at Gayle’s Tavern. Even though it wasn’t really hers, he felt like it was. Sitting at the bar, Declan stared at his glass. He couldn’t shake the image of the old man. It was a scene out of a film he once saw, and it pulled at his fiber. Maybe I should go and see if it was real. Maybe I should follow his sign. That’s what they do in the movies. Declan shook his head and laughed to himself.

Still chuckling there, green eyes? Gayle asked with a smile.

Nah, just being a dick, he said without taking his eyes off his beer. How’s that kid of yours?’ He wanted to change gears.

Beautiful as ever, Gayle said as she glowed. That reminds me. I need a sitter tonight. My ma is over in Phoenix for the weekend, and I have to pull a double.

Colin’ll do it. Likes his cash. I’ll call and send him over later.

Thanks. How about I make you lunch tomorrow?

It’d be nice, but I’ve got somethin’.

He knew she wanted more but Declan couldn’t. Most of the men there would have jumped at the offer, and many of them were married, but Declan preferred to keep their relationship at the level he was comfortable with—she brought beer and he drank it. Gayle wasn’t surprised. She had asked twice before and received the same response.

He finished his drink, paid, and left without a word. A simple wave to Gayle was all he provided her as he walked out the door.

With a start of the engine he was racing down the road. Scanning the highway, he couldn’t find the crippled old man. Needles 20 Miles. Declan knew he had driven too far. He parked on the side of the road and sat with one hand on the wheel, the engine running, as he gazed at the scorched earth. No direction. Nowhere to be found.

After an hour he turned around and headed home.

Hey, kid! Can ya watch Gayle’s wee one? he called out as he entered the hallway.

Oh, ya! Colin answered. She always has treats for me.

Well call her at the tavern and let ’er know, will ya?

Sure thing, Dec! Will you give me a lift later?

Ya. Grab me a pint, will ya? Dec sat in the parlor and turned on the radio. It wasn’t the music that he had heard earlier, but he was placed at peace for the moment.

Declan’s mind retreated to a sanctuary of alcoholic melancholy. His head tipped back, and his drinking arm lowered. Eyes that could light the sun darkened and glazed, Declan was now elsewhere. A hum began to pulse within his being. He tried to pull his thoughts back to a semblance of reasoning. A voice was crackling over the airwaves, a voice that he did not recognize. It called, but not necessarily to Declan. It promised salvation. He smiled and leaned farther into his haze.

He could see the shores of his boyhood and hear the sound of a bell. A steamship disappeared over the horizon. Once again the voice called, and Declan searched his darkness. The hum rose to a march, and Declan’s dream turned red.

Colin woke his older brother up with a start. He had packed himself an overnight bag, as Gayle wouldn’t be home till late. Declan splashed some water in his face to shake off the fog. Within minutes they arrived at Gayle’s house; Declan sat in the car with the engine idling. Once Colin was inside he nodded and pulled out toward the highway. Heading toward Needles, Declan tried not to check the side of the road. The lights of the town came up fast. He could see the border to California. Declan stopped and walked up to its welcome. It wasn’t home, but it wasn’t there.

Hey! a voice from behind belched. Watcha doin’?

Sorry, officer. Just lookin’.

Well turn that piece of shit around and head back, the border cop ordered. You know there’s a limit to who goes.

Yeah … been told, Declan murmured.

Then piss off.

This was a leftover from the thirties, when Okies and other dirt farmers moved west because their farms had foreclosed and the great state of California offered fruit from every tree. Unfortunately the call was out to thousands so state police set up road blocks to control the migration. Declan’s family settled on Arizona because of this, his uncle, and the cost of living was significantly lower. For Declan they just settled.

Declan stared at the river’s edge from his car. The cop pointed him back to the desert night. No matter how many romanticized stories Declan heard about the American Southwest, nothing compared to breathing its air. The perfume could steal all that was sacred—for Declan it was brimstone. No meadows, no sea, this burned.

He drove just out of sight of the police officer and stopped the car. He tuned the radio—Spanish guitar, country twang, crooner’s delight—nothing pleased him. Where is it? he said out loud to himself. His mind raced when he came across the pulling voice of a Baptist preacher. This wasn’t the rusty old voice of Father Hurley from the church his mother made him attend each Sunday. This man’s voice dripped the dust of the land but there was more. Declan popped open his trunk and sat on its edge. Inside was a cooler. The ice had melted but the cans of beer were still cold. The preacher’s voice stabbed through the backseat of the car and gripped onto his spine.

California is the land of opportunity, the voice called. My family came all the way from the delta to eat the fruit of the vine, and now we want you to join us.

Declan was clean through half the cooler when he saw headlights coming down the highway. With a slam of the trunk he was in the front seat racing away. The lights stopped and turned around. He knew when a cop was out. Just like when he was a kid in Linsmore. Declan was always being chased by someone—be it poet, priest, or politician, someone was always on the lecture for his behavior. His mother would scold him because she would get the looks from the other women in the parish for her son.

You keep this up and we’ll have to move to America like your father’s family, she would chime.

He smiled. Declan still remembered reading his uncle’s letters about Arizona and the heat of the desert sky. Uncle Paul was considered the adventurer of the clan. He was the first to leave for America. First New York, then Chicago, and finally to the Southwest. He would write wild tales that enticed the young Declan, or so his mother would tell the parishioners. He has a wanderlust, she would say to cover for his actions. For Declan it was more, but at his age his uncle’s letters gave him a destination. Oddly, then he wanted to leave Lismore, and now he wanted out of this dust bowl. The last few months Declan was consistently getting in arguments with his father about going back. But back to what?

The preacher’s voice came across the airwaves with a crackle and a howl: I’m a stranger here too but our friends grow and with it our family. Now let’s listen to the sweet sounds of … Declan lay across the hood of his car and soaked in the soulful singing. With every swallow of the ale, his thirst grew. Again he saw Lismore.

Drink to life, boy, said the poet.

Drink the blood of Christ, said the priest.

Drink to a united Parliament, said the politician.

Drink to me, growled Declan.

His father sat him up on a stool. The poet was reciting a litany of boredom in the corner. Declan’s father pointed and raised his glass in cheers. Declan moaned. On the street the priest patted his head and nodded to his mother, saying, He’ll make a fine altar boy. And the politician at the door shook his hand in an attempt to pull a vote.

He’ll make a fine civil leader, said the politician.

I see him serving our Lord, said the priest.

That boy has the heart of an artist, said the poet.

God, I want to run, thought Declan. But where?

Well done, boy! his fathered shouted. You insulted the family. Well, you’d better enjoy your new home. We sail at month’s end.

Declan smiled then.

Lost are you? the radio broke in. Well Jesus was lost! Lost in the desert …

Welcome to Arizona read the sign as Declan speeded past it on the highway. His head was pressed against the glass of the bus window. His mother pointed with excitement over her swollen abdomen. They went right from the bus terminal to his uncle’s house. They could see the factory just down the road.