How to Be a Bar Stool

4.

Mark runs straight through the broken glass splayed along the asphalt and past a few rows of apartments where the day-drinkers are sitting on porches. When they see him run past, they yell out to him: "Hey yo, Markie! Why you runnin'?"

Mark yells back: "Aint' you heard?" He yells: "Ain't you seen?"

They all start chuckling.

Mark yells back at them: "They turned me into a runnin' machine!"

The sun burns hot on the back of Mark's neck; the blacktop burns hotter on his feet. He can feel the sweat already starting to drip off his scruffy blond hair and onto his face; he can feel a few shards of glass stuck in the soles of his feet. He grimaces with each step he takes.

Before long, he's run the length of the blacktop driveway leading out of Franklin Street, the government-subsidized apartment complex currently missing one window. He crosses the road without looking both ways and gives a sigh of relief when his feet touch the gravel parking lot of Paul's Palace. He pauses at the door to pick three small shards of glass out of his left foot and a cigarette butt stuck off the sole of his right one. A buzzer sounds and he opens the door and steps inside.

Paul is polishing a glass with a cloth rag behind the bar when Mark walks in. "Probably the same one from last night," Mark thinks to himself, but he doesn't say a word. He walks up to the bar where his wallet is sitting in the same spot from the night before, unmolested.

The place is empty, except for Mark and the bartender. Paul doesn't say a word as Mark walks in and takes his seat, doesn't even look in his direction. He just continues polishing his beer glass.

After a few moments, Paul sets down the clean glass and disappears into the kitchen. When he returns, he places a large cup of coffee in front of Mark and leans on the bar with both hands in front of him.

Mark nods in appreciation and begins drinking his coffee.

***

I've learned a lot about Paul throughout the years, though he's never said much about himself. Most of what I've learned came from the bar stools that were closest to him. For instance:

At one point in time, Paul was the General Manager of the most popular bar in Kanawha County. This wasn't his bar, mind you – he didn't build it up with his two bare hands like he did Paul's Palace. He didn't nail that first dollar bill up above the shelves of liquor. No, this bar belonged to his family – a long line of moonshiners and draft-dodgers known as the Stones.

Back in the day, if you wanted the best moonshine this side of the Mississippi, you'd ask around town where you could get "stoned". As the years went by, that phrase started taking a different meaning.

So this bar he was the General Manager of – the "Gruntin' Hog" it was called – was known for its cheap liquor and loose women. On more than one occasion, Paul had to sweep people out of the place with a broom come closin' time. They'd have too much fun and pass out right there on the dance floor.

Business was boomin' and Paul was rakin' in the cash. He had the fast car, the big house, the telephone you could take with you wherever you went.

His family didn't know how he did it. He was paid a meager salary – substantial in those parts, but not enough for all his luxuries – and he didn't collect big tips like some of the pretty women behind the bar.

His family didn't understand, and jealously ran rampant among them.

His brothers and sisters eventually convinced their Daddy – who actually owned the Hog – that Paul might be stealin' from the place. "He's got to be stealin', Daddy," those kids said to their old man. "How come he's got that brand new Oldsmobile and we're ridin' around in beat-up Chevys?"