Phil's

There are different types of bars just as there are different neighborhoods. On the east side the bars have fancy names like The Maringo Club, which caters to the Latinos, and features Tequila shooters for a buck. Another one is the Stand Up, a comedy club for the thirties crowd who like to drink Manhattans and listen to underpaid comedians run their dirty jokes. It’s a lot like legalized porn for the ears.

They sit at their cloth-covered tables in front of the stage wearing evening dresses with sequins and appear shocked when the comedian says the ‘f’ word repeatedly.

On the south side are the beer joints, dark little holes with boarded windows and smoked-filled rooms no bigger than closets—where the clientele come to drink from the tap and spout their opinions on everything that is wrong with the world.

They know. If the world depended on them to straighten out the terrorists they would know what to do—kill ‘em all, the som’bitches.  They are the plain folk with plain thoughts and plain beer. Their lives will never be more than the bar stool they stumble onto each night and fall off of at closing.

I go to the bars in the southeast section of town between the ritzy clubs and the beer joints. They are the neighborhood bars like Sam's, Joe’s, and Phil’s, where the same people come in each night for a quick one before going home to their families.

I don’t mean to sound like I’m snooty. Too good for those south side bars and too uncomfortable in the ritzy ones, it’s just that for my purposes I need the folksy places where people are real and they respect the rights of people like me-- who come in quiet, and sit by themselves.

I don’t want to know about Bill’s new job or Danny’s wife being pregnant or solve Chloe’s troubles with her teenage son.

I go to Phil’s. It’s right around the corner from my place. I like it best because it’s not so dark that you can’t see a guy before you bump into him and there’s no piss on the floors, or the bathroom. Phil keeps it up real nice. I like the quiet lighting, the little table lamps and the soft wattage bulbs in the wall fixtures. I like the fans overhead that stir the smoke upwards keeping the air circulating. I like the half-curtained windows that allow the streetlights to shine in and pedestrians to look in.

I like Phil’s because it’s clean and not too noisy. Phil doesn’t allow anyone to get too drunk-- or too loud-- or too obnoxious.

I always take the booth in the back. It’s past the shiny mahogany bar with its six stools. I can watch from there. Listen to the conversation if I want and be alone—which I really need. Sally’s my waitress. I think she’s related to Phil. Not his wife, she’s too young for that, and not his daughter, she’s too old. I think I heard someone say she was like his sister-in-law or something, but I know they are friends because they get along so well.

Sally’s always smiling like she enjoys where she works. She wears jeans and a blue shirt tucked in with plenty of jewelry. Sally likes her jewelry. She chews gum; well, she chomps on it mostly and sometimes blows a big bubble.

When she sees me come in, she gets my drink—a glass of Chablis, and she knows I need an ashtray. She just meets me at the table with the order and a smile. I smile back; sometimes I give a nod, but not much else. And that’s okay with Sally. She takes what life gives her and doesn’t expect anything extra.

She’s sassy though. I’ve heard her with the other customers. The ones she kids around with. She can cut ‘em quick when she wants to make everyone in earshot range laugh. I’ve snickered a few times myself.

Phil is round. He’s happy too. He’s a round jolly old fart with a good attitude. He likes to lean on the bar chewing on a toothpick, but he’s always watching for an empty glass, or a sad face. Phil believes in that bartender code about listening to everyone’s problems. I thought about approaching him a few times myself, but I never did.

Last night they were discussing the new bar mirror Phil picked up at a sale. (It’s a Budweiser and boasts a large-breasted babe leaning on a Mustang, or is it a Vet?)  I’m not good with cars. My specialty is people. That’s why I come here, to drink my wine and study these people. I have waited for a night like this for two weeks. Tonight they are discussing something different than the bar mirrors, or Sally’s new hairdo, or the price of gas. Tonight they are discussing a mystery.

I want to go up to the bar and sit so I can hear better, but I don’t.

Mitch just came in and I know whatever I have missed so far in the conversation they will repeat for him. Mitch owns the hardware store across the street. He stops in for a beer before going home to dinner. He’s a nice guy. Tall, probably fifty or so, talks a lot about retiring and going to Florida.

George Stemples is there as well, he’s sitting on the stool at the end and when Mitch comes in he sits next to old George. George is the kind of guy who would be a loser in school. Probably got the shit kicked out of him a few times. Barney Fife.

That’s George, Barney Fife, skinny and thinks he knows something about something when he really don’t know much about anything.

I strain to listen because they are filling Mitch in on the mystery.

“Where’d you find it?” Mitch asks. He is raising one eyebrow. It’s a great effect that I must remember to give to one of my characters sometime. The look of surprise, but also that one raised eyebrow signifies interest, concern and intelligence all at once. Mitch is a man of deep thought.

“Behind the juke box,” Sally tells him. Her eyes are wide with that look you see on little kids’ faces at Christmas time when they can’t believe they got what they wanted. How did Santa know?

“Phil thinks we should open it. I say we shouldn’t ‘cause you don’t know what it might be, could be a bomb. I think we ought to call one of the fed guys to come take a look, at least call the bomb squad.” George tells him.

George is talking fast. He’s excited cause he likes being in the know. “I heard on the news last night that the alert level is at orange, and I bet someone slipped in here and stuck it behind the jukebox. Probably could blow up the whole damn block.”

Mitch gives George one of those tongues to the roof of his mouth clicks he’s famous for. I’ve noticed he does it whenever he thinks George has said something stupid. He is inspecting the object of concern-- a black box with a lock on it. It’s no bigger than five inches long and six inches wide and maybe four inches deep, but its carved metal with a design that looks foreign-- maybe Egyptian.

“Look at those carvings,” Sally points out. Her charm bracelet rattles when she points. “What are those suppose to be?”

“What do you think, Phil?” Mitch asks.

But before Phil can answer, Barry slides down two stools to join in. Barry Middleson works over at the library empting the trashcans; painting walls and helping the women carry in the boxes of new deliveries.

“Looks like something from outer space to me.”

Mitch clicks at him.

“Hey, remember that guy that was in here last week?” Sally throws out the question and then moves behind the bar next to Phil. “He looked really weird, kept asking what time it was and he wore that yellow scarf around his head like a sweat band.”

“I remember him,” George nods. “He kept going to the window and looking out nervous like and then walking back to the bathrooms four or five times.”

Five heads turned toward the bathroom doors. I watched them peer past me down the hallway where the jukebox, the phone and fire extinguisher hung on the wall.

“I bet he put it there.”

Mitch clicked at George again, “For what reason? I swear, George, you really think that some yellow-scarves-terrorist came in here and stuck this behind the jukebox?” Mitch peered around for reassuring nods and then continued, “I say we just open the damn thing. I can go across the street and get a pair of pliers and rip that lock right open.”

“It doesn’t belong to us,” Phil piped in. “Some customer must have dropped it when they were on the phone. Maybe they sat it down so they could write down a phone number and then forgot it. I say we just put it in lost and found, they’ll come back for it.”

Phil picked the box up to put in lost in found, but when he did a strange thing happened that made Sally hurry back around the bar and George to jump back far enough he slipped off his stool.

The bottom of the box fell off--at least one part of the bottom hit the bar leaving another layer still intact.

“Well, what do you make of that?” Phil poked at the piece with his toothpick.

“A false bottom,” George said.

“There’s something written on it,” Barry pointed out.

They all leaned forward to read the writing on the piece lying on the bar. Phil read it out loud and then whistled low.


         He who holds the power holds the world.

“World Domination!” George exclaimed.

“This is giving me the spooks,” Sally added.

“It don’t mean nothing,” Mitch insisted. “Probably, just some kids’ box with one of those Chinese sayings, you know, like in a fortune cookie or something.”

“I never seen no fortune cookie like that before,” George insisted.

I had to smile. I was taking great pleasure in watching the group amaze themselves over the mysterious box. For the next half hour I listened as they migrated from fear and superstition – to outright panic. I found it interesting that no one considered the box might hold jewels, or money, or diamonds—something of value. They instantly thought of the negative affect and allowed themselves to dwell in the possible destruction of their world.

They were so busy discussing their find that they never noticed me making notes about the experiment. I decided to leave when they reached agreement to call in the authorities. I finished off my wine and left. The night air was crisp with an approaching cold front. I turned my collar up. As I walked the three blocks back to my rented room I thought the experiment and the wonderful progress I was making on my thesis perhaps next week I’d put something else behind the jukebox for them to find. I wonder how my little guinea pigs will react to a diary filled with coded messages.

Yeah, Phil’s is the place where I go to drink a glass of wine, smoke a cig and entertain myself for a time. I hope you stop by some night.