Body Language

The evening alpine hue purples the surrounding mountain tops as I nestle my chin into the collar of my jean jacket.  Stopping on the sidewalk with clouds of breath fogging in front of my face, I peer up and down Main Street. Others, bundled in heavy layers, shuffle on top of the crunchy, snow-packed sidewalk and I spy the simple, 3 letter word I am seeking.

Pub.

I was in town visiting for a few days and it was mid-week with the bartender, waitress, cook and dishwasher outnumbering customers.  Skidding a bar stool across the worn wooden floors, I park myself at the heavily lacquered, concrete bar, facing beer company mirrors and updated lighting which showcase the bottled inventory. 

"How ya doin?" loudly erupts a few stools down to my left, "I'm Tom." Glancing over, I see an extended hand grabbing air beside me.  Tom's bloodshot eyes, tussled mess of hair, ruddy complexion and circular swaying motion leaves no doubt the state of his condition. The top of a wadded kleenex tufted out of a shirt pocket on his flannel button-up makes me realize the sound I heard as I walked in. Tom had been honking his nose and had stuffed the tissue in his pocket. I wasn't looking for a friend, much less a contagious cold from a stranger, so I left his hand hanging.

"I'm fine, thanks," was all I offered back to Tom. Similar to tossing out bread crumbs to birds, once you do it, they want more and I did not want Tom nuzzling up beside me for company.

He plopped back down on his bar stool as I order a beer and notice Tom thumbing through the local paper. As the bartender sets up my pint, Tom roars.

"Hey, there's a '92 camper with a fridge and furnace. And, Subway has a new sandwich."  He momentarily quiets, only to leave his mouth agape while breathing. "Wow, got some good garage sales this weekend...hey, that fat man was safe," he adds while glancing at the TV showing a sports channel with baseball highlights. During a commercial break, Tom chimes, "No way...you know how bad that car would stink?" and I notice a Jeep advertisement with a Cherokee splashing through a shallow mountain creek.

I take a drink and Tom continues his endless diatribe of nonsense to his audience of...no one. "My buddy smoked pot with the car windows rolled up, claimed he was hot-boxing me," he informs the uninterested bartender as a couple enters the bar. Tom swings around to establish contact with the new arrivals and I notice his cargo shorts, knee high white socks, pale skin with no musculature and well worn sneakers.  Figures.

The couple, holding hands, walk past and Tom, the ongoing orator, comments how the lady must always be on top since her man is so big and heavy.  Tom then states, mainly to himself, "That was funny..." and lets loose with a hoarse laugh from cigarette damaged lungs.

The bartender, with eyes having rolled to the back of his head, reaches to turn up the volume of the music, probably with intent to drown Tom's stupidity. 

"What ya wanna listen to?" Tom actually addresses me as The Grateful Dead gets louder.

Refusing to even acknowledge Tom, I notice the bartender, with arched eyebrows, staring at me for an answer.

"This is good," I flatly tell him as Truckin' echoes in the nearly vacant pub.

Finishing my beer, I order another as I enjoy, Tom excluded, the atmosphere.  The ceiling was finished with old-fashioned stamped tin squares, the bar front and pillars were stacked stone and lights below glass shelving cast various shimmering colors from the assorted liquors making it somewhat feel like I was underwater.

"What I owe?" Tom barks as he lays a $10 bill down that he removed from a creme colored, cracked pleather billfold. "I had 4 beers, that should cover it," he tells the bartender.  Tom, obviously a local still paying prices, including a tip, from decades ago, stands.  From a Budweiser mirror behind the bar, I notice he squares to me.

"Nice to meet cha'," he tosses my direction and proceeds to mumble under his breath as he staggers to the door.

Annoyed, I ignore Tom and later have a sense of pity for him.  His lifestyle yearns for social engagement, companionship with anyone and a whole lot of bullshit.  Tonight, he found his polar opposite.  And, Tom struggled to read the most basic signs of body language. Leave me alone.