“Okay, see, there’s this bar high atop a skyscraper, a guy named Cal, a drunk sitting at a table, a bartender named Joe, and a young guy named Eddie, who some would call slow. It’s late in the evening, but before the beginning of a new day. Midnight.”
“I heard it was before midnight.”
“Okay, it ain’t midnight, neither. It’s before midnight. Maybe an hour or two.”
“An hour or two before midnight?”
“Say, who’s telling this story anyway? Okay, okay, it was 8:30. It was a slow night, the weekend before Thanksgiving, and a major blizzard blow’n through …”
***
Joe stepped out of the back room and set a case of beer on the bar.
“Eddie,” he said to the young man who functioned as busboy.
“Joe?”
“Finish up and head out. Looks like the main plows have your street cleared.”
“Sure, Joe. Do’ches want me to bring the new stock up front?”
“Nah, I got what I need here,” he said, tapping the case of beer. “We’ll get the rest tomorrow … if we open. I’ll call your Mom in the morning if we do.”
“‘K, Joe,” Eddie said, and kept sweeping. It was more perfunctory work than required. He swept hourly, and with no clientele, there was little collecting in the pickup scoop.
Joe walked back down to the end of the bar, wiping the shiny surface as he went, another perfunctory task. “Need another,” he asked Cal, the regular on a barstool.
“Yeah, hit me again, Joe.”
“Ugh …” Joe grimaced. “She ain’t back yet.” Statement, not a question, to this long-time customer.
“Nope. Still pissed at me.”
“D’ja talk to her yet?”
“Yeah. This afternoon. She’d been crying. I apologized, and just like you said, she said it wasn’t all my fault.”
“See? Sometimes we gotta make the first move.”
“Yup, you got that one right.” Cal laid a twenty on the bar as Joe finished pouring the shot of Chivas Regal Royal.
There was a crash and a roar as a drunk sitting at a table stood and started to backhand Eddie.
“Hey,” Joe said loud enough to distract, “I would not do that. I would never do that.”
“Yeah, well, this retard of yours spilled my drink.”
“Fine, I’ll get you another, no charge. Seven and Seven?”
“Yeah … sure,” the irate drunk acquiesced, “why you got a retard working here anyway?”
Joe motioned for Eddie to come to the bar. “Eddie, you get on home. I saw. No, you did not spill his drink. Now get on home.”
“Sure, Joe,” Eddie said, walking to the back of the bar. Minutes later, he came back, avoided the glaring eye of the drunk at the table, “‘Night, Joe.” He pressed the elevator button, stepped in, and waved goodbye as the doors closed.
“Good man,” said Cal, tilting his shot glass to Joe and the disappearing Eddie.
“That retard?” came from the drunk. “Every one of’em should’a aborted.”
Joe and Cal said nothing as a tirade of profanity mixed with instructions on how to handle birth defects came from the drunk.
Cal drained his glass, set it on the table, looked at Joe, and said, “Set’m up, Joe. I gotta go see a man about a horse.”
“‘K,” Joe started to say and then shook his head and mumbled to himself, “Oh, no”. Cal had stepped down off his stool, but instead of walking, he was drifting about four inches off the floor, flapping his elbows with his thumbs tucked in his armpits, and sounding like a crow. “Ca-caw, ca-caw,” he crowed all the way to the Men’s Room.
The drunk’s eyes grew as big as saucers; his jaw dropped as this customer, impersonating a crow, floated and drifted past him towards the head. “What the f…”
“Never mind him. He does that all the time after three or four Royals,” Joe said.
There was silence in the bar until there was a flushing sound from the head, and again, Cal came drifting out of the Men’s Room, flapping his wings and crowing, “Ca-caw, ca-caw.”
“Hey, Joe,” the drunk said, “Gimme a Royal.”
“You’re at your limit, friend.”
“God damn it, don’t ‘friend’ me and gimme four of ‘em!”
Joe gave the drunk an ah-hell-look. Cal toasted Joe with his shot glass and nodded. Scowling now, Joe grabbed four shot glasses, the bottle of Royal, and poured the shots at the table.
One down the hatch.
Two down the hatch.
And three and four.
The drunk stood, made chicken wings with his arms, and began flapping, but nothing happened. He looked at Cal, still seated on the barstool.
“First time,” Cal said, “ya gotta make a crowing sound like a crow.”
“Ca-caw, ca-caw,” sang the drunk, accompanied by some very vigorous arm flapping. Nothing.
“Hmmm,” said Cal. “Try getting up a really good flapping and then saying ca-caw in the middle.”
Same thing.
“Okay. Is this your first time flying?”
“Yup,” agreed the drunk, tilting a bit from the four shots of Royal.
“Well, that’s it. You need to get some airspeed until you know how. I know, follow me out to the observation area.”
At this point, Joe disappeared into the storeroom, while the drunk and Cal walked out to the open-air lounge.
“Hey,” slurred the drunk, “you ain’t flyin’.”
“Isn’t polite to fly when you’re teaching someone for their first time. Here, I will demonstrate for you.” Cal stepped over the railing and stood on the ledge of a hundred-story drop. “Got a good hold? I don’t want you stepping off until you are ready. Now watch this.”
Cal started flapping his wings very fast, said “ca-caw“ twice, and stepped off the ledge. The drunk grimaced, closed his eyes, and waited. Nothing. He opened one eye, then the other, in amazement. Cal was floating, flapping his wings, and drifting back toward the railing.
“Got it?” Stepping back over the railing, Cal said, “Come back here and practice.”
Five times the drunk flapped his wings, gave a ca-caw, and stepped forward.
“Perfect, I think you are ready. I’ll go with you the first time. Remember to flap as fast as you can.”
Both men stepped over the railing and stood on the ledge. Both tucked their thumbs in their armpits and began a furious flapping. Both men started chanting, “ca-caw, ca-caw.” Cal shouted, “Now!” and both stepped forward.
A blood-curdling scream dopplered away.
Joe looked at Cal as he settled on the same barstool. “God damnit, Superman, you really don’t like arrogant assholes.”
***
“Should’a called him Clark.”
“Huh?”
“Should’a used his secret identity. That way, it sets it up better.”
“And Cal don’t? Ya know, Kal-el, his real name?”
“Nah. Clark is better. Nobody knows Kal-whatever.”