A Conversation About Butterflies (Part I of II)

Paul hated the heat, and it was hot. He also hated having to walk, and here he was walking. Further, he disliked the feeling of being somewhere he didn’t belong.

                So although he wasn’t a fan of the weather, nor his current method of travel, Paul was discerning when it came to choosing a watering hole. The first few places he passed were full of college kids, morons who were trying to look self-important and with-it. They were huddled together on several patios trying to get the most from the misters that were placed just above them. Paul let his eyes slide by them as they drank their PBR and tried desperately to be cool. To him they just looked cheap. To him PBR was a beer of distinction, a brew keep alive by his pappy and grandpappy long before it had been sought after by the hipster crowd.

                The second block was just the opposite; upscale eateries that had adopted some new (at least to the area) theme. A craft brewery, a deli that guaranteed farm-to-table freshness, and finally a restaurant that claimed to be gluten free- whatever the hell that was. Paul figured people had been eating gluten since the beginning of human history, there wasn’t much rhyme or reason to removing it from your diet now.

                Paul was relieved. As he stepped onto the third block he saw a couple places more his speed. The first was simply a black door with a slew of random stickers covering it. The stickers spoke of everything from a band called MinorThreat, to a sunglass-adorned marijuana leaf smoking a joint, plus a myriad of other colorful items. Paul nodded in appreciation, but walked on ahead, thinking he might be able to do better. The next place had an old fashioned hanging sign over its entrance. It simply read, “Bar”. At this Paul smiled. However, when he pulled back the heavily tinted glass door, he noted the large crowd of people inside.  Frowning, he turned and headed outdoors, back to the sticker joint instead.

                Upon his return, he took a quick moment to enjoy the stickers once more, and then entered quickly. It was perfect; dark, cool and nearly empty. Paul was excited to be able to have a chilled drink and think without having to have a lot of human interaction.

                He went straight to the bar without hesitation and chose a spot that was free of other patrons. There were two guys in the back playing pool (and Paul thought this was appropriate because those two guys were always in every bar playing pool), and one lone gal at the opposite end of the bar. The stools were stitched together with ancient leather that would now and forever bear the smell of cheap drinks, cheaper shame, and the cheapest cigarettes.

                After a bit, as though she was making sure he was serious, the bartender strode up to him. She was big, clumsy looking, ugly and Paul was already certain he wasn’t going to tip her.

                “Pick your poison honey…” she stood before him grinning, trying to be as nice as possible. Paul assumed she had made a living by her attitude, as she was well aware of the way she looked.

                “Can I have a shot of Jägermeister?”

                The waitress turned but as she did, Paul heard a voice from behind him.

                “People still drink that shit?”

Paul cranked the bar stool around to see a fat man, wearing rumpled suit. The man was heading to the bar, right next to him from the looks of his gait. Paul was already shocked at the man’s audacity, and to his surprise he was still speaking. Paul was already certain he detested him.

“I mean I know high school kids seem to like it, but I figure adults (pronounced a-dults) have more mature taste.” This was followed by a gregarious laugh, a laugh that implied kinship rather than antagonism.

Paul faked a congenial laugh, “Well pal when you start paying for my drinks you can pick ‘em.”

“Deal,” the man turned his attention to the bartender, waving, “Hello Dolores, dear, you are a wonder to behold. Can you pour that shit out?” he pointed to the dark drink in front of Paul, “and get me an’ this guy a Johnny Blue, neat please.”

Paul’s eyes lit up, “Umm are you…”

“Listen guy, you’re not one a those types that is too timid to let another man buy a drink for him?”

“No, no but that stuff’s pretty expensive.” Largely to himself he added, “In fact I’m surprised this place serves it.”

“Did I ask you to evaluate my income?” The man was abrupt, but still smiling.

“No.”

“Then shut up and take pleasure in my generosity.”

Paul nodded and Dolores the bartender sat down two tumbler glasses filled with a shimmering amber liquid.

“You know how to do this guy? Don’t shoot these, you sip.”

Paul wanted to affirm that he indeed was aware how to drink pricey scotch, but he had already been verbally cowed by this stranger before even saying word. Paul only nodded.

In a way that seemed too gentle, Paul let the liquor hit his lips, but just briefly. As the man set his glass down, Paul mimicked the action.

“Thanks for the drink. It’s good. What’s your name?”

“Johnny Blue is not good. Johnny Blue is grand.”

To emphasize this, the loud crack of a cue ball striking a billiard ball rang out from the rear of the bar. Paul took another drink, but only because he was uncomfortable.

Paul again nodded, held out his hand, “I’m Paul.”

“Hey Dolores, be a dear and grab me a Coors?”

Paul tucked away his ignored hand. “Johnny Blue and Coors?”

“Yes, personally I like how the two tastes complement each other.”

Paul smirked and took a long drink, “So what’s the occasion?”

“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing? I bought you a drink you tell me a story.” Dolores sat down the Banquet beer in front of the man, her grin had grown exponentially. Paul thought that this man must be one of the better tippers this place had ever seen. “So what brought you here?” the man seemed all ears, leaning towards Paul with Coors at the ready.