We were
in a bar in Alabama; I have never been to Alabama. Nor do I understand why we
were in a bar. There were maybe around a dozen people inside. Everyone was in a
proper mood. Talking, laughing, drinking, and someone towards the back of the
room was playing an ole-timey piano tune, something by Stephen Foster dropped
down to ¾ time.
There
were only two people there I recognized. The first was my childhood friend Josh.
A big guy, with an even bigger personality, he’d stand out in any bar and was
easy to spot. I remember being surprised to see him, because we had not come
there together. Made all the more odd since he lives in Tennessee and I reside
in Arizona.
Nevertheless,
Josh was sitting opposite the bar from me, next to a long haired gent who
looked a bit like Gary Sinese, but it wasn’t. Because I have never had a dream
about Gary Sinise. Also, I would’ve probably had given this piece a different
title if Mr. Sinise and Mr. Freeman made cameos in my dream. I’m guessing my
subconscious doesn’t have a big enough budget for that kind of dual star power.
Anyway, the Sinise look alike had a big olive
drab duffle bag. The fancy kind that was reinforced on the sides similar to a
piece of luggage you might stow on a plane. The two were chatting and Josh hadn’t
noticed me.
The
second person I recognized was of course, Morgan Freeman. Mr. Freeman had a tan
panama hat on and one of those tweed jackets you’d see a professor at Berkeley
wear in the seventies (and maybe now still). This seemed an odd choice as it was
summer and even muggy inside my dream. He was sipping scotch judiciously in the
corner of the bar. Alone, but looking confident, content and refined as he
usually does on screen.
Personally,
I was on my 3rd beer of the evening and feeling quite guilty. You
see, I had only 2 days ago entered into a no-drinking pact for the month with
my girlfriend so that the two of us could train for a half marathon.
There
was a blonde woman next to me who was a total stranger. She asked in a
beautiful Irish accent, “If you don’t mind me saying, you look blameworthy
mister.”
I
swirled the remaining liquid around in my near-empty glass and nodded. “I have
to get home. I told my girlfriend I wasn’t going to be drinking.”
“And
yet here ya sit in a bar…” she was silent thereafter; I guess I was supposed to
let that sink in. I did, and then motioned for the barkeep to pour me another
beer.
It was
at this moment my buddy Josh noticed me and flagged me down. I left the proximity
of the blonde patron and took only my refreshed pint with me and sat next to
Josh and his friend.
“How the
hell are ya?” he asked.
“Pretty
good,” I looked down at the full beer in my hand. “You?”
“Livin’
the dream as always.” Josh turned to the man next to him. “David, this is
Frank.”
The two
of us shook hands. Instead of greeting each other we nodded over the din of the
revelers around us. I was now sitting
within about seven feet of Mr. Freeman. I didn’t want to appear daft so instead
of saying anything about how I was a fan, I just politely observed. To be clear,
I wasn’t staring, because after all even in a dream I did not wish to appear
rude. Mr. Freeman appeared to still be splitting his attention between the same
glass of scotch and a book that was on the bar top. It made me happy that
Morgan Freeman wasn’t using a Kindle.
Josh
tapped my shoulder, “You gotta see this,” he motioned to Frank’s bag. “Go ahead
take a peek.”
The humongous
olive bag was now open on the bar. I looked at Frank as if to ask, Is this alright? He nodded, and I had to
admit I was curious, so I stood to get a look.
Within
the bag was what appeared to be a plastic palette, like the kind you’d find in an
artist’s watercolor kit. There were several deep wells lined up beside one
another, perhaps six by eight rows. Each tiny well was filled with a different
colored liquid in a vial-like shot glass. The liquid they held varied in color
from clear to a dark brown that was almost black.
I
avoided Frank’s gaze, but looked back at Josh instead, “What is it paint?”
He
laughed loudly, smacking the bar.
“Drugs?”
I tried again. I could see Frank take offense from my peripheral view. “Sorry.”
I whispered his way.
“No,”
Josh corrected me while still laughing, “Its vodka.”
“Try
one, a sample.” Frank offered.
“I can’t,
I gotta be getting’ home I shouldn’t even be here.” I felt horrible when I thought
of how awfully far Alabama was from Arizona.
Before I
could inform Josh or Frank about my failed pledge to not drink for a month, I had
a small vial of slightly cloudy vodka sitting in front of me.
“It
tastes like Cocoa Puffs.” Frank smiled.
“Cocoa
Puffs my ass!”
I
looked up and saw Morgan Freeman smiling; he had closed his book. Further, he
was wagging his finger at my free vodka that had come out of a duffel bag. I
never knew Mr. Freeman was so quick to judge others. “You drink that and you’re
going to be shitting nothing but air and water for two days,” he warned.
“This
one’s for Driving Miss Daisy.” Josh
hollered and did a twirling motion with his finger to the barkeep and pointed
at Mr. Freeman.
“What’s
that for?” I asked Josh.
“Eh, we
just buy him a round every time he pipes up; it’s kind of our thing.” Josh
smiled and gave Mr. Freeman a thumbs-up gesture. He did the same in return.
I
needed some clarity, “What, for like each movie he was in?”
“Yep,
and he’s been in a lot of movies.”
“Ok,” I
nodded as if this made perfect sense. “But what’s with the traveling vodka
salesman?”
Josh explained,
“Most of the bars here in town don’t carry what I like. Frank does. I just like
to have the best stuff on hand so I can properly relax, ya know after a meal.”
I
looked around the bar; it didn’t appear they served food.
As I was
opening my mouth to ask, Josh beat me to the punch. “Aaanndd sometimes the
vodka becomes a meal.” He chuckled, and then held his hands up as if to say, So sue me. From me, he’d get no sermon.
Time
passed as alcohol samples were drained, and before I knew it everyone at the
bar was gathered around Frank’s big bag of portable vodka. Everyone was laughing,
drinking, and there may have even been some impromptu karaoke at one point or
another. Strange, even drunk in a dream and I start to forget things. There was
that fuzzy, remarkable kinship that comes from imbibing together, everyone was
happy.
As the folks
tired of the raucous, the more mellow conversation took hold once again. Josh
mentioned having seen the new animated version of The Killing Joke, a Batman classic.
“Aww man,
that’s one of my favorite graphic novels!” I couldn’t hold back my excitement.
From
the corner bar, I heard Mr. Freeman giggling. “I never thought I’d see two
grown men so excited over Batman.”
I
raised my glass and pointed, “From the guy that was in 3 Batman movies!”
Everyone
at the bar got in a good chuckle, including Mr. Freeman. He was about to retort
when I cut him off with a drink order. “Bartender, a scotch for Mr. Freeman, we’ll
call it; The Dark Knight Rises.”
“You
got me,” Mr. Freeman smiled and drained his glass in anticipation of his
refill.
Josh slapped
my shoulder, “You just pwned Morgan
Freeman!”
“I
know, and to think I was going to go home hours ago.”
