Spinning On A Barstool Sneak Peek

That Day

It was sunny—not July sunny, it didn’t entomb you in a casket of heat demanding you sweat as you sit. No, it was September sunny. Sun that entered the day on the edge of a brisk night. Sun that warmed your skin and smelled fresh and clean and right and good.
Joe found me on the patio at the pub emptying ashtrays and straightening up tables. He was carrying a white tube
filled with my future.
“That’s it?” I asked
“This is it,” he responded and smiled. “You might need more copies; if you do, just ask. There are five in here.”
“I’ll open it when I go home. I don’t want any of them getting damaged.”
Joe handed the tube to me like the third passes the baton to the anchor. It weighed gold.

Our house design.

“I’ve never been in here before,” Joe said, his eyes absorbing the surroundings.
“Ha, I’m here all the time.” I grinned. “Can I pour you a drink? Would you like something to eat?” I asked.
“No thank you, Glenda, I have to get back. Call me if you need anything.”
“You bet I will, Joe,” I replied. “Thanks again for the house; it’s amazing.”
“You’re welcome, Glenda.”
He turned from the patio and headed to the front door.

I tucked the tube under my arm, wiped the last table, and headed back into the pub.
Leaving the bright, sunny patio and entering the dim interior of Corky’s took my eyes a moment to adjust. I did a quick scan, checking for new tables and empty drinks, customers in distress because their money isn’t being accepted by the lotto machines or their bank card didn’t work in the ATM. Fifty things could go wrong in the five minutes I was outside. All looked calm. A new customer was walking past the Bone.
The Bone is a long, tall table stretching ten feet across, separating the bar from floor tables. Beat up barstools banked side by side. A rank of soldiers all eager to enter the day, expecting the usual, anticipating the unusual, prepared to take their licks while standing firm in battle. Worn, deep green leatherette and faded wood carry the
scars of human encounters. Each soldier bears the weight of life, holding solid under fans cheering for their teams, giving courage to couples who’ve met online now meeting face to face, being the place to rest after a long day at work, upholding souls encased in sorrow or in shock from sudden, unexpected bad news. They hear the whisper of secrets, the laughter of friends, and stories spun, threads of experience woven into blankets of time, tales of those that got away, the promotions, the lovers, the fish. These soldiers rise gallantly under the foolish fist, steady the gladiator roar, and stand silently amused as they watch men pick up women, women pick up men, and men pick up men who look like women. The Commando has seen those in commando. The recruit, the guerrilla, the mercenary have held back their younger selves while the veteran holding the veterans look on, look over, look past, look back.

The Bone, where the barstools sustain the soul.
He looked homeless.
The man by the bone.
A little lost, a little unsure, a little shuffle to his walk…