The Lifeguard

And suddenly we were beholden to this man, the older lifeguard at the pool. He picked Emily out of the crowd, saw her floating face down amongst all that reflected sunlight. He saw her in the clutter of bodies and the high pitched mayhem of childrens' voices. I am utterly ashamed to say that I was distracted by my phone while this was happening. It started with a work-related email. Then a message from a friend. Then a link to something else. You get swept away so easily these days. Insidious how this little device diverts us away from what is important.

Anyway, when I looked up, the lifeguard was already pulling Emily out of the water and a crowd was gathering around on the wet concrete. I came forward, through the rubberneckers, my panic sharpening as all parents will do when they slowly realise their child is the centre of the gathering drama. I was terrified and furious and sickened with myself. I should have been watching. Then again Emily is a good swimmer. It is difficult to reconcile these things. Especially when you consider what could have happened.

The lifeguard saved her. He performed CPR while I stood there freaking out. The pool water came out of her lungs as she began gulping for air, sputtering and shaking. It was amazing. This man, this lifeguard, had literally brought my daughter back from the dead. While it was happening, the whole thing felt like an out of body experience for me because I was powerless to do anything. All that paternal instinct was crashing through me and I was powerless.

I invited the lifeguard over to our house for dinner. I had to do something, right? I made pulled pork on brioche buns with salad. Em's favourite. This would have never happened if Em hadn't strayed out of her depth and become surrounded by all those overexcited older girls. Behind the sunglasses, the floppy safari hat and the zinc sun protection, the lifeguard was a fairly conventional looking middle-aged man. He was bald. Not exactly in great shape. Didn't they have strenuous tests for lifeguards? To maintain a fairly rigorous level of fitness? There was something a little off about him. His eyes were always skittering off into the corners of the room. Or up to the ceiling to contemplate the crown moulding. As soon as he arrived he was in the way, hovering in doorways as if waiting for permission to enter the room. Given the chance to talk, he didn't spare any time launching into his conspiracy theories. He didn't have anything personal to say, even when we tried to steer the conversation back to the topic of his life. He did have a hell of a lot to say about the Twin Towers coming down, ISIS, the CIA, the Freemasons...to name but a few. The tenuous links were exhausting. And according to the lifeguard, everything was subject to suspicion. No matter how innocent or innocuous it seemed. Everything was controlled beneath the surface by the tentacles of this conspiracy. So our little thank you dinner took an unpleasant turn right about the time I brought the food to the table. This was not the kind of thing I want my six-year-old daughter listening to. The abundant ugliness of this world would find her soon enough. I had no intention of speeding that process up.

Anyway, we got through dinner. Eating and drinking helped because he stopped talking for awhile. But then he wouldn't leave. He just sat there even after we'd cleared away the plates. Even after Peter and I started unhinged our jaws yawning and moaning about getting up early the following morning for work. Maybe this was all my fault? I had wanted this man to fit into a nice neat box. I wanted him to be a hero. But he was too puggy and thick-lipped to fit comfortably into that container. He pressed up grotesquely against the glass and spilled out over the sides. Underneath it all, I was still so angry with myself. How had I become so distracted? And why couldn't it have been one of the younger lifeguards? If it had been, I'm sure this scene would have been far more palatable. Far more wholesome. Why couldn't it have been one of the nice, clean-cut university students you saw down there? One of those guys with straight teeth and a positive attitude?

I did not want Emily to associate an act of heroism with someone like this. Someone who was so narrow-minded, so paranoid about everything. Someone who never smiled or laughed. Someone with no real personality. Just a list of statistics and theories to justify his isolated existence. Finally, I had to make Pater say something. By that point, we'd migrated into the kitchen and we were having one of those whispered but highly animated conversation while he remained rooted to the spot, at the table.

It was a great relief when the lifeguard finally left. We continued to go to the pool on hot days after school, paying our money, buying ice creams and going in through the turnstile. And there he was. The lifeguard would drift over to where we'd set up and start talking. His eyes blank behind his mirrored sunglasses, his mouth going up and down. At first, I didn't really know how to handle it. I wanted to relax. I didn't want to hear about explosives being detonated by shadowy government agencies. Then I began to gently but firmly redefine the boundaries and push him away. I put my phone or a magazine up as a shield. I'd look up periodically and say, what? I'm sorry...I'm not following you. A normal person would have picked up on these clues. Not this guy. Anyway, when that failed, I made a complaint to the centre management. An email. I told Peter about it in the mirror one night as I applied moisturiser to my throat, saying, when you think about it we don't owe this man anything. I mean he was doing his job, wasn't he? And after the complaint was made, the lifeguard backed off. A sharp word from his supervisor pushed him back into the anonymous playdough of faces and bodies at the pool. You have these little emergencies but then things tend to correct themselves. An order is re-established. Life goes on.

The 18 lives of Leo Erickson

Irish Coffee (Jamesons Irish whisky, coffee and cream)

I just came from down south, from my little painting shack down there on the coast. It's unavoidable: sometimes you have come to the city to make a buck. I'd rather not but there you go. I had eleven new canvases in my van, ready to sell. The usual stuff. Oils. Coastal landscapes. Crumbling headlands, beaches and waves. The Pacific Ocean. I make 'em look moody and craggy because that's what sells. As a commercial artist, the sad reality is, you find your niche and you stick to it....if you want to survive. That morning, I was waiting for Carmella to pick up her phone. And I dropped into the bar for one drink. There was this young guy there, in the corner, by the jukebox, minding his own business. I think he was drinking beer but I can't remember for sure. I do remember he was wearing sunglasses. Those Top Gun aviator style shades. I was more focused on staying within arms reach of the pay phone, waiting for Carmella to get back to me (I don't have a cell phone). And I was worried that my van was gonna get ticketed in the alleyway behind the bar. I didn't want a ticket cutting into my profit margins along with all the other needless expenses I seem to ensure each time I come here. The city giveth and the city taketh away. Suddenly this guy I was telling you about pulls out a pistol. And he puts the business end to his temple and pulls the trigger. Click! Nothing. The guy looks down at the gun in his hand, fumbles with it and bang! The gun goes off. The bullet travels the length of the bar and hits the cat in the face. You know Leo the bar cat? The mascot? Where he usually sleeps? Well, he was up there, curled up on the little ledge, his usual spot, in a patch of morning sunlight. Now the cat was killed instantly, blood and fur and brain matter going everywhere. He popped like a pinata full of meat and blood. John....I think it was John....gets the drop on the young guy with the gun, tackles him to the ground. Everyone is shouting and freaking out. Then the police turn up. Lights flashing, radios squawking. And in all the confusion, not only do I miss Carmella's call, I also get a ticket. Eight-five dollars. I swear to God sometimes I think those bastards can sniff out my van, even when its parked down the most concealed alleyway in Chinatown.

Miller Genuine Draft (bottled)

I'd been there all morning. I'm always the first one in. I can't sleep past 4 am these days. It's just not possible. I am usually at the door by 6, waiting for the kid, the bartender, to open the place up even before he arrives. I drink Miller. In the bottle. It's better for my stomach. I can't handle hard liquor anymore. No sir. Those days are well and truly over for me. Anyway, after the kid opens up, I come in, sit in the same place every morning, at the elbow of the bar, under the light. Routine is important to me, always has been. I do the same damn thing every morning, seven days a week. At my age, I don't want change. No thanks. At my age, you pray things stay the same for awhile. Change becomes something to fear. At my age change usually means loss. And I have lost enough already. Anyway, that morning, the kid with the gun came just after me. I don't remember much about him. I'm not there to keep track. People come and go in that place all the time and, truth be told, I really need to see the eye doctor about getting a new prescription for my glasses. I'm pretty much legally blind now so don't rely on me for your star witness. Anyway, it was a normal morning, the sun slowly warming the buildings outside, coming in through the bar window. By the time it happened, some of the other regulars had turned up. I was just sitting there, a new beer in front of me when suddenly there was all this commotion and this asshole, this young kid, pulls out his gun. He starts waves it around, all dramatic like, before putting it to his head and pulling the trigger. Nothing. Click. At this point, I remember someone shouting, he’s got a gun! No shit Sherlock, I thought. Anyway, the kid starts fooling with the gun, checking the cylinder and bam-o! It goes off in his hand: a misfire followed by the weapon being unintentionally discharged. Nice work genius. The bullet whips across the bar, killing Leo the cat. The thing that got me was that bullet was heading in my direction. And who knows? A little lower, it might have caught me in the forehead. A neat little hole right there. Anyway, the cops came roaring in and took the kid away and that was pretty much the end of it. Presumably, the kid was taken off to the nuthouse. The cat gets stuffed and mounted. The thing that gets me is, I survived one heinous war only to come back here, to the country I defended only to catch a bullet in my regular watering hole? If that had happened....are you kidding me? Boy, I tell you, I would have been pissed off if that little shit had blown my brains out. I mean, I look back at my life, at some of the crazy shit I have done and man...I definitely got dealt nine lives. And I know I have already used eight of 'em up jumping out of helicopters and running across rice paddies, mortar shells and bullets flying in every direction, men dropping all around me. Even after all that bullshit, I figured I still had me one life left over from Nam. One more chance. For a rainy day. But now? After the kid? I ain't got shit. I must have used them all up. Being in war makes you superstitious. And now I gotta sit here every morning looking at that idiotic stuffed cat. To remind me. Of all my used up luck. All my last chances.

Greyhound (Smirnoff, grapefruit juice, salt-rimmed glass)

Don’t talk to me about pussy man, that’s all I got. I'm up to my ears in pussy. I need a snorkel to breath I'm so deep in the pussy. All night I deal with perverts pumping coins into slots, pay'n to catch a glimpse of that pussy in a mirrored room. Me? I’m out back, in my office, doing the books and payroll. I seen so much damn cooch over the years it ain’t even funny. Young guys always say to me....man, you have the best job. You are so lucky! My response: are you kidding me? Spending night after night in a jerk of convention? You think this kind of work is something to be jealous of? Think again. Those girls, when the lights go up, most of them ain’t much to look at. You don't get supermodels gravitating towards this line of work. Forget about all that 'paying for my college tuition by moonlighting as a stripper bullshit'. That's for the movies. All these girls...they got problems. Bad boyfriends or girlfriends. Or both. Car payments owing. Medial bills. Legal problems and drug problems. Problems, problems and more fucking problems. That's all I hear about: pussy problems. Trying to make these cooches pay off like the proverbial golden goose comes at a price. You gotta be their psychiatrist, their social worker and their daddy rolled into one. You gotta listen to that shit all day long. And....what that now? Good God...see? Do you see what I just did? I need a vacation man. There I go again. I got pussy on the brain. No. The cat is....this guy was in here one morning and he pulls out a gun. A regular old pistol. Small calibre like the one I got in my office. He sat over there in the corner for a while, thinking about things I guess and then he stood up, pulled out the pistol and tried to off himself. He bungled the job and he shot the cat by accident....the cat was the bar mascot. At the time this happened, he was sitting right up there. The same place he been sitting for years, sleeping, cleaning himself, keeping an eye on the comings and goings. I always hated that damn cat but I would never say so. Leo the cat was something of an institution around here. It got so that you couldn't say a word against him. To speak ill of Leo was sacrilege. Don't ask me why....it was a cat for godsakes. The point is, I am not a cat person. I don't like cats and cat fir makes me break out. So I always kept away from the little bastard. Anyway, one of the regulars....John it was.....gets the gun off this young guy and the police intervene. End of story. The cat gets stuffed down at the funeral parlour. Not a great job as you can plainly see. Especially the eyes. Murphy, the mortician, will be the first to admitted that his work wasn't exactly lifelike. Old Murphy stuffed a few pig cadaver back in mortician school but a cat ain't the same thing. Not by a long shot.

Fernet Branca (straight up, in a nervous glass with a beer back)

I heard this guy robbed a bank. Or maybe a couple of banks...up north. That's what Ron told me. Ron's brother is a cop. Anyway, none of us had seen this kid around. To me, he’s looked sorta...fucked up. Which isn't really saying much because a lot of space cadets show up on the morning shift. The neighbourhood is one giant freak magnet. And where else are these people gonna go at that time of day? Anyway, at first, the kid keeps to himself and drinks his beer. I actually forget all about him. I was reading the paper, seeing how this latest president is screwing up the planet. I was ENJOYING the silence. I was ENJOYING having a few QUIET drinks to get the chill out of my bones. More people started showing up. The usual crowd. The regulars: some of whom I like while others, I have little time for. Then, suddenly, this kid jumps up and pulls out a gun which he proceeds to wave around like a madman. He puts the barrel to his head like, this is it! Goodbye cruel world. Sayonara! And he pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. I'll tell you....this latest generation....they really are a bunch of fucking numbnuts. This kid probably failed at everything else in his miserable life and now he's failing to shoot himself in the head. I just sit there, the paper in my hands, my specs down on the end of my nose. I'm of a mind to go up to him, take the fucking gun out of his hand and beat his ass with it. Just so we can resume the state of calm established prior to this ridiculous outburst. But that doesn't happen. No. Because next, the gun goes off by accident and he kills the bar cat who is up on the ledge, up there. One lucky shot. Lucky for the kid in the sense that no one got killed. Not so lucky for Leo the cat. I found that cat in an alleyway years ago, in the backstreets, on the edge of Chinatown. He was a kitten then, crying behind a pile of garbage. He was lucky a rat didn't eat him. I put him inside my jacket and brought him back here. To the bar. I didn't know what else to do with him. I couldn't leave the little bastard out there in the cold. And this is where he has remained ever since. And let me tell you: not a single mouse or any other kind of vermin has flourished in this bar since his arrival. Leo was a good cat and he was good at his job. He earned his keep. A lot of people around her had an emotional attachment to that cat, including me. Anyway....me and Lance came running around the bar, intending on jumping the kid but John beat us to it, tackling him to the floor first. I'm really angry by this point. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, screams the kid. You will be, I thought. I used to work the door in social clubs right here in the city. I know how to fuck people up without it looking like that is my intention. So I got a few shots in. I'll admit it. I make it look like I was simply trying to restrain him. I was angry about Leo. The police followed. It was a hell of a morning. A few of us exceded our usual quota after the cops had dragged the kid away. I guess it was the adrenaline. Or maybe it was an improved wake for Leo.

Michelada (Budweiser with clamato juice).

I wasn't there. Not when he came in. Jerry said he turned up shortly after the place opened. The kid was young, maybe in his mid-twenties. Sunglasses and denim jacket. I came in around 7 am. I do remember the kid's face. I have a very good memory for faces. I could have been a sketch artist for the police department if I could draw. Anyway, this kid was clean shaven, intense eyes, light blue or green, a good strong jawline, a wispy little moustache. He has thick black hair, the kind that begs to be cut into a crewcut, only he was wearing it long and shaggy. The kid was obviously in his own little world, kinda muttering to himself. Not all the time. On and off. When the thing with the gun happened, I was listening to Carl bitch about how the woman who usually buys his paintings wasn't picking up her phone. Look, I tolerate Carl. Just. I didn't say to him, its fucking 8 am you self-centred prick. It was none of my business. So anyway, I was facing away from the kid so I don't see the gun come out. I didn't see him try to blow his own head off. I did see Carl's reaction and then I heard the others shouting. After that, we all froze in place for a few moments, watching, expecting that once the kid has fixed the gun, his brains were gonna get plaster all over the wall but not how it went down. On his second attempt, the kid accidentally shoots the cat in the face. Better a cat than a person, I guess. It happened too fast for me to react. It was John who got the gun off the kid. John drives a cab at night. He's seen a few things, you know? In the Tenderloin, in the Mission. The others will tell you they were close behind, ready to tackle the shooter but in reality, no, they were all hiding behind the bar, too stunned or fearful to do anything. I miss that fucking cat. I didn't realise it until he was gone. He was a big part of this place. He still is now but in a different way. I don't think they should have put him up there. Personally, I think its a bit morbid.   

Kahlua and cream (double, over ice)

Poor Leo. Just sitting there minding his own business. It just goes to show you how dangerous guns are. I wasn't there. I never go to the bar that early. Heavens no. I came in just as the police were dragging this crazy man out the door in handcuffs. I thought he was a drunk, you know, but then I realised what was going on inside. I saw how upset everyone was. And poor Leo! Dead! I burst into tears right then and there. Leo was a real character, you know? He would walk the length of the bar, tail swishing, prowling past everyone like he owned the place....which, in a way, he did. Oh, he was the definitely the boss of this place, always checking things, having a look-see. He was the bar mascot. I used to talk to him, tell him my problems. There's nothing wrong with talking to animals. In my opinion, animals are very tuned into human feelings and emotions. Leo was a very good listener for a cat. So that morning.....what I heard was this guy pulled out his gun and shot the Leo. Now why would anyone want to do that, I don't know. Then Jimmy told me it was a suicide attempt gone wrong. The crazy guy came in here to have one last drink and...well, you know the rest. Now, how you can miss your own noggin when you are the one holding the gun....is beyond me. Apparently, the gun went off in his hand when he wasn't ready and instead of ending his own life, he shot Leo. Tragic. Really tragic. A bar needs a cat.....in my opinion. I remember when we first got Leo. This was...well, it must have been 16 years ago....how long do cats live for, anyway? I'll have to look that one up. What happened was....Daniel turned up here one morning with this scrawny little kitten under his arm. I remember playing with Leo on my lap. He was only a little ball of fir back then. Back when I first started working here. At that time I thought this job was only going to be another temporary thing....to pay the bills and whatnot....but here I am....all these years later....still working. I tell the other girls who come through here to watch out....those years can slip by. You think they won't but the clock keeps on ticking. I can think of a few people that bullet should have taken out instead of poor Leo...people that I wouldn't mind seeing the back of....is that a mean thing to say? I guess it is. My point is, there are some people here who have worn out their welcome. That's all. And besides....we all have to go at some point or another, right? And for some of these....people.....it would have been a mercy killing. Believe me.

Black coffee

A bullet to the head is not my idea of a good exit, especially in a public place. No. It's most disrespectful in my opinion. Think about it: chances are some if not all of the witnesses will be traumatized and will forever associate your selfish final act with a place they frequent. Maybe even love. Your misery will taint the walls forever. I don't believe in ghost but I do believe a place can be unhappy. That it can retain the energy of the human activities that have transpired there. Both good and bad. Why would you want to do that to other people? Scar them like that? Make them see such a terrible thing? Anyway, what business has a young boy with his whole life ahead of him got being that low? Did he live through a war? We don't know. Was it drugs? Probably. That would be my guess. It's usually drugs. Anyway, he puts the gun up to his temple, like this and pulls the trigger. Click! He looks around confused because his worthless ass is still alive. What happened? Did the gun misfire? Or maybe the hammer fell on a dud bullet? Or maybe there was no bullet in the chamber to begin with? The police did not share this information.  So we don't know. Anyway, the boy fools with the gun. The gun goes off in his hand, the bullet misses him and hits the cat on the other side of the room. The cat they named after my friend, the long-dead owner, Leo Erickson who died in '69. Being an old timer who actually remembers Leo, I always thought this was a little disrespectful. I wouldn't want a stray cat to be named after me. I am old now and everything hurts. Alcohol is out. It is simply not an option. I got nothing left. I come here, to this bar, to spend a few hours away from my room. This is what I mean by the 'retention of human energies'. This bar has always retained all the good times that have happened here. I don't need to drink to feel it. I feel it in the wood grain of the bar. In the brass railing. In the linoleum beneath my feet. There are voices and laughter from years ago when we were younger and didn't care. We used to throw away the days and nights. Like they were nothing. Like they didn't count. Shame about the cat but these things happen. Still, I'm glad that boy didn't make too much of a mess. You don't want that kind of negative energy around here.

Screwdriver (double, Greygoose, in a tall glass, over ice)

This guy comes in the bar. He tries to kill himself but fucks it up. Simple as that. He shoots the cat instead. Idiot. Probably a 'cry for help' or whatever they call it. He was a young guy, obviously had a few problems. I was having a cigarette outside. They changed the law, didn't they? And maybe that's a good thing. it certainly has cut down my daily intake. I used to be a two and a half pack a day man. Now I'm smoking on average one pack. That's it. Anyway, it was cold outside. I was standing there, looking down the street, toward the financial district. The traffic was just beginning to thicken. With all the commuters coming in, the bridge and tunnel crowd, and I heard this bang! I turned and looked through the window. I could see something was going on inside. People were up off their bar stools, reacting to something. I dropped my cigarette and went back in. I'm originally from the UK, from Cheltenham you see, so I don't naturally associate a loud bang with someone having just shot off a gun. It isn't second nature to me like it is with most yanks. When I got back inside it was all over. They had the kid pinned to the ground. In the scuffle, the gun had been kicked across the floor, under my barstool, and I picked it up. This was the first gun I have ever handled in my life. Even after living in this country for all these years. For such a small object, it was bloody heavy. It turns out the young guy had killed the cat. I mean it was an accident but what kind lunatic executes a cat in a bar at 8 am in the morning? John, the taxi driver, the big fellow, was on top of the boy, holding him down. Hank and Daniel ran over to assist. The boy was shouting out a stream of nonsense. Crazy jibberish. It was all quite dramatic and tiring... especially at that time of day. I went back to my place at the bar and took a sip of my drink. I wasn't quite sure what to do with the gun so I put it on the bar and waited for the police to show up. Some of the cat's skull fragments and blood had splattered across the television screen and the walls. There wasn't much of it but you couldn't deny...things looked pretty grim for the cat. Eventually, the cops took the gun off me and hauled the young guy away. We all had to give our statements, explaining what had happened. I had work to do back at my apartment so I didn't hang around. A week later I broke my leg on the stairs. A compound fracture. I think the cat's death was a bad omen. I'd spoken many times to Mrs Rodreguez about her son leaving his bloody toys trains on the apartment entranceway steps.

A pint of Guinness

This guy comes in the bar. He's a squirrelly little fellow, you know? Erratic like. I noticed this because I still had me freak radar on. You need a good freak radar when you drive a cab in this city. Anyway, I had just come off my shift so I wasn't planning on staying long. Basically as long it takes to drink a few pints. Then home. You can get stuck at that bar all day if you're not careful. It's happened to me on several occasions. I had more than enough of that kind of thing back in me thirties. It starts out as fun but always leads to bad things. Especially if you're like me and enjoy a drink or two. No one has to twist my arm when it comes to getting on the sauce. Anyway, I had me yellow legal pad out and I was jotting down a few recollections from my shift. People I met, some of the stories they come out with and so on. You'd be surprised how honest people become during a ten-minute taxi ride. They want to spill their guts, get their problems out in the open and off their chests. A rolling confessional, if you like. And I understand. Look, I was brought up Catholic. There is value to that release mechanism. The pressure builds and you need to release it. Sometimes a stranger with a sympathetic ear is just the ticket. From my perspective, more often than not you will get more truth outta a stranger in ten minutes than you will from your own flesh and blood. It the narrow window of opportunity combined with the anonymity of the situation. Anyway, someday, all this was gonna end up in the novel I was writing. That was the plan when I first start driving a cab. But then the novel kept growing and growing like barnacles on the belly of a rudderless ship floating in the ocean. That old story. And right there is my main problem. The tangents. I love going off on the tangents, you see? Anyway....back to the morning in question, this fella had a beer or two. He didn't move much. Just sat there. I could see him in the corner of me eye. He was huddled over. At a certain point he pulls out a gun but instead of shooting himself, which I assume was the intention, this idiot shoots the bar cat. Bang! Right between the eyes. So, I got him down on the floor. Used to wrestle in college, you see. Anyway, all the others all made a big deal out of the cat but the truth is the cat was on his last legs. To my mind, it was mercy killing. And if they all really cared so much, they would have done something in his honour. I'm the one who took the dead animal over to Murphy at the funeral parlour in a plastic bag. For stuffing. They all just shrugged and said, not my problem. What do you want us to do about it? Too busy with their morning drinking, sitting around playing tough Bowery bums. So....I did it. Put the dead cat in the passenger seat and drove him over. These days, especially in the mornings, Murphy looks like one of his dearly departed customers. Pale and waxy. I always joke with him, asking if he has been nipping at the old embalming fluid, having a wee sip now and again, if you know what I mean. Hense the parlour. Hell....Murphy will probably outlive us all. Murphy brought the animal back a few days later. Glass eyes and everything. Not his finest work. We put Leo back up there, on the ledge above the bottles. A fitting place for the little prick. And not for the first time, Murphy told me to get myself cremated when the time came. You don't want people stuffing you like a turkey on a slab, he said.

Two shots of Stoli, chilled, straight up

......and so this morning I'm in my usual spot, reading the paper, picking tobacco out of my teeth (I smoke filterless). And I get up to take a leak. And I'm thinking about this young band I heard the other day. They were okay. Better than the electronic shit you hear on the radio. These days I mainly produce. I mean, I will get up there on stage but I try to avoid the whole nostalgic touring bit. I can't bare seeing all those old farts in the audience. It makes me tired. Anyway, I went downstairs and I did a bump off the porcine. It was nothing. A tiny bump. The equivalent of two cups of coffee. It balances out the vodka...that's all. After all these years I know my body. I certainly know my limitations. While I was down there I didn't hear anything out of the ordinary but when I come up the stairs it was mayhem. You had people out of their seats, shouting and freaking out. I thought there had been an earthquake. Big John had wrestled this guy to the floor, this kid who I just walked past on my way down to the head. What happened was, the kid had tried to kill himself. Or maybe he was going shoot up the place....I mean, who knows what he was intending? Anyway, he ends up accidentally killing the cat. Bullseye! Right through the left eye. Blew the cats head clean off. It wasn't a particularly large calibre gun but then again....it wasn't a particularly large cat. So relatively speaking, it might as well have been a .357 Magnum. Anyway, magnum or not, it made a mess. That cat's head popped like a.....well, you get the picture. So...I'd just come up the stairs......for awhile there was a lot of screaming and they lost track of the gun but then Jack found it under his barstool. I was at Altamont. So I know what public panic and the potential of violence and perhaps even death feels like when it's lingering in the air. The vibe, I mean. This was on a much smaller scale for sure but it felt exactly the same. In a perverse way, the whole thing made me pine for the old days when we used to tear this joint up. Man, I have seen some wild shit in this establishment. I mean it loses a lot in the telling like I run the risk of being some old codger sitting around, reminiscing about good old days but it was all true. It used to be gangsters and showgirls and longshoremen and artists coming through here. Men and women. Now.....it's just tourists and fucking boy hipsters. People with pretty tattoos. Sometimes I get the feeling us older guys are gonna end up stuffed trophies on the wall.

Black and Tan (Guinness and Anchor Steam Ale)

So there was a knock on my door at 10 am. Someone had shot the cat. Dead. Apparently, this guy meant to shoot himself but he screwed up and blew the cat's head off. The end result being....I had a dead cat on my hands. As a favour to Lucy, who has allowed my tab to creep up and down over the years, I could not say 'no'. After phoning Tony who was absolutely no help at all, I started working from some veterinarian illustrations I found online, trying to make a resin skull while the deceased animal rested downstairs in the preparation room. I am trained to work with human beings, not felines, so it proved to be quite a challenge. Anyway, I make the skull, getting the contours and general shape correct to the best of my abilities....and then I wrapped the whole thing in quick-dry polyurethane and mock fir. Comparatively speaking, this proved to be the easy part. The thing was the eyes....I had a colleague at university who had drifted into the movie business so I call him and he shipped two glass cat eyes up to me from Los Angeles. The body itself was in okay condition. I went through the usual processes, removing the innards, treating the skin with chemicals and making a form. And all that was fine but the head and the body and the eyes....once assembled was...problematic. It was like one of those animals you see in the older natural history museums. A cross-eye buffalo. An unintentionally startled mountain lion. An embarrassed gazelle. Leo the cat looked like one of those animals. ie. unintentionally comical. And it was annoying because my professional reputation was on the line. The overall effect made people laugh, you see? From certain angles, the cat looked slightly cross-eyed. Some described it's expression as 'deranged'. Others claimed that the eyes, which were over expressive, designed for an animatronic puppet, followed you around the room. Now if this young guy had plugged himself (or one of the bar regulars for that matter) it would have been much better for me, you see? I could have put a human being back together without encountering these problems. I have received clients who have expired in every imaginable way. The quality of my work has always been beyond reproach. But the cat? Perhaps you have heard the joke about the village mayor who had sexual relations with a goat? This country mayor accomplished numerous philanthropic projects in his community over the course of his life. In the set up for the joke, he bitterly wonders if he will be known for all these selfless acts, listing each one, but then decides that no, ultimately, he will be known as the guy who fucked a goat. This one act of bestiality had eclipsed everything else he has done. I was in a similar situation. I had dealt with many, many clients during my career but what had I become known for? A stuffed cat.

Brandy (straight up, water chaser)

我在Bings先生的会议上走过街道。我有四个独立的信封，哈利的钱。两条信封放在我裤子的前袋里，另外两条信封放在我的夹克里面。我只在酒吧喝了一杯。就这样。我知道这不是一个好主意，但我觉得我应该得到一杯饮料。我有一万多美元。当我站在那里时，我可以感觉到我的口袋里有钱。我点了一杯白兰地，喝了一口。我很疲倦。起初，我认为那个带着枪的家伙会抢劫我，但他却开枪打死了这只猫。如果他试图抢劫我，我将别无选择;我将不得不与他战斗。我在脚踝皮套里有自己的枪。我会画它。也许他会被杀死。也许我。你永远不会知道。也许别人会死的。他亲近死亡，相信我。我几乎在那里，低头看着那个疯子。我已经吸取了教训。如果我失去了这笔钱，那肯定会是我一生的终结。而我的家人也会遇到麻烦。一旦他被那个大出租车司机约束，我就离开了。处理警方对我来说不是一个好主意。警方提出我无法回答的问题。我陷入了混乱之中。我仍然不知道为什么那个疯子在脸上射击猫。在生活中，你无法知道一切。这是唯一的道理。

(Translation: I came up the street from the meeting at Mr Bings. I had Harry's money in four separate envelopes. Two envelops in the front pockets of my pants and two more inside my jacket. I only stopped at the bar for one drink. That's all. I knew this was not a good idea but I felt I deserved a drink. I had over ten thousand dollars. I could feel that money budging in my pockets as I stood there. I ordered a brandy and took one sip. I was very tired. At first, I thought the guy with the gun was going to rob me but instead he shot the cat. If he had tried to rob me I would have had no choice; I would have to fight him. I had my own gun in an ankle holster. I would have drawn it. Maybe he would get killed. Maybe me. You never know. Maybe other people would have died. He came very close to getting killed, believe me. I was almost there, reaching down, keeping my eyes on the crazy boy. I have learned my lesson. If I had lost that money, it would have been the end of my life for sure. And my family would also be in trouble. I left as soon as he was restrained by the big taxi driver. Dealing with the police was not a good idea for me. The police ask questions I can not answer. I was able to slip out in the confusion. I still don't know why that crazy man shot the cat in the face. In life, you can't know everything. This is the only truth).

Virgin Mary (extra spicy, all the trimmings, salted rim)

The bullet is lodged up there, see? Behind the stuffed cat. I thought someone was gonna come back and dig the bullet out but then again...why? Evidence or something? No. The police just left it there. This place already has a tonne of history on its walls. All the great west coast poets and writers used to hang out here. I was only a girl went they came through, so I don't remember. My mother told me I sat on Jack Keroack's knee once. I have no memory of this. Besides....the way he treated women? Let's just say, I never saw why he was such a big deal. Getting high on speed and writing continually for two weeks? It was never my thing. Basically, this place is a museum, isn't it? All the photos and artifacts. And the cat? Well, you see, this guy came in one morning and he shot the cat. It was a terrible business. The bartender working at the time called me and I drove in. Immediately. Everyone was very shaken up. All the guys were playing it tough...you know....but I could tell they were all shaken up. Someone fires a gun in your vicinity, you're going to be a bit jumpy. Anway, I got the full story. Being one of the owners, I need to know what happens in here for insurance purposes. The police told me he'd been wandering around for days. He'd been down at the beach, with this gun tucked in his jeans. He wasn't right in the head. Of course not. His parents had tried to find him. I called them once I found out who he was. They were very worried. He'd been living in some sort of commune situation out in the woods with these hippie types. They had influenced him to 'go natural' you see....to stop taking his medication. So that's what he did. He went off his meds and that's when he got into trouble. Now, I understand how those commune people can mess with your head. I do. I was a hippy before I bought into this place. I went through a lot of ups and downs. I went from a party girl to a hippy lifestyle, living up there in Oregon. I was in love with this guy. Ah...we all ate up what he was selling. He was so charismatic. So handsome. But in the end, it all turned out to be the usual stuff: male ego disguised as progressive living and thinking. I just left. I'd had enough. Ironically it was this place that stabilised me. This bar. Once I became an owner, or a part owner, only then did I stop messing around with the drinking and the partying and all that. It took me owning a share in this bar to become a teetotaler. Anyway, you see these faces? Lining the bar? Remember what I was saying about this place being a museum? Well, I don't like to say it aloud because....because I like everyone here and in some cases this is all they have....but the thing is....well, they have all become part of the museum display. Of course, they have. Look at them! They're just like the old photographs and bric-a-brac on the walls. They are history. And this is what happens when you don't embrace change. When you don't evolve. You grow roots in the past. You get stuck back there.

Gin and Tonic (well gin with a hunk of lime)

I had a eureka moment. I was writing a new poem in my room, on my little manual typer like I always do. The manual is better because it makes you think about every word. Anyway, my poem turned out to be a very interesting assemblage of words, five pages long. Like a fucking Pollack it was, only instead of oil paint, I was using words. I just kept going and going, revising and adding. And then, once the sun had come up, I was on my bike, cutting down the hill and through the streets. I needed air. I needed to sit in the sun, to warm up a little. I wasn't even tired. I had work that evening but I could catch a few Zs during the day. It felt like my head was busting with endless creative potential. Then I made a stupid mistake. I went to the bar. And once I got to the bar, my poem started to feel a little shit. And that's the thing about these creative jags. It can all become a little too...hermetically sealed. You lose perspective. Anyway, after re-entering the world, what I'd been working on all night started to seem a little too....contrived. At least compared to what had happened in real life. I'm talking about the thing with the gun and the cat. Let me explain: I was listening to the guys, the regulars, tell me the same story over and over and over again, analysing the shit out of what happened. And it was a real Rashomon type affair with everyone having a slightly different spin on what went down. And it really inspired me. And this is another problem with the creative process. You get something down but then something else happens...something that changes or alters your outlook. And that needs to be factored in somehow. Because every new experience changes you in some way. And the question becomes how do you capture change? Or put another way, how do you honestly capture the world and all its endless possibilities? Is a poem or a painting sufficient? What might you have missed? I should never have gone into the bar that morning. I should have gone to the cafe and sat on the steps of the church in the sun. And that's it. Anyway, the effect of this layering, this stacking of their accounts was very interesting to me. You had all these voices. There were the first-hand witnesses and those who came later. And it all fit together in a series of concentric circles.....like when you drop a stone into a pond and the ripples emanate outwards from the centre. Shit man, over the next couple of weeks, I must have heard about the crazy kid and the gun and the fucking cat fifty times. I'm a bartender so I understand. I do. A story like this needs to be told and retold. It needs to work its way out of collective mind like a splinter working its way out of your foot. It needs to bounce around and be processed through the gossip mill. And like I say, the accounts were all a little different. The story changed and caused arguments because not everyone can be right. And the retelling of the story fractured the peace in the bar for many weeks to come. Because I'll tell you, these old guys already have many unresolved, only half-buried grudges. They sit next to each other all day long, elbow to elbow at the bar but they don't necessarily like each other. There have been problems in the past with money, women and personality conflicts. In a place like this its natural. Anyway, they all started playing musical chairs with their roles in the story: who was the hero? Who was the coward? Again, it put me in a quandary. What is truth? I mean, can it ever really exist in a work of art? And art without a core truth is....to my way of thinking....worthless. Anyway, I started to doubt myself. Was there any 'truth' in my voice at all? Was there anything authentic in what I was saying? Should I just go back to Vermont and be content writing nice poems about leaves and trees and shit? As it stood, my poems were detailed and ornate things but what did they say? When you scratch down through the veneer of imagery, through all the allusions....what did they actually say?

Margarita (rocks, Cointreau, lime juice, salt rim)

This guy walks in here one morning and shoots the cat in the face. Or so the story goes. Believed it or not, that thing up there used to be a real living cat. Anyway, this was all before my time, before I started serving drinks here. Personally, when these guys tell me this story, sometimes I can't help but think, yeah right. I suspect one of them picked up some weird looking stuffed cat from a garage sale, stuck it up there and then though, shit, now I gotta come up with a story to explain this monstrosity. You know why I think this? Because they all embroider the truth. And the more they drink, the more they embroider. They're like a little sewing circle once they get going. Don't get me wrong: I like these guys. I like them a lot. Well, apart from went they get a little leery looking at my boobs and on those occasions when some of them get a little too friendly with their hands. That when you have to be firm. You have to tell them to cut it out or they will get cut off. And the thing they most fear is being cut off. or even worse, 86'ed. Left out in the wilderness to fend for themselves. Look, underneath it all, they are all little boys. And like little boys, they try it on. And that means sometimes I have to be like a school teacher. I have to get a little edge in my voice. Hands to yourself, I say. Keep your voice down. There is a good boy. Well done. I tried dating one of them once. One of the younger ones. Oh, brother, that was a bad idea. I spent time with him outside of work, going to the beach and the movies but then I kept seeing him at the bar. It was too much. I do not recommend mixing your personal and working life together. I had to treat him like a customer when I was here and he didn't like that. He felt he deserved special treatment. I said look, if this is not going to work, you have to choose. Its either your precious bar or me. I can't have you sitting around here while I'm working. I can't police your bad behaviour when you should know better. Besides, there are other bars in the neighbourhood. I gave him an ultimatum. I guess he valued his bar more than me.

Ice water

I used to drink but not anymore. I don't tell that story because I find it has a tendency to define me. People hear it and they get this look of pity on their faces like I am someone that they can look down on. Someone that needs to be lifted up by their gracious feelings of moral superiority. I don't. Believe me. I got my life sorted out. Look, drinking don't bother me anymore. You could set a beer down in front of me on the hottest day, in the middle of the Sahara desert, with the glass sweating, all them little bubbles racing up to the surface and that head creamy and white, like a soft heavenly cloud... and I still wouldn't drink it. I just had enough. I clean windows for a living now. In the city. It's alright. It keeps you moving. Keeps money in your pocket. At the bar, the cat always used to press up against the window, batting his little paw as my blade wiper went up and down the glass. A black cat. Then, one day he wasn't there anymore. I didn't think anything about it. I got plenty on my mind other than a cat. Then I came in for my payment about a week later. I like to keep my payments delayed as long as possible so I have a decent sum of money. I keep accounts in a little spiral-bound notebook; a notebook I keep on my person at all times. A man who doesn't know what he is owed is a man who will never get ahead. That's what my father used to say. Never got on with my father but as you get older, your parent's words come back to you. That's what I found. Anyway, I came into the bar and got me a glass of water while the manager lady was counting out my money. I knew some of those guys who drink in there from around the neighbourhood. I seen them. Staggering down the street at night. Drunk. And they want to drink their lives away, I think they should. I think everybody should do exactly what they want to do. Live and let live, is my motto. Anyway, the manager lady told me about the gun incident. Man, that poor cat! Right in the face! I pocketed my money and passed on my condolences. Cleaning windows in like that...you're always missing out on things or getting only half the story. It's like watching TV with the sound turned down. Or missing entire scenes so the story doesn't make any sense. You're always on the outside of all these little dramas and never really part of them. That's okay. Anyway, I thanked the manager lady and left. I had a few more clients that afternoon. And don't get me wrong. Not for one minute am I'm saying that I have no drama in my own life. Ms Q is still at me. You know how they get. She insists-no green card, no more boom boom. And let me assure you: I like a little boom boom in the afternoon with Ms Q. So that is a situation I'm going to have to address.

Scotch and soda (a few chips of ice).

Beneath the benevolent rays of the sun
the rats have eaten all the cheese
and the maze is laid bare.
The glass eyes of Ra remain locked
on eternity
a ball and socket creature
guardian of the afterlife
black and ready to spring
like a bullet from a gun.
Dear Father Death on high
his pickled vital organs pulse and tremble
inside his chemically preserved body.
He is a stealthy and patient arbiter
deboned and cotton stuffed
mummified in a bottle of rare spirits
waiting
while outside, the dawn garbage trucks ferry human souls
one piece at a time
down into the underworld
and the alleys run slick with slaughtered animal blood
their eyes rolling like liars dice, their tongues gone slack
as the abattoir hammer falls and falls and falls again
and the clicking of ice cubes keeps time
for the galley slaves below
who drink to their lifelong surrender
while remaining firmly chained
to their escape.

Milk 

I'd been down in the office. Looking around. It was fairly nice down there. It is warm and dark. I have very good night vision so I can see down in the basement. The woman who feeds me has all the bottles locked up in a cage as if they were treasure. Also, they have arranged the silver kegs of beer along one wall. There are machines that make ice and purr in the dark, their motors making the air warm. Sometimes they will open a hatch and more kegs of beer will be lowered down by men on the street. The kegs feed the beer to the people above, through a network of tubes. That morning, I was down on my haunches, belly on the ground, scanning the dark. I was tuned into the subterranean space, looking for movement in the corners and under the supply shelves. Down here little creatures forage for food. Behind the pipes, down in the cracks. If I caught something, I wouldn't really eat it. I might just play with it for awhile. The soft food that comes from the factories makes one lazy. Anyway, I got bored so I came up the stairs and slowly went over to the big front window, the one with the neon beer sign hanging in it. Red and blue cursive lettering. Buzzing in the dark.

Outside on the street, a Mexican family was collecting flattened cardboard and putting it in a truck. This cardboard would be taken to a recycling plant for money. I have been in a motor car twice. Both times to see a doctor who is trained to treat animals. They call this doctor a 'vet'. I was put in a box. This box had a cage door and lock. The box was then put inside the motor car. We drove across the city to the vet. It was not a pleasant experience. I am not a chicken. I don't like being cooped up. I do not like being put inside a box.

I sat there, by the window, looking at the street. Something moved in the corner of my vision. I turned my head, attempting to lock in on this movement. It was nothing. The ghost of a mouse I'd eaten once perhaps? An afterimage from long ago when I was still young. Back when I still ate mice. I looked back at the street view. I looked at the street lamps, the traffic lights, the road, the pavement, the buildings and the windows in those buildings. At the sky. The sun would begin to rise soon. I like the sun. Living indoors, the only thing I wonder about is the birds. They are very intriguing. When I lock onto one, sitting on a telegraph line, his little head ticking nervously away, it is very....well.....very difficult for me to concentrate on anything else.

I sat there at the window for a very long time, watching the sky lighten. Then I heard the keys jangling in the front door lock and I felt a draft of cold air. This man who came in is the bartender. He has various duties but his main responsibility is to provide the people who come in with the beer I previously mentioned. I break from my position as soon as he appears, walking down the length of the bar, slowly, looking left and right. Despite myself, I curled around the bartender's leg. This contact sends waves of electricity along my spine and into my brain. I am a tactical creature. I did this once, twice, three times. For my efforts, I received a nail scratch on my head, between my ears, that eventually travelled down the length of my spine, between my shoulder blades towards the cluster of nerves above my tail. It was extremely nice at first but then I began to get irritated. My mood can change like that. Despite the fact I was purring like a small well-tuned engine, I was getting ready to go for his hand. This bartender knows my limitations and stopped just in time, thus avoiding a flip-attack. And lucky for him.

Then Jerry arrives at the usual time. Jerry likes Miller Genuine Draft. Millar Genuine draft. Later on, Carl arrived. Carl made a phone call and then sat at the bar with his Irish coffee. I cleaned my ears with one paw. First the left, then the right. While I am doing this, I remain expertly alert and aware of everyone's movements. The bartender had made some coffee in a steel urn. The smell of the coffee permeates the air. He had carried up some ice in a plastic bucket up the stairs. Then he cleans things and cut up limes. I do not like limes. Limes overwhelm my sense of smell. This is a very predictable routine. Suddenly, my whiskers go tant like piano wires. I sensed something behind me. I get ready to pounce, turned and....nothing. I'm feeling edgy this morning. I stretch, trying to work out the tension, feeling my spine pop silently as I arch my back, my muscles flexing. Then I stare, fixating on an invisible point in the middle distance, hypnotised for a moment. At times, you can almost see things beyond the physical world. If you stare long enough. After that, I sat on the window ledge, by the free newspapers. A new guy comes in the bar. He is young and intense looking. There is something bad about his aura. Something off. He purchases a beer and sits in the corner. I will stay away from this man.

I licked my left paw. Then my right. My tongue is covered with tiny pink hooks. My claws are neatly folded away inside my paws. When you bother me I will come at you like a malfunctioning sewing machine. I will hurt you. I will remind you that I am closer to the animal kingdom that you are. I often marvel at the way I am designed. If I were bigger I would probably hunt human beings. Probably. I often dream about this. In my dreams spring off buildings and overwhelm my prey. I trap and stun you in my dreams. Death is a slow and considered thing. You don't stand a chance.

My whiskers twitch again, picking up a signal from the invisible world. What is it? This morning I am very jumpy. I get up, pad across the floor. Jerry won't let me near him. Some old men are like this. Once they are finished with the women and the children, they have no use for animals. All they want to do is sit and drink beer. Outside people begin to move past. Commuters. I yawn, exposing my little pink cave lined with needle teeth. A single shiver travels down my spine. I make my way up the stairs and along the railing to the high ledge, the one above all the bottles. This is a good vantage point. Soon a beam of sunlight will come in through the window. The beam will be coloured by the stained glass. Up here, there are no clodding feet to crush paws or tails. Up here it is safe. Human beings become strange when they consume alcohol. They clump around like giant angry children. Up here I can keep track of them. I like the sound of the old men's voices as they drifting up. I have been listening to these voices for many years. I lay down and stretch out. The sun begins to come through the window. The sun is warm. There is nothing better than the sun.