a cold and dark night, with clouds covering the moon and stars.
a stranger walked into bob’s bowery bar.
there was nothing remarkable about that. bob’s was an establishment open to the public, located on the corner of two busy thoroughfares in the greatest city in the world.
strangers walked in all the time. many were just passing through, and never returned. others returned on occasion, others with more regularity. yet others became part of the bob’s “family” and spent much of their lives there.
but there was something about this stranger…
janet the young waitress, connie the not so young waitress, and bob’s mom, who had just finished cleaning up after preparing tomorrow’s special (bob’s mom’s own lasagna with meatballs), were chatting near the kitchen door when the stranger walked in.
“he looks like a strange man,” connie the not so young waitress said.
“he must be pretty strange if you think he’s strange,” said janet.
“he’s not bad looking,” said bob’s mom.
“for a bum. maybe,” janet replied. “look at that hat. and that coat collar. well, i think i hear one of my masters’ voices.” and she headed off to one of the back booths.
meanwhile the stranger approached the bar. it was bob’s night off, and paddy the philosopher was presiding.
“whiskey. a double, “ the stranger annoounced,
“any particular kind?” paddy asked.
“the cheapest kind you have.”
“that would be old wellbottom. does that suit you?”
“i didn’t know they sold it north of the mason dixon line. that will do very well.”
paddy took the bottle of old wellbottom from a low shelf, wiped some dust off it, and poured the stranger his double.
the stranger stared at his drink but did not immediately seize it. “you probably think it strange that a gentleman as distinguished looking as myself would be drinking old wellbottom.”
“not at all, sir. there is no accounting for tastes. the best dressed and most respectable customers often choose the best bargains, and the most raffish and disreputable looking will often bely their outward appearance by ordering the most expensive potions.”
“i did not always drink old wellbottom,” the stranger responded in a lugubrious tone. he had a deep voice, like an actor of the old school.
“i am sure you did not, sir.”
“my story is a strange one.”
“i am sure it is, sir. but if you will excuse me, one of our most valued patrons is somewhat peremptorily calling for my services."
after serving sammy the schmuck at the other end of the bar, paddy returned to the stranger.
“my story s a strange one,” the stranger began again.
but just then the door opened and terrible tolliver strode forcefully up to the center of the bar, and paddy hastened to serve him.
“it is no use,” the stranger intoned when paddy returned, “my tale is not to be told this night.”
“i tell you what, sir,” paddy replied. “you see that table in the center of the room, off to your left, where those three gentlemen are seated?”
the table paddy indicated was the poets’ table. it was quieter than usual, with only three of the regulars in attendance, namely seamas mcseamas the irish poet, hector philips stone the doomed romantic poet, and frank x fagen the nature poet.
“those gentlemen are poets,” paddy continued, and waved at the table to get the occupants’ attention. “and always ready for a tale to while away the hours. look here, seamas," paddy raised his voice. "this gentleman has a story to tell. would you and your companions like to hear it?”
“of course,” seamas growled. “if he cares to buy us a round.”
“that’s cheap enough,” said frank x fagen. “seeing as there are only three of us.”
“but there may be more,” hector philips stone added, with a glance at the door. “the night is young.”
“i am sorry,” the stranger replied. “but my present financial situation precludes such a generous offer on your part.”
“no need to get on your high horse, my friend,” seamas told him, with a wave of his hand. “we will continue without you, thank you very much.”
bob’s mom had been listening to the exchange. “for shame!” she cried. “for shame! this is bob’s bowery bar! bob’s bowery bar, famous the whole world over, as a place a stranger can tell his tale and find a sympathetic ear.”
the stranger gulped down the remains of his drink and stood up. “i thank you madam, most sincerely for your concern ,” he announced in his actor’s voice which carried across the whole of the room. “but i am afraid it is misplaced. i am not a mountebank, nor yet a little dog, to beg for any man’s attention. i bid you all good night, and pleasant dreams.”
and with that the stranger turned and stalked out the door.
“that was the saddest story i ever heard,” said paddy.
“but he didn’t even tell it,” said frank x fagen the nature poet.
“that’s what i mean, boyo. that is the saddest story - the one nobody wants to hear.”
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