every bar in the world has a willie the weeper.
and every bar in the world has a silent sam.
willie the weeper moves around, up and down the bar, sometimes over to the tables or booths if he sees a likely victim, trying to tell his sad story or stories.
silent sam sits in his corner or booth, alone.
one snowy night, about an hour before closing time, willie the weeper walked into bob’s bowery bar, near the corner of bleecker and the bowery.
willie had never seen it so quiet.
the only customers who seemed to be in the place were scaramanga, the leftist poet, who was sitting alone at the poet’s table with a doleful look on his long face, and a young couple who looked like tourists, seated at a booth just to the right of the door.
bob himself, behind the bar, did not look his usual alert self, and seemed to be falling asleep.
connie was the only waitress on duty, sitting at a table near the end of the bar, and she barely glanced at willie as she lit a fresh cigarette from the one she had just smoked down to a stub.
bob’s mom had fallen asleep in the kitchen, after preparing tomorrow’s special - mom’s own authentic extra spicy hungarian goulash.
“quiet night, huh?” willie observed, as he seated himself at the bar.
“yes, it is,” bob answered, “what will you have, willie? the usual?
“what else?” willie put his dime on the bar, for his “usual” - the smallest glass of his homemade bock that bob sold.
“even the poets ain’t here tonight,” willie observed.
“i threw them out. they were getting rowdy, arguing about some foolishness. i told them they could come back tomorrow.”
“scaramanga is here.”
“he came in later.”
“he looks lonely.”
probably not so lonely that he wants to listen to you, bob thought, but aloud he said, “he might be.”
willie looked over at the young tourist looking couple in the booth. even willie could see that they would not be interested in his company. “they look like they are in love, “ he said with a sigh.
“the world could always use more love,” bob agreed.
willie was about ready to give up. who would give him the faster brushoff, scaramanga or connie? connie was a waitress, paid to be friendly, but bob made exceptions, and willie knew he was one of them.
a movement in the shadows of one of the rear booths caught willie’s eye.
“is that silent sam over there?” willie asked bob.
“him or his twin brother. and that’s been his spot since before pearl harbor.”
“i think i will go see what he has to say.”
“it’s worth a try.”
willie took his small glass of bock over to sam’s booth, and sat down across from him.
“how’s it going, sam?”
“as ever.”
willie took a sip of his bock. “they say everybody’s got a story a tell.”
“yeah, especially you. you should write a book, with all your stories.”
suddenly, for no reason he could even begin to want to know, willie was seized with a desire to hear silent sam’s story.
“you must have a story or two yourself, sam.”
“not me.”
“everybody has a story to tell.”
“everybody but me.”
“ ’ the tragedy of the modern age is that those who have the least to say, say the most',” willie quoted. “ ‘and those who most desperately desire to be heard, are silenced.’ i think schopenhauer said that. or maybe it was nietzsche.”
“it was hegel,” sam said.
“if you say so.”
outside, the snow continued to fall.
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