In this exceedingly clever latecomer tale for our Ain’t That Quaint? contest, the delightful Sable Jordan settles two questions at once:  Whether bartenders can hold their liquor, and whether librarians are truly loose. To get to the bottom, so to speak, of these pressing questions, either Sable has spent a lot of time in bars listening to the old timers’ beery banter, or she has a powerfully good imagination.  Either way, she’s an excellent writer, a superior humorist, and possesses a preternaturally sharp ear for dialogue.  Just like a good bartender, she knows how to shake, stir, muddle, mix and blend words to produce one tasty concoction.

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Tie

“How’s it goin’, Mac?” I asked, sauntering up to the vacant spot at the bar where a young woman–face red and puffy from crying–pulled herself from the stool.  I watched her stumble out into the night, her sobs filtering through the open doors of Liquid Courage before the heavy wooden structures swung closed, drowning out the sound.  It wasn’t an unusual occurrence for people to leave the bar drunk off their rocker and in tears.  Chances were good she’d come in, had a drink, spilled her problems to Mac, and he dished up his usual brand of therapy–straight, no chaser.

White towel in hand, Mac massaged the same spot on his shiny mahogany bar even though there wasn’t a drop of anything on it.  There was never a drop on it, but that didn’t stop him from wiping.

“Same ole’ same, Nicky.  What’ll ya have?”  He stopped his ministrations long enough to take my order–Jack and Coke–before resuming his endless buffing.

“Sam,” I said, nodding a greeting to the portly man perched on the stool beside me who was a constant fixture at the place.  He’d probably come in hours ago and been glued to the spot all day. Levelheaded Sam only said as much as he needed to, but you could count on him to settle all the stupid bets that popped up when men got inebriated.   Mac delivered my drink and I sipped the cocktail slowly, enjoying the sharp bite of the alcohol after a long day at the shop.   “What was her problem?”

“Didn’t say.  Came in for a soda an’ started cryin’.  Then she left out.” The bartender shrugged but kept rubbing.

“Crazy how people come in here and spill their guts to you.”

The shining stopped long enough for a response to my comment.  “Jus’ like goin’ to a head doctor, Nicky, ‘cept ya get a drink an’ the advice is free.”

I snorted.  “That ain’t the reason.  Everyone knows ‘tenders can’t hold their liquor.  People come in an’ tell all ‘cause they know you’ll get drunk and forget everything by mornin’.  You’re more like a confessional than a therapist, Mac.”

The man’s fleshy face turned an alarming shade of red.  I suppose I’d insulted his psychology credentials.

“Can’t hold liquor?  That’s the stupidest…s’like sayin’ all barbers are bald or all librarians are loose!”

“Bald barbers…” I chuckled, shaking my head and bringing the tumbler to my lips.  “There’s a joke.”

“So, you think librarians are loose?” he barked, catching my meaning.

“Your words,” I shrugged, which only made him angrier.

With a finger pointed at me he said, “Got a hunn’erd dollars says I can out-drink you.  Sam, pay attention.” Mac slammed two shot glasses on the bar then hurriedly filled them to overflowing with whiskey, sliding me one.  “Keep count’a how many drinks me an’ this old fool have an’ tell us who wins.”

Sam nodded, quietly nursing what might have been his tenth drink of the day.

“I hold my water,” Mac growled firmly, “An’ librarians ain’t loose.”

I gripped the whiskey and boasted, “Easiest hundred I’ll ever make!”

The doors flew open and I spun to see the same young woman storm back in; brows knit, jaw set in determination.  “I’m pregnant, and I don’t know for who!” she proclaimed loudly, directing her ire at Mac before fleeing back into the night.

Wide-eyed, Mac looked at Sam then back at me, grabbed his shot, and downed it in one gulp.  His red face turned a brighter shade, looking like a squeezed tomato ready to explode.  Seconds later he pitched face-forward onto that perfect mahogany bar, leaving a drool mark before crumpling to the floor.

I sat, whiskey in hand, too stunned to respond.

“He missed a spot,” Sam commented indifferently, sipping his drink.  “Looks like ya won’t find out if he can hold his water.  I’ll call it a tie fer now.”

“A tie?  But he passed out after one drink!” I argued.  “He can’t hold his liquor and I win.”

“You’re the baldin’ faster’n a cheap tire, Nicky, so Mac’s got ya there,” Sam chuckled, a gravelly sound like rocks in a can.  “As for bartenders…well you ain’t right about that jus’ yet ‘cause that whiskey ain’t what put Mac on his back.”

“Then what did?” I frowned, a low groan making me think we should call an ambulance.

“That was Mac’s daughter,” Sam flashed a toothless grin.  “The librarian.”

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Maybe the barber is the father.