I pushed the flimsy wooden door open and was immediately bathed in cheap neon, out of date rock and country blaring from the nicotine smeared juke in the corner, and the stale reek of cigarette smoke. I guess they didn't get the memo about smoking being taboo way out here. I looked around as I pushed into the murky depths of the bar. I saw an alcohol soaked couple making cooing faces at one another in a corner booth, there were a pair of sullen looking men playing a listless game of pool under a smoky low hung light, a woman with hips wide enough to stretch the fabric of her leopard print tights to capacity, her blonde dyed hair done up in a dissolving beehive, and at the graffiti scrawled bar sat a man in a green truckers cap pulled down low, his shoulders drawn down together, a thin white trail of cigarette smoke snaked its way upward, around the brim of his hat. A half-empty mug of pale yellow beer sat on the bar in front of him. To his right sat another man, not dressed as shabbily, but just as deeply into his sauce. I found an unoccupied corner and made my way over to it. I signaled the disinterested bartender and was slid a mug of the same pale yellow beer that everyone seemed to have in front of him or her. I stared at it a moment, trying to decide if I wanted to be a hypocrite, the argument still buzzing in my ears like sour music. I reminded myself that I wasn't the one who had to have a drink every hour of every day to get by. With that logic, I bent to task and begun to work on the sour beer in front of me.
'Lady troubles.' A cracked voice to my right intoned.
'You could say that, yeah.' I answered, turning my attention to the voice. It belonged to a man with deep set wrinkles, his eyes sparkled from behind a set of bushy white eyebrows. On his head sat a weather beaten black Stetson, he wore an equally battered denim jacket, and it was no surprise that he wore denim jeans pulled down over a pair of black square-toed cowboy boots.
The man nodded, bent his head down and cracked a match to light with a yellowed thumbnail; he pulled deeply on the filterless cigarette I failed to notice jutting from the corner of his mouth.
'Yeah, we don't get much company 'round these parts now a days. Mostly it's just the hands from the mill up the road a piece. Accourse, the mills been dying a slow death for the past seventeen years, but old man Link refuses to accept fate, and just keeps on plugging away. Names Earl, nice to meet you.' He offered a leathery hand, and I found myself shaking it.
'My name is Kevin, and how do you figure I've got lady troubles?'
'Well for one thing, you're not dressed the part of a regular, and for another, why would a man, a stranger go so far off the beaten path to get a piss warm, watery beer?'
I found myself nodding along, and liking Earl at the same time.
'Yeah, me and the missus had it out tonight.' I chuckled ruefully as I took another pull of the strange yellow beer. It wasn't so bad once you got past the taste really.
Earl, for his part said nothing, just pulled on his cigarette, took a sip off his beer, and waited. I took the cue, and found a loose thread of narrative that I could start.
'My lady's name is Melissa, and she and I have been going round and round about her drinking, cause lately it's been getting worse. Getting to the point where she can't make it through her lunch hour without popping into Pepe's close to where she works. She chews mints, or gum to hide the smell on her breath, but there ain't no hiding the bloodshot eyes and sour disposition when she's been in her cups,' I stared at the nearly empty mug in front of me, and wasn't surprised to find another full waiting on me near at hand. 'And it doesn't escape me that I am in a bar, when I've been arguing with my girl about her drinking problem.' I sighed, finished my first, and started in on my second. I wasn't feeling anything, and usually I'm pretty light weight when it comes to drinking. I do it so infrequently.
'And here you are, drinking a beer.' Earl echoed quietly, reflectively. He crushed his cigarette out in a chipped white ashtray, stared at the bleary mirror behind the bar, and stared at me a moment. 'You know what pyrite is?' He asked suddenly.
'Isn't that fool's gold?' I asked, not knowing where this conversation was suddenly going.
'Yeah, fool's gold, such a fitting name, don't you think? After all, only a fool would think it's real.' He answered quietly, lighting another unfiltered cigarette. 'I guess love is a lot like fool's gold. If it's real, then there is no question it's real, you've paid a pretty penny for that gold, but if it's fake, then by god, don't it feel and look real from the outside?' He drug on his cigarette while I chewed over what he was saying. 'But when it's fake everybody can tell. Oh sure, it looks real and those involved keep convincing themselves that it's real, but they know better. After all, they're the ones trapped in a loveless relationship, a fool's gold because they know better, but refuse to do anything about it.' He looked at me a moment, then turned to his beer, and crushed out his cigarette. 'Well, pardon an old man's rambling, didn't mean to stick my nose in where it belongs. You have yourself a fine evening Kevin. And maybe you and the missus can work things out, or maybe you'll figure out how real the gold of your love is.' He dropped me a wink and indicated to me before dropping a soggy ten on the worn bar. I watched the old man disappear into the darkened rear of the bar, chewing over what he'd said, amazed at the succinctness of his words, and the truth behind them. I finished my second beer, and made my way outside, not feeling the least bit buzzed from the warm beers I'd just drank.
I wish I could say that this tale has a happy ending, but sadly, it doesn't. Melissa wound up wrapping her Toyota around a live oak, not two weeks after my visit to the bar in the middle of nowhere. She made out okay, but her girlfriend riding shotgun has to eat through a tube now and has to wear adult diapers; Melissa is facing felony charges for having a blood alcohol level twice the legal limit.
On a final, stranger note is the bar. I drove past it yesterday, hoping to see Earl, so I could relay this bit of sad news, but when I got close I noticed that it had an abandoned feel to it, and I noticed one corner had sagged in from a fire that had nipped at the eaves some time ago. The window was so dusty that I couldn't make out the interior of the bar, but after seeing the ancient, yellowed calendar propped up in the corner I knew I wouldn't want to see inside. Already knowing what I'd find, I tried the door anyway, and wasn't surprised to find it locked. I backed down the steps, feeling the fine hairs on the nape of my neck standing up, and distantly I could make out an old, craggy voice asking me about pyrite. I guess I found out just how real my gold was in the end. I smiled at the black velvety night sky, and silently said a thank you to a man I knew as Earl.
Your story had a kind of pulp fiction, down-home way about it that I liked. The kind that great story writers are able to convey. But in the end, the device of the ghost bar that you used seems like something that I read often in stories like this and is a bit of a letdown. It's a formula that works, though.
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