The bar on 5th street was what you would call a dive in every sense of the word. After all, it was called Ricky’s. Plain name. Plain bar. It was… my hangout. What else would one do after working in a library for 8 hours? The drinks were cheap and the people were the same. No weirdos bothered me, everyone kept to themselves sipping on the drink of their choice. Poe liked his wild turkey, J.D. liked his Budweiser, and Malory liked his Bacardi colas. Those might not be their real names, but those are the names I gave them. For my amusement I began giving everyone author names.
I would get done with work usually around 5 and by the time I get to Ricky’s, Milton, Marlow, and Carroll are already there. I always walk by them to get to my table and hear them arguing about the direction of society. Carroll always sees things in a decline no matter what is going on in the world (even though he never watches the news and doesn’t know how right he might be). Milton always seems to know the reason of the decline, but he never really shares it. Donne is also around at this time, he was the one you usually stood away from, and he keeps his own conversation going regardless if anyone else is speaking.
In the four years I’ve been coming here I have yet to meet anyone called Ricky. The 2 bartenders have been Bram and Thomas. The waitresses on the other hand, the only real name I got (as far as I know) was Gwen. I really got to know her and she really didn’t belong here. I could sense the unhappiness that she had working here along with her lost dreams, her ambitions. And as she got to know me, I think she got to thinking the same. In a moment, I blinked and she was gone.
My first day at Ricky’s, Shelly asked what I did for a living. It took me a minute to respond because I was mesmerized by her smile. I made no immediate reaction to her lack of teeth, it was more of a perplexing thought to the surroundings that we were in and her need for information. My response ended up being that I was in between jobs. Just imagine my fright of being in a new place. Especially after starting a new job. My second week there I confided in Shelly and revealed that I worked at the library. Her response was…”okay.”
My drink of choice was usually a screwdriver, or anything with vodka. And every Wednesday Marlow would always buy me a drink. Not once have I actually talked to him, other then a ‘thanks’ but he continues to buy me a drink. I don’t complain and just go along with it. Every now and then a song I know will play on the jukebox and I’ll sing along to myself, not paying attention to everyone else, but they make their way around singing along and they pass by me and give a drunken laugh, and I give a drunken smile in return. I see they are happy; in this moment. But I wonder about the coming days. The mornings and the work hours.
I have begun to stop telling people that I’m a librarian for everyone approaches, asking some drunken ridiculous question and no matter how I explain it they still do not understand. For my own amusement, I create what I want. “Of course the cost of information is increasing how else can the government keep tabs on you? You ever call the library for a question? You think you are the only one getting the answers?”
This one time I was sitting at my table and Ovid walks by. He doesn’t say anything. He blinks three times (I think it was three) and stamps his foot twice then gives me a nod and then walks to the bathroom. As he walks away, I look around for a new table. I notice an isolated table across the way, opposite to where I’m sitting. I try to think of who sits there, but no names come to mind. I decide that needs to be my new table or that its time for a new bar.
I grab my glass and tell Shelly that I’m moving over there, not really giving a definitive direction. She gives the “all right, hun”. And things seem kosher. Then Ovid emerges from the bathroom in a reckless rage, claiming someone grabbed his ass. Out comes Virgil (from the bathroom) with a bewildered look on his face. Next thing I know, Ovid swings at Virgil, he ducks and hits Ovid with an uppercut, then Chaucer jumps on Virgil and Dante holds back Ovid. Kafka, of all people, jumps off his stool and starts swinging at everybody. Wilde tries to buy him a drink to calm him down, but he hits Spencer with the first blow and his second blow hits Melville. Horace collapses on his own and Grimm stands up and slurs, “all what the hell? Just have drink.”
My eyes widen, trying to comprehend what just happened. Bram grabs his bat and slams it down on the bar getting every one's attention. “Everyone shut up and have a drink!” Suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder. “Quite the spectacle wasn’t it?” I turn to reply as a gentleman joins my table. He has a new face, someone I don’t recognize and before I can give him a name he introduces himself as Shakespeare. That gave me a chuckle. “Day in and day out,” he says as he leans back, “you come in here. Nothing ever changes. It’s the same people with the same problems. I bet you could tell a story about every individual in this place. Lord knows I could. And in each of your stories there would an element of truth, nonetheless. Each character in this bar could also tell a story about you. Maybe even me. Tell me, when you look at a person, what do you see? Do you see yourself? An idea? Maybe even the inner battle that rages within us all. You work in the library, correct? It’s been years since I’ve been there.”
I’m speechless and just stare at him. He continues on, “you know I’ve been here since the day this place opened. It used to be called Mickey’s. Can you believe that? Mickey’s then Ricky’s.” “Wow, that’s rather odd,” I replied. “It sure is,” he said as he took a sip from his drink.
He then stared at his drink with a thoughtful look in his eyes. I didn’t say anything as he looked on. It seemed like he was looking into the inner core of his drink. A few minutes pass, and he looks up and says, “I’ve got my next idea.” He smiles, then finishes his drink and looks over at me. “It’s gonna be a good one, it’s gonna be a good one.” He started nodding his head and repeating that over and over. I slowly slipped out of my chair just as Shelly was making a round. “You be careful when you sit with Willie, hun. His conversations become a broken record after 3 drinks.” Confused, I look down at Shakespeare. “Day in and day out,” he begins.
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