I looked up when it happened, but I didn’t see it; the sound was what made me look up. I was deep in whatever I was working on -- a paper for some class -- and by the time I’d registered that something was happening, it was basically over, and there was a car parked in the bar.
There was dust everywhere, and pieces of broken wall, and chunks of plaster and decorative artwork.
And, of course, the car. It was a nice car, too, something I didn’t recognize the make of except in a vague “it’s one of the really expensive ones” sort of way. It didn’t really look that much the worse for having driven through the wall, just covered in plaster.
I could see the driver behind the wheel, through the windshield. He looked stunned, like he couldn’t believe that this had happened. I sympathized.
I turned back to the bar, finished typing the paragraph I was working on. The police would be here soon enough and then my train of thought would be gone forever, flushed away by a stream of cop-talk and poorly thought out procedural language.
The bartender, a guy named... Mark? Mike? I had gotten his name like three times and couldn’t remember it... I’d go with...
“Mark, can I have another double, please?”
He was staring at the car, sort of leaned away from it, his hands raised defensively as though he was worried that another car might be incoming.
I tapped my empty highball on the table, which made him blink and look at me.
“Sure, of course.” He put a couple of ice cubes in a new glass and poured what I have to say was a generous dose of single-malt, and just a bare squirt of soda; he set it on the bar in front of me and then poured himself one.
There was a general shifting of rubble, a creaking of hinges. The driver was climbing out of his car.
I took a sip of the whiskey and watched the guy climb out of the car, over a piece of wall, pulling a bad velvet painting aside. He was wearing a good suit with no tie; it looked like he’d slept in it.
Fair enough, it was nine AM.
He made it as far as the bar and sort of collapsed against it, his rear end finding the stool on its own while he clutched the bar top with his elbows.
“Scotch and soda,” he said. “Ah, the Macallan, if you’ve got any.”
Mark got busy making it.
The guy turned around and looked back at his car. He looked just as amazed about its being in the middle of the bar as though he’d just staggered back from the bathroom.
“So,” I said, “Busy day?”
He looked over at me. Mark set the glass on the bar in front of him; the guy picked it up and looked at it.
“I’m supposed to be turning myself in to the police,” he said. “Tax thing.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, the station’s not much of a walk from here.”
“Oh,” he said, “I expect that if I just sit here, they’ll turn up in a bit.”
I raised my glass. “Cheers,” I said.
“Cheers.”
We both drank, and turned back to look at the car.
There was dust everywhere, and pieces of broken wall, and chunks of plaster and decorative artwork.
And, of course, the car. It was a nice car, too, something I didn’t recognize the make of except in a vague “it’s one of the really expensive ones” sort of way. It didn’t really look that much the worse for having driven through the wall, just covered in plaster.
I could see the driver behind the wheel, through the windshield. He looked stunned, like he couldn’t believe that this had happened. I sympathized.
I turned back to the bar, finished typing the paragraph I was working on. The police would be here soon enough and then my train of thought would be gone forever, flushed away by a stream of cop-talk and poorly thought out procedural language.
The bartender, a guy named... Mark? Mike? I had gotten his name like three times and couldn’t remember it... I’d go with...
“Mark, can I have another double, please?”
He was staring at the car, sort of leaned away from it, his hands raised defensively as though he was worried that another car might be incoming.
I tapped my empty highball on the table, which made him blink and look at me.
“Sure, of course.” He put a couple of ice cubes in a new glass and poured what I have to say was a generous dose of single-malt, and just a bare squirt of soda; he set it on the bar in front of me and then poured himself one.
There was a general shifting of rubble, a creaking of hinges. The driver was climbing out of his car.
I took a sip of the whiskey and watched the guy climb out of the car, over a piece of wall, pulling a bad velvet painting aside. He was wearing a good suit with no tie; it looked like he’d slept in it.
Fair enough, it was nine AM.
He made it as far as the bar and sort of collapsed against it, his rear end finding the stool on its own while he clutched the bar top with his elbows.
“Scotch and soda,” he said. “Ah, the Macallan, if you’ve got any.”
Mark got busy making it.
The guy turned around and looked back at his car. He looked just as amazed about its being in the middle of the bar as though he’d just staggered back from the bathroom.
“So,” I said, “Busy day?”
He looked over at me. Mark set the glass on the bar in front of him; the guy picked it up and looked at it.
“I’m supposed to be turning myself in to the police,” he said. “Tax thing.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, the station’s not much of a walk from here.”
“Oh,” he said, “I expect that if I just sit here, they’ll turn up in a bit.”
I raised my glass. “Cheers,” I said.
“Cheers.”
We both drank, and turned back to look at the car.
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