3.
Inside Bronzino’s, dirty green wall-to-wall carpet gave way to grey linoleum in the expanse of space that must have been living room, dining, room kitchen shotgunned together. There were five round, heavily varnished walnut tables with thick heavily varnished chairs in the space. Three of the tables were filled with patrons–overweight women and men, pitchers of beer, smudged glasses, peanut bowls half empty, shells littering the table tops.
“This could be a Knights of Columbus Bingo party,” Waldo said quietly, disappointed.
“I’ll get us a pitcher of beer, “Singleton said, as if in expiation. “Sit here.” He pulled out a hefty dark chair for Suzan.
“This seems like a family bar,” Waldo said, sitting down and apparently irritated that Singleton had taken charge of the next minutes.
“I wonder if there’s such a thing as a family bar?” Walling said.
“In London, at the better pubs, you can sit with your family,” Suzan said. “Sometimes it so nice to sit with your children in the back garden area of the pub or in a side room away from the noise.”
“You have children?” Ralph asked.
“No,” Waldo answered. “Only staffers.”
“I went with my father to pubs in Highgate and Hampstead. They were lovely.” Suzan continued.
“I’m looking at these people and I can’t see hostility at all. In fact I’m wondering why I was given the name of this place. It’s like a low class, lunch pail bridge convention or something. Strictly lunch pail. And now we have to wait through a pitcher of beer. Probably crappy beer too.”
Singleton came back with the beer and six small glasses. He poured a round and said, “Here’s to the memory of the Valhalla. Maybe Worcester no longer has a toughest bar.”
Waldo countered: “In KL –that’s Kuala Lumpur—” he paused looking at Ralph, then added. “That’s Malaysia, Kuala Lumpur Malaysia. The capital city. You can’t get any bacon. It’s a Muslim country. You can’t get pork. Course, you can, but only in the Chinese sections of KL. But on the breakfast menus you’ll find a reference to ‘bacon substitute’. You know what that is?”
Ralph said immediately, “No.”
“Well, it’s thin strips of veal, strips fried up like bacon. And delicious, but more expensive than bacon.”
“Not many things more expensive than bacon lately,” Suzan said.
“Right you are, pet. Right you are. This place shows me nothing. Who recommended this place?”
“We’ve got to finish our beer and wait our nine minutes,” Singleton said.
“The hell we do,” Waldo said.
“Well, we ought to,” Singleton continued. “The experiment has to be fully done and completely replicable.”
“I like that word, replicable,” Suzan said, savoring the syllables. “Rep lick ah bull.”
“In the barracks on Batam Island the workers sleep in hammocks, sometimes four tiers high,” Waldo said.
“Tiers?” Ralph asked.
“Tears indeed,” Suzan answered. “You should hear him and see his tears over the exploited workers of Batam Island.”
“Okay,” Waldo said, getting up. “We’re outta here.”
“I paid for the beer,” Singleton said.
“Tell me at the end of the evening,” Waldo said.
“Tell you what?”
“How much you shelled out to keep this crew fat and happy.”
“We’re not so happy,” Walling said.
“We’re outta here,” Waldo said again.
“Maybe we should try some place with Huns around,” Singleton suggested.
“Maybe you should wait for your orders,” Waldo said.
“Yes!” added Ralph, draining the beer pitcher.
In the van Waldo said, “I’ve got one more place recommended. On Park Avenue. Maybe a kind of immediate ‘post-college’ place. Called the Foo Bar.”
“I know it,” Singleton shouted.
“Oh, he knows it,” Waldo echoed. “But I’m worried we’re losing our focus. We’re not just going to bars. We’re trying to find the toughest bar in Worcester. Isn’t that what we’re trying to do?”
“Who cares?” said Suzan.
“Our readers, pet. The ones who keep us in Bermuda when we need it most.”
“Like now,” said Walling.
“Oh, not like now,” Suzan continued, “certainly not now, when we’re collecting all this important data about tough bars in Worcester.”
“Yes,” said Ralph.
“I like you,” Suzan said. “You’re affirming.”
“One from the scrum is always affirming.” Walling said.
The Foo Bar had a dark red glow. The bar stools were filled, but the occupants seemed too well dressed for toughness, and too pre-occupied with the Red Sox game on the two large television screens bracketing the bar. The noise level, however, was promising. Demi shout filled the low ceilinged room and the red lamps with their translucent red shades supplied the proper motivation for fisticuffs.
“We can get something going here,” Singleton said, drawing extra chairs to the tiny round table beyond the left end of the bar.
“You’ve got it backwards and I’m getting tired of pointing that out,” Waldo said.
Suzan said, relaxing back into the chair Singleton pushed further under her, “Tell us about Batam Island. You know about the sleeping arrangements.”
“Don’t get cute,” Waldo said. “It’s not you.”
“Oh, but it’s you,” Suzan sing-songed back to Waldo.
Walling brought over gin and tonics. “Imagine it’s summer,” he said.
“Beer and gin doesn’t work,” Singleton said.
“Let’s see,” Suzan said. She took a long drink. “Yes, it can work.”
Ralph finished his drink in one long swig, and went to the bar to get another.
“Let’s go back over the criteria,” Waldo said, slumping a bit in his chair, scuffing a bit his Timberlands along the chocolate, stained and worn carpet.
When he got back and before he sat down, Ralph said a bit too loudly, “I hate the Red Sox.”
Singleton smiled and nodded at Waldo.
“You’ve got to remember the criteria.” Waldo said.
“If it’s not around, you’ve got to make it happen,” Singleton answered.
“The Red Sox suck,” Ralph said, again too loudly. A few bar stools spun slowly at the sentiment, turning away from the spring-training, pre-season game.
4.
A distant segment of the bar lifted up and a burly fellow in a grey sweatshirt slowly walked through the opening.
“Here it comes,” Singleton said, joyous at the prospect.
He came to within a foot of their table. “You nice people see Roadhouse with Patrick Swayze?” the burly fellow asked, taking off his baseball hat and holding it politely with