In the Tavern of Lost Souls
By Lenny Everson
rev 1
Copyright Lenny Everson 2014
Cover Design by Lenny Everson
Cover Painting by Casey Jozwiakowski
Dedications
Dedicated to my wife, Dianne, who kept my soul from being lost, to my daughter, Anita, and to my friends, Al Daigen, Susan E. Smith, and Casey Jozwiakowski who encouraged this strange poetic madness.
****
Introduction
This is an entertainment. It does not claim to be anything else. Any connection to real life is coincidental and a lucky accident.
Lollie, Alf, Cal, and Blossom are products of my imagination, pure and simple.
****
Chapter 1: The Beginning
Lollie hesitated, looking up and down there street. She hadn't been in an awful lot of bars in her life, and this one didn't look particularly inviting.
An old beer parlour, she decided, looking up at the façade. Improved at some point, then let go downhill again, when business failed to pick up.
But the name and the address matched those on the mauve slip of paper in her hand. And it was cold outside, the October winds pushing a few leaves around. Lollie swung the door open.
There were maybe a dozen people in the room, scattered among twenty tables. Three television screens looked down on Formica tables, but one had nothing but colored lines waving like sea kelp in a riptide.
She paused. There was one guy at the bar and five middle-aged couples scattered around the room. The rest were sitting alone at tables. It was, Lollie, decided, time to go home. Right now.
She didn't quite get turned around before one of the men at a table waved to her, holding up the same mauve sheet of paper. Like a sick elephant, the sadness of the world stepped on Lollie's soul, but her hesitation lost her this battle. It became easier to go forward.
The man, short with dark scraggly hair, smiled a lopsided smile. "I'm Cal," he said. "Short for Calhoun. Welcome to the tavern of lost souls." He nodded at the woman beside him. "This is…"
"Blossom," she said. She was a small brown-skinned woman with a bright flowered dress and very short hair.
"Not her real name, I suspect," said Cal. "But that's allowed." He frowned. "Even encouraged." He brightened, returning to his lopsided grin. "Welcome again. You are?"
"Lollie,": she answered, truthfully.
"Obviously a made-up name. Sit down," Cal said. "Sit down." He seemed lost for a moment. "Get a beer if you want." He waved at the bartender.
When the bartender arrived, Lollie ordered a pint of draft. Before she could try to make conversation, Blossom leaned back and commented, sarcastically, "I think you've got another victim, mister Calhoun."
"Free will," Cal said, waving at the tall, bearded man coming across the floor. "Here!"
The new man smiled. "Bufort," he introduced himself.
"You don't have to give your real name," Cal said.
"Call me 'Alf,' then" the new man said. He pulled up a chipped brown chair, dropped a packet of papers onto the table, and said, "They serve anything but Bud Light at this place?"
"Not a heck of a lot," Cal said.
While the men slandered the beer that was available, Lollie looked over at Blossom, who was drinking a can of Diet Pepsi and rolling her eyes upward.
Blossom leaned over to Lollie and whispered, "So much for poetry."
"Okay," Cal said, swinging his head around, "it's time to go from bitter to verse." No one laughed. "I've got fifty questions in this hat. We'll pick one question, and write a poetic answer. Next meeting, we'll find out how each of us answered the question."
There was a long pause, and the other three did a little Canadian polite silence. "That's stupid," Blossom offered. "Just what is this shit?" She took in half a glass of Diet Pepsi in one suck.
Cal leaned back and waved his hands in front of himself. "Hey," he said, "I just wanted to level the playing field."
"I'm in," Alf said. "Your ad said 'Tavern of Lost Souls,' and I think that idea fits."
The two men looked around. Lollie nodded. "Can't get any more lost than me," she said, uncomfortably. "Not on this planet, anyway."
The men looked at Blossom, then up at one of the working television screens. Someone at the bar laughed loudly at something.
"I want you to know I think this is stupid," Blossom said, looking at the empty glass in front of her. "I'm only doing this because I'm bored."
That decided, and no-one else showing up by this time, Cal said, "We meet at midnight, at the dark of the moon." He consulted a calendar. "That'll be the twelfth of next month."
"Isn't that a bit melodramatic?" Alf wanted to know.
"Damn right," said Cal, holding the hat towards Blossom.
Blossom drew out a slip of paper, and swore, "Jeesus Keerist almighty. "Should the Tavern Open When the Poets Need it?' Where the hell did you get these questions?"
"Asked a few friends for suggestions," Cal volunteered, draining his glass.
"You need new friends," Blossom offered. Alf laughed.
Cal nodded. "I've often thought so." He looked at Lollie.
Lollie could think of nothing to say. She just shook her head slightly. The world hadn't improved much, but she had a poem to write. And two weeks to do it in.
****
Chapter 2: Should the Tavern Open When the Poets Need It?
The place hadn't improved any. It was ten to midnight; past Lollie's bedtime.
For a while she looked at the old door, and it was her life on hinges. It was her life in doors, open and closed. If she hadn't been feeling like one of the lost sheets of the house of Ishmael, flapping in some cosmic wind, she'd have hesitated her way right back onto the bus.
Too many doors, she thought. Too many tigers behind them. Too many tigers behind her. She willed the door to open.
Someone pushed past her, and she followed him in through the aperture.
The room was fuller this time, with fewer dark corners. It had an almost cheerful atmosphere.
Lollie wasn't sure she could handle cheerful. She took a deep breath, and found Blossom in the corner. Great, thought Lollie. I'll be sitting in a beer parlour with a woman with a crew cut." But she went over and sat down.
Blossom didn't look much happier than she had last time. "Did you bring a poem?" she asked, then went on. "I did. Can't say I'm happy about it, but it's been a while since a wrote any poetry, so I guess I've got to start somewhere."
"I know what you mean," Lollie said. "I'd have used an old poem if I could have found one that fit." She waved a waitress down, and ordered a draft Carlsberg and a large plate of fries.
"That Calhoun's a bit creepy," Blossom said, watching the clock. "He tries to be jolly, but there's something in his eyes, you know. And that hair. I wouldn't trust him in a back alley."
Lollie was prevented from answering by the arrival, together, of Alf and Calhoun, and her beer.
"The place should be darker," Calhoun said, sitting down in the quick way that small men have.
"We could meet at the cemetery," Lollie suggested. "With flashlights."
The suggestion wasn't serious, but Alf shook his head. "They get you when you try that."
"You'd know?"
"You'd be surprised what I know."
"Some of us might." Blossom sipped at her Diet Pepsi. "But it's past my bedtime and Lollie and I have poems."
"Wait!" Alf was waving his long arms. "Let's not get this over before I've even had a beer." He and Cal each ordered a half-pint of draft. "Now," he said, shall we socialize a bit first?"
"You can start without me," Calhoun said. "I'd prefer to remain mysterious for a bit l
onger, if you don't mind."
"Same here," Lollie said, taking off her glasses and cleaning them with a paper napkin. "I'm here to hear some poems."
Blossom said nothing, but her expression left little doubt.
Alf put his hands over his head and said, "Okay, okay; just asking, folks."
The beer and Lollie's fries arrived at that moment. "You ordered fries?" Cal looked confused.
"There is no better way to judge the true character of a place than to order fries," Lollie said. "It's the soul of a tavern. Beer you can buy anywhere, but fries you have to make on the spot. There are a lot of decisions that go into the fries."
She took one fry. "Go ahead," she waved, "have all you want, then tell me about them."
Calhoun carefully picked up a couple of the fries, and held them up to the light. "Straight from the freezer to the frying oil," he said, "and not even a good brand of frozen at that."
"You're right," Alf said. "Notice how limp they are. Cooked too slowly."
They looked at Blossom, who hadn't taken any. "Not for me," she said, shifting back in her chair. "Notice how dark they are, though. It's time they changed the oil."
"Or stopped using 10w40," Lollie said, putting one in her mouth. "Almost warm in the middle, though."
"Which means what?" This from Alf, who had tied a knot using a couple of fries.
"This," said Lollie, "is the right place. If poets die and go to hell, the waiting room will look a lot like this."
There was a long pause, then Calhoun dealt four cards. Lollie's was an ace. "You go first," Calhoun said. His card was a 2.
"Let's get some rules about this," Lollie insisted. "Are we going to comment on each other's poems?"
"Nope," Blossom sucked the glass of Pepsi dry. "I read, I share, I don't want anybody telling me what I should have written."
"I'm with her," Alf waved an arm over his head.
"You wish," said Blossom.
"I agree, at least for now," Calhoun said.
Lollie read the title, "Should the Tavern Open When the Poets Need It?" paused, then read her poem.
Calhoun followed. His voice was dead flat. Alf read his in a rather loud, histrionic tone, getting a few strange looks from some of the others in the room. Both Alf and Calhoun handed out photocopies of their poems. Finally, Blossom, her voice strained, read hers.
There was a long pause, as the last of the beer was finished up. There were still a few cold, dark, limp fries on the plate.
"There was nothing about taverns in your poems." Blossom looked at Alf, then Calhoun.
The men looked at each other. Alf spoke first. "I think I answered the question. The tavern is needed because opting out of the search for salvation is the only sensible option." He waved his arms around, then took a fry from the plate. "And this place is where people opt out."
Calhoun just nodded, his hair falling in front of his eyes.
"I'll know better next time," Blossom said.
Lollie thought so to. There were a couple of her older poems she might have used instead, if she had known the rules were a bit looser. And she wondered at the bitterness in part of Blossom's poem.
Before she had a chance to say anything, Calhoun called the bartender over for the bill. They piled the appropriate money in the middle of the table, and, making small talk, headed for the door. It was almost one in the morning.
*
Should the Tavern Open When the Poets Need It? [Lollie]
In the end there are two problems with life:
The presence of clocks
The smallness of glasses of beer
Old women on the corner watched us
As we entered the tavern
They knew, and
We knew they knew
We ordered two rounds, each
Ignored the clocks
And our graying hair
Hid our watches
At ten to midnight
The bravest of us said
“I have come too far
To go back now.”
The tavern is not the only answer
To old women with strangely watchful eyes
But it is one answer.
*
Should the Tavern Open When the Poets Need It? [Calhoun]
We the damned of Earth persist
Driving to work
In salt-caked cars
Once we dreamed of
Gathering stars
In cupped hands
Now we dream of sleeping in
On Saturday.
*
Should the Tavern Open When the Poets Need It? [Alf]
Pounding the gates of Paradise
I fled some inner Hell
All the answer I got was a ride
On God’s stupid carousel
Looking for some bit of truth
One tiny, warming sign
I found tracks upon the world
But they, of course, were mine
The Old Fart might have spoken
In voices of wise old men
But all I saw was flesh
That turned to dust again
So again around the carousel
Sing songs against the skies
And raise a glass to those who chase
God’s tawdry tinsel prize.
*
Should the Tavern Open When the Poets Need It? [Blossom]
close all taverns; beer
loosens tongues
couples speaking always carefully;
such tight-ass bastards
will be there to celebrate
their first pension check
lies or not
it makes for warmer nights.
****
Chapter 3: Should One Own a Cat?
Lollie sat down abruptly. She'd spotted Alf's tall form and a brunette, and had hesitated, wondering if the group had a new member or if Alf had brought his wife. It was only when she actually got to the table - not the same table as before - that she'd realized that the woman was Blossom with shoulder- length dark hair. Blossom was wearing an outfit that would have been suitable on Bay Street.
Someone had put the local rock music station on the speaker system at a distressing volume. Lollie looked at the closest speaker, then at Alf.
The bartender arrived, looking surlier than usual, carrying a beer for Alf and Blossom's usual pop. Alf said something in the bartender's ear. The bartender looked around. There were only three other people in the room, and all of them looked to be drowning out war memories.
Lollie shouted out an order for a draft Wellington Dark. When the bartender got back behind the bar the music level dropped suddenly.
"What did you tell him?" Lollie asked with a smile.
"If the police ask, it's better that you can tell them you don't know."
"It wasn't all that bad." This from Blossom.
"I hardly recognized you," Lollie offered, about the time the bartender dropped a beer in front of her, spilling a bit.
"In disguise. In case my boyfriend - my ex-boyfriend - comes looking for me. Dumb shit thinks I'm his personal possession."
"Are we in danger?" Alf asked.
"Nah. Robert just yells a lot if he's not getting enough sex."
There was a pause as Alf and Lollie looked around.
"He's not getting any, right now. At least not from me."
Cal strode up, carrying a bottle of Molson Golden, made a deep bow, and sat down. "It's okay," he said. "I bought it here. So, it's cats this week, is it.?" He shifted a bit, looked at Blossom, and added, "This is your catwoman disguise?"
Blossom said nothing.
"Sorry I'm late," Cal went on. "Have we read out poems yet? How'd we get this table. I thought we had a corner on the other one." He looked at the table they'd used last time. That fellow isn't writing any poetry.
Almost as one, the group pulled out photocopies of their poems and passed them around, shuffling them to be sure each had the right number of
poems.
Cal passed the four playing cards to Lollie. "Wow," she said. "Am I honoured, or what?" But she dealt them out.
Cal showed his ace of spades, then started reading his poem.
"Nice that you wrote a poem about cats," Blossom offered. "I thought so," Cal said. He looked at the card in front of Alf, then at the sheet of paper in front of him. "Looks like you did, too."
Lollie shuffled through the set. "I guess we all did. This could set a bad poetic precedent."
"Won't last," said Alf. "I don't like being too direct, usually. You'll notice I may talk about cats, but I don't really get too specific about actually answering the question." Then he read his poem.
Lollie read her poem with no introduction, then Blossom.
When she was done, Blossom added, "I wanted it noted that I not only wrote about cats, but about owning them. Like, I answered the goddamn question." She sucked the last of the pop dry.
Cal shook his hair, which looked even less combed than usual. "I like to leave the reader with a bit of challenge."
Alf laughed. "That's the attitude that'll make you rich and famous!"
"All in good time, my good man; all in good time." Calhoun's eyes looked very dark, Lollie noted, and weren't smiling at all.
"I take it you don't own a cat." Alf looked at Lollie.
"And I take it you do?" She answered. Somehow it seemed awkward not to own a cat.
"Used to. Just ended up with an orphaned pair of monkeys last week. They're about three months old. I don't think they'd get along with a cat, anyway."
The bartender was nowhere to be seen. Lollie would have liked another beer; it had been a long week in the small apartment. She glanced at the closest TV screen, but it had gone back to squiggles and lines. She thought of going to look for the bartender, but he was probably hunched under the counter with a set of headphones on.
Alf drained his glass, and stood up. "I liked the poems better this week."
"Just what I don't need, a critic." Blossom dropped some change onto the table.
"You got a point there," Cal noted, rubbing his eyes.
"Okay, okay. I get the hint. See you all on the twenty-fifth, I guess." He waved goodbye and headed for the door, followed by the others.
*
Should One Own a Cat? [Calhoun]
A life circumscribed by walls,
He eats too much, sublimating
Primeval stalking desires.
He stares through windows
While hours vanish.