Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth
to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!
This Episode: A Possible Murder Mystery... Just Trying it Out, Sort of...
Seemingly appeased by Leonard’s assertions, Cruikshank eventually departed for his office and the multitude of duties that commanded the attention of the general manager of the busiest, most successful hotel operation in all of Washington State. As he left, he flipped down the full bank of lights just inside the south entrance of the barroom. As was his usual routine, he would not reappear until evening. It was nearly “opening time,” 11:00 AM. Re-coloring the almost iridescent and perfectly tailored, lightly-colored suit Cruikshank always seemed to prefer, softly muted light spilled out from the long bar, cascading down the two steps that led into it and flooded the gorgeous “sunken” cocktail lounge with illumination. The light seemed to darken his apparel, and like a magician's trick, the general manager seemed to disappear, into smoke or a kind of mist.
boards extending their coniferous foliage out of sight above the roof line. The firs acted as a giant row of columns, a kind of oversized fence between the booths that lined the outer three walls and the interior tables and chairs. The carpeting, done in a swirling pattern of light and dark blues and soft reds, was interrupted only by a small section of wood flooring placed at the edge of the carpeting nearest the bar.
Leonard was not to have a pleasant shift this particular day. It was a Friday, and Leonard mistakenly thought he had actually made it through his workweek without incident. At precisely 11:05 AM, Mavis entered the barroom, seated herself upon a stool near Leonard’s side of the bar, doing so with her unselfconscious ceremony, placing her purse on a neighboring stool. She next positioned a large amber ashtray just to her right, then fished through the commodious handbag for her Kent filter-tipped cigarettes and gold lighter, placing those objects just to her left, the lighter on top of the cigarette packet. The purse stood erect on her right, a kind of sentry between Mavis and any patron who might seat him or herself on the adjoining stool. The purse was rich looking and quite large. Jack had returned from his stock-gathering forays into the walk-in cooler and liquor closet. He busied himself arranging bottled beer in the coolers, labels facing front, bottles perfectly aligned and spaced as if awaiting a military inspection. He knelt as he continued to fill the beer coolers, eventually looking left and up at Mavis and her neatly placed objects that foretold a lengthy stay. “That sack is gigantic,” Jack mused. “She must carry silver ingots instead of a coin purse.” The handbag was made of sturdy brown leather and matched her shoes. The woman was dressed fashionably, and obviously had expensive taste.
“Of course,” Jack replied. “I’ll take care of any customer who may wander in.” As he watched Leonard stumble away, a bar towel dabbing at his wounds, Jack thought about the incident that had just occurred, and then had an unkind thought. “If it weren’t so damned pitiful it’d be a heck of a comedy routine.” He chuckled somewhat mirthlessly to himself and thought, “Poor old Leonard. Maybe he should wear a clip-on tie. I'll mention it when he comes back...”
Chapter Two
Flying Fists and Lemons!
Flying Fists and Lemons!
Seemingly appeased by Leonard’s assertions, Cruikshank eventually departed for his office and the multitude of duties that commanded the attention of the general manager of the busiest, most successful hotel operation in all of Washington State. As he left, he flipped down the full bank of lights just inside the south entrance of the barroom. As was his usual routine, he would not reappear until evening. It was nearly “opening time,” 11:00 AM. Re-coloring the almost iridescent and perfectly tailored, lightly-colored suit Cruikshank always seemed to prefer, softly muted light spilled out from the long bar, cascading down the two steps that led into it and flooded the gorgeous “sunken” cocktail lounge with illumination. The light seemed to darken his apparel, and like a magician's trick, the general manager seemed to disappear, into smoke or a kind of mist.
As the room became revealed in its warm glow of light, the first thing any onlooker noticed were the enormous natural Douglas firs, as if a forest had taken root under the floor
On weekends and holidays the floor accommodated dancing in the evenings hours. During the cocktail hour, from 5:00 until 6:30 PM Monday through Friday, the wood floor became the perch of the “Wood Nymph,” a scantily-clad young woman, costume matching the fabric of the stools and bartender vests, who dispensed silver-dollar-sized ham and beef sandwiches priced at six for a half dollar and, at times, other hot hors d’oeuvres offered at ridiculously low cost or free of charge to “happy hour” patrons. Most of those who populated the inn’s bar and lounge were transients, business travelers on expense accounts and well able to afford the time and the fare, attracted by cocktail waitresses who, without exception, might have been just at much at home on runways or movie sets. Cocktail drinkers savored the great and abundant food and low-cost beverages daily, treating themselves, as most were convinced, to their “just desserts,” after-business-hours’ rewards.
Leonard was not to have a pleasant shift this particular day. It was a Friday, and Leonard mistakenly thought he had actually made it through his workweek without incident. At precisely 11:05 AM, Mavis entered the barroom, seated herself upon a stool near Leonard’s side of the bar, doing so with her unselfconscious ceremony, placing her purse on a neighboring stool. She next positioned a large amber ashtray just to her right, then fished through the commodious handbag for her Kent filter-tipped cigarettes and gold lighter, placing those objects just to her left, the lighter on top of the cigarette packet. The purse stood erect on her right, a kind of sentry between Mavis and any patron who might seat him or herself on the adjoining stool. The purse was rich looking and quite large. Jack had returned from his stock-gathering forays into the walk-in cooler and liquor closet. He busied himself arranging bottled beer in the coolers, labels facing front, bottles perfectly aligned and spaced as if awaiting a military inspection. He knelt as he continued to fill the beer coolers, eventually looking left and up at Mavis and her neatly placed objects that foretold a lengthy stay. “That sack is gigantic,” Jack mused. “She must carry silver ingots instead of a coin purse.” The handbag was made of sturdy brown leather and matched her shoes. The woman was dressed fashionably, and obviously had expensive taste.
Nodding at her, Leonard said, “Mavis. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, of course, Lenny, and you?”
“Mavis. Do you think it’s wise of you to be here?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Leonard walked to the other end of the bar, and busied himself with chores that needn’t have been done. He selected a clean bar towel from a cabinet placed about midway under the long bar and wiped a dry glass, elevating it to the light to inspect it for spots. Jack watched Leonard and thought, “It’s almost a cliché. He’s an actor pretending to be a bartender in an old movie.” Jack approached Mavis and said, “Good morning ma’am. What may I serve you?” As he spoke, looking straight into her pale blue eyes, he placed a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of Leonard’s wife.
“I’ll have a bourbon manhattan straight up, and don’t skimp on the bourbon. In fact, don’t short pour the sweet vermouth either. Cherry and an olive.”
Jack mixed and then served her the drink. Mavis emptied the large stemmed vessel of its potent contents almost as fast as one might pour the drink on the floor.
Jack said, “Was the drink satisfactory?”
Her reply either ignored the question or, thought Jack, confirmed her enjoyment of it, the probable instantaneous “buzz.” “Another,” she said. Jack built another, thinking to himself, “Is she out to drink herself into a quick stupor, or is she exceptionally talented?” He placed the freshly made concoction on the beverage napkin in front of her. Leonard said from the north end of the bar, “Jack, can you come over her a moment. I want to ask you something about the glass washer.” It was a ploy, but he switched on the washer to validate the ruse, and to try to drown out the ensuing, whispered conversation. “Can you please ease up on those drinks of hers?”
“Why,” the younger man asked.
“Listen. Mavis is my ex-wife. To be accurate, we’re separated, but I’ll have a final divorce in a less than two months. She’s kind of a lush, not only that, but sort of an angry and mean drunk. If I could legally do so, I’d call the cops right now, but she hasn’t done anything yet. She will though. She’ll get crazy. Violent. Or maybe she won’t, this time. I hope. Just, please, ease up on the quantity of booze you put in that shaker. OK?”
Jack agreed to soften the blow of the next manhattan. He also said he’d try to engage Mavis in some light-hearted conversation. He’d try preemptively to diffuse any anger that might erupt should she have too much alcohol. As he left Leonard and returned to Mavis, she said, “Another,” this time in speech that seemed a touch slurred from the first two highly potent cocktails. Jack tried secretively to short pour the drink, but Mavis had her gaze aimed with eagle-eyed fixedness on Jack’s dispensing of the bourbon. He said, “I understand you’re Leonard’s wife. He’s a great guy. I’m really lucky to be working with him. He’s teaching me so much about the art of bartending. What do you do for work?”
“Just pour the drink,” said Mavis, “and I’m watching, so don’t try any short fill.”
“Uh, yes ma’am,” said Jack. “These are powerful drinks, Mrs. Hoaglund. Please be a little cautious. They can really pack a knock-out. I know from experience,” he added, a nervous laugh punctuating the comment.
“Mind your own business, you snotty little nobody!” Mavis snapped. Jack studied the woman. Her eyes hardened the even features in an attractive face. She had light brown hair, coifed and lacquered and brushed away from her face. Mavis was not quite pretty, but rather “handsome” as some women who are not quite pretty are often described. Her figure was trim and well formed. She looked to be and was apparently in good physical condition.
Leonard moved back to his side of the bar. As he and Jack passed Leonard said, “Thanks for trying. I’ll take over. I’ll try to talk to her.” Before he could utter a word, Mavis had downed the third manhattan. She threw the glass over her shoulder. It hit the floor and broke into a puzzle of shards. She then stood up on the bar rail, grabbed Leonard’s tie and began hitting him in the face with her hands and fists. Leonard did all he could to ward off the blows, finally using all his strength and the bar itself as a wedge to release Mavis’s grip on the necktie. Finally he was able to back away from her outstretched arms and grasping hands, and those formidable fists.
Unfortunately for Leonard, the cored lemons, all of them now peel-less and pulpy, still rested on the bar. Mavis began grabbing the lemons, two in her left hand, one in her right, and began pelting Leonard, aiming for his head. The whole crazy, frenzied attack happened so fast, as if no deterrent could have reacted quickly enough to stop the assault. And then, as quickly as it happened, it was over. Mavis, her face now a dark scowl, packed up her cigarettes and
lighter, grabbed her handbag and stormed out through the north barroom door that led to the hotel kitchen. Leonard was bruised, his nose bleeding badly, his face and hair dripping lemon juice. The back bar was fragrant, but sloppy, with lemon pulp! Leonard and Jack began to mop up the mess.
“Don’t say anything to anyone here about this. OK? It’s happened before. I thought she was finished with this kind of thing. Please don’t say anything to Herb, I mean, to Cruikshank, Mr. Cruikshank,” said Leonard.
“I wouldn’t. Hell, why would I? I don’t know and I don’t have any contact with the general manager. I wouldn’t say anything anyway. It’s nobody’s business but yours,” said Jack in reply. “Geez, I really sorry, Leonard. She’s really, uh, interesting. Kind of scary. What was the cause of all that? I mean, why’s she so angry with you?”
Leonard said, “Hell, I don’t really know for sure. Probably the separation and divorce. Rejection, maybe. Cruikshank has been warning me that the episodes make the customers a bit uneasy. No shit! What the hell! Me too, for crying out loud. He’s asked me to think about working somewhere else for a while until the thing cools down. God, I’m glad there was no one else here this morning. What a break! Listen, I’m just going to get to the washroom and clean myself up. Be right back, OK?”
“Of course,” Jack replied. “I’ll take care of any customer who may wander in.” As he watched Leonard stumble away, a bar towel dabbing at his wounds, Jack thought about the incident that had just occurred, and then had an unkind thought. “If it weren’t so damned pitiful it’d be a heck of a comedy routine.” He chuckled somewhat mirthlessly to himself and thought, “Poor old Leonard. Maybe he should wear a clip-on tie. I'll mention it when he comes back...”
Jack had been facing the south door as Leonard left, but as Jack turned to face the opposite direction, he noticed Florence the salad chef, whom he secretly referred to as “Florence of Arabia,” a term from which both he and Leonard derived much amusement. The nickname was applied one morning as Jack watched Florence deftly slicing and wacking at lettuces and other salad greens, arugula, carrots, onions, fresh spinach and other vegetables, preparing them for the lunch crowd. As she knifed through the various ingredients, they seemed to explode in a great cloud around her blurred, rapidly moving hands, leaping and seeming to soar into the air around her, like a kind of storm, a sand storm, Jack thought. Like “Florence of Arabia.”
Humbly Submitted 09-22-18 -- Joel K.
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