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...
Leonard, day bar manager of the famous and highly successful Beech Tree and Basswood Inn, arrived early to perform his usual duties. It was a Friday, and Leonard habitually preferred a bit of a head start on this typically very busy day at the end of the workweek. He set up the back bar in his usual manner, confident, or perhaps merely cautiously hopeful, the day would be uneventful.
“I think she meant to say, ‘baboon’,” said Jack in a quiet voice, directing the comment to a man seated at the bar, one of several shocked patrons. The man’s eyes became enormous white poker chips, his mouth agape, as he stared transfixed at the crazy unfolding mayhem.
Unfortunately for Leonard, the cored and peeled lemons and sliced limes remained on the cutting board easily within her reach. Within moments, Leonard seemed to morph into a rigid statue on which a flock of angry pigeons had unleashed its collective discharge, one of pulpy splatter, juice and seeds. The assault, as had occurred a few times previously, was over in moments, and Mavis stormed from the barroom. As she exited in a drunken, serpentine path, she passed by Jack delivering an elbow to his chest, sending him reeling into the aforementioned bar patron. The man seemed not to notice, still goggle-eyed in a kind of shocked fascination.
“Her law suit would have netted her a bag of salted peanuts, not much else,” said Jack. Both men laughed heartedly, and ordered another round of margaritas. They chatted amiably into the early evening about adventures and misadventures, relationships both sweet and tragic. The conversation wandered on, each consuming an impressive number of the salt-rimmed conconctions as their moods softened, laughter and cheer supplanting gloom and apprehension.
Some 30 days or so passed uneventfully following Leonard’s departure from the Beech Tree and Basswood Inn. Leonard was suitably ensconced at the Red Goose tavern. The regulars had come to accept him, to enjoy his sense of humor and his easygoing manner. The Red Goose was located in a kind of rural setting in suburban Redmond, Washington, a good distance from his former place of employment. A kind of architectural oddity, the building that housed the Red Goose sported large, plate glass windows on either side of its main entrance. Both windows and doorway sat at street level. The configuration proved to be a significant misfortune for Leonard and the bar’s owner, one Charley Stackpole, a friendly man in his mid-sixties and a career-long saloon keeper.
Chapter Four — Mavis and Leonard - A Final Assault!
Leonard, day bar manager of the famous and highly successful Beech Tree and Basswood Inn, arrived early to perform his usual duties. It was a Friday, and Leonard habitually preferred a bit of a head start on this typically very busy day at the end of the workweek. He set up the back bar in his usual manner, confident, or perhaps merely cautiously hopeful, the day would be uneventful.
About 45 minutes following Leonard’s arrival, Jack Roskov, barback and now “assistant chief daytime bartender” as well, reported to work. Jack had been on the job for a period, at the time, of about three months. He’d proved himself competent, and the staff grew to accept him as a valued member of the service crew. “Hey Leonard, how you doing? I’ll just start filling the coolers, unless you have something else for me to do.”
“Go to it,” Leonard said. “I’m OK here. Got things well in hand.”
Jack said, “Hey, wait a second. Is that a clip-on black tie you’re wearing? Did you take some good advice, you know, in case of a Mavis incident?”
“No chance of that,” said Leonard. “It’s just easier. I mean, this type of tie. And besides, I understand she’s on some sort of holiday travel, at least that’s what I hear from a friend of hers who lives in my neighborhood. I think, I hope she’s had enough of her crazy tirades. I think she’s accepted things. I mean, the divorce. She won’t show up. I sort of promised Mr. Cruickshank we’ve seen the last of Mavis and her explosive antics!”
If indeed she had been away on holiday, it must have ended, or maybe it never actually occurred. Just before noon, Mavis stumbled in, already well on her way to an extravagant state of inebriation.
“Christ, she’s drunk as a boiled owl,” said Jack in a whisper. “Hello, Mrs. Hoaglund. How are we today?”
“Shut yer goddamned button and get the hell out of my way,” she shouted and snarled at the approaching Jack. She didn’t ask for a drink. No sane bartender would have served her one in any case.
“Mavis,” Leonard began preemptively, “please just be calm. Let’s talk. Please don’t behave in an unseemly manner. There are customers at the bar, and…”
“You can stick your ‘unseemly’ right up your ass,” spat Mavis, her eyes blazing. She immediately climbed up on the bar rail as a stupefied Leonard stared in disbelief. Too quick for him to react or move away, Mavis grabbed hold of Leonard’s tie. Yanking and releasing the clip-on from Leonard’s collar, the unexpected action sent her backward. She nearly fell as she slipped off the bar rail, but managed to maintain her balance, a remarkable feat in her condition.
“You rotten goddamned bassoon,” she screamed at the hapless Leonard. Reacting more quickly than Jack thought possible for someone in her boozy condition, she practically leapt back onto the bar rail.
“I think she meant to say, ‘baboon’,” said Jack in a quiet voice, directing the comment to a man seated at the bar, one of several shocked patrons. The man’s eyes became enormous white poker chips, his mouth agape, as he stared transfixed at the crazy unfolding mayhem.
“I heard that, you wormy little shit!” Mavis aimed the comment at Jack, like a poison dart. The bar patron stared back and forth, at Mavis, then at Jack, then back to Leonard as if viewing a tennis match that had deteriorated into a violent melee, like an athletic contest turned into a one-sided battle, an assault laced with deadly venom.
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| Above illustrations shown to depict the difference between a bassoon and a baboon! |
Watching her departure with just his eyes pointed leftward, Leonard came back to himself, no longer the immoveable petrified statue. “I thought she was out of town,” he said somewhat obliquely, still a bit stiff with astonishment. He picked up a few bar towels, and headed for the employee wash and locker room.
Another of the patrons, this man a bit less stupefied compared to the fellow with the poker-chip eyeballs, chuckled nervously. “I take it that wasn’t staged for our amusement,” he said to no one in particular. “Holy flaming shit, what a crazy damn spectacle! Insane! Holy flaming shit,” he repeated The entire scene, witnessed from the onset, or eventually in process, by a number of bar and hotel staffers, was reported dutifully to Mr. Cruikshank, the general manager, by “Florence of Arabia” the salad chef. For reasons never really made clear to Jack or his co-staffers, Florence disliked Leonard with a certain intensity.
“Unrequited love?” Jack mused, when he learned that Florence had informed on Leonard. “Poor old Leonard,” Jack murmured to himself. “What the hell will happen now?”
Later that same day, just before his day shift ended, Leonard was summoned to the office of the general manager. Cruikshank’s discomfort was obvious to Leonard as he entered the GM’s office. Cruikshank was, as usual, immaculately attired and groomed, his thin blond hair so neatly in place as to seem almost artificially attached to his head by a make-up professional. He wore, as he normally did, a lightly colored suit and matching necktie. The GM was a pleasant-
looking man. His oval face was pale and relatively unlined, blue eyed and with a straight nose and wide mouth. His features worked well to fashion a handsome composite. He was thin and always presented himself with excellent posture, as if disciplined by a Marine Corps drill sergeant.
Cruikshank stiffened as if coming to attention, and peered at Leonard over half-moon spectacles. “Lenny,” he began, “please sit down. I’m sorry to say this won’t be an easy conversation. We’ve been friends a long time.” And then came the inevitable “however” part. “I simply cannot have this fine hotel, it’s reputation, sullied by the kind of… well, irrational and thoroughly uncomfortable…. I mean, of course, for our clientele…. behavior of your ex-wife, by Mavis. I believe the best thing to do, at this juncture, is for you to move on. That is, for you to find a different place to tend bar. I can help you with that. As I’m sure you know, I know a good many people in the hospitality business. I can help you find a new position quickly. Perhaps just until she, Mavis, can put the matter of your divorce at rest. Until she finds peace. I just don’t know what else we can do. Perhaps at some point you can come back here to work. I know you’re an intelligent person, Lenny. I hope you can understand and accept my position in this matter.”
“Of course,” said Leonard. “I get it, I understand perfectly. I know you’ve been more than merely tolerant, Herbie. If you can just give me a week or so, I’ll get things in order. I’ll find a different job. I hear they’re looking for an experienced man at the Red Goose. You probably do too, but I know the owner. I’ll talk to him; I’ll give him a call this evening.” Leonard and Cruikshank shook hands and parted amicably.
Needing a friend of a different sort, Leonard asked Jack to join him after work at the
nearby Margarita Port, a bar they both frequented, sometimes before but mainly after they had finished their day shifts. The place had the look of a reasonably authentic, if posh, Mexican cantina.
“I’ve been asked to leave the Inn,” Leonard began. “I’m sure it’s for the best. Perhaps she won’t find me, Mavis I mean, and maybe if and when she does, that insane anger of hers will have ended."
“I wish I could have helped,” said Jack. “Wish I could have prevented this latest episode.”
“Glad you didn’t do anything to interfere. She’s nuts. She would have sued you, taken you to court. No. Best to let the thing run its course.”
“Her law suit would have netted her a bag of salted peanuts, not much else,” said Jack. Both men laughed heartedly, and ordered another round of margaritas. They chatted amiably into the early evening about adventures and misadventures, relationships both sweet and tragic. The conversation wandered on, each consuming an impressive number of the salt-rimmed conconctions as their moods softened, laughter and cheer supplanting gloom and apprehension.
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Some 30 days or so passed uneventfully following Leonard’s departure from the Beech Tree and Basswood Inn. Leonard was suitably ensconced at the Red Goose tavern. The regulars had come to accept him, to enjoy his sense of humor and his easygoing manner. The Red Goose was located in a kind of rural setting in suburban Redmond, Washington, a good distance from his former place of employment. A kind of architectural oddity, the building that housed the Red Goose sported large, plate glass windows on either side of its main entrance. Both windows and doorway sat at street level. The configuration proved to be a significant misfortune for Leonard and the bar’s owner, one Charley Stackpole, a friendly man in his mid-sixties and a career-long saloon keeper.
Early one very pleasant mid-autumn evening, a late model Buick purposely drove into and nearly through one of the plate glass windows, causing it to shatter violently with a terrific noise that sent a full house of bar patrons at the Red Goose into near panic. The car was driven by Mavis. She exited the vehicle, cautiously in spite of her apparent drunkenness, walked
unsteadily to the bar, and began to launch her fists, glassware and anything else she could find at and toward the hapless Leonard, breaking a fine piece of mirror on the antique back bar as the “final great assault” ensued. It was like an unexpected firefight in a brutal mayhem film, one that had the effect of propelling viewers out of their seats and causing every palm to tingle and sweat.
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| Not the exact one, but a good likeness of the Buick Mavis drove! |
A couple of patrons, both nicely inebriated, tried in vain to grab hold of Mavis toward the end of this latest mad onslaught. Ever the clever eel, slippery and elusive, Mavis managed to dodge and weave her way from the bar and through the space that was once a proud plate glass window and jump into her car with extraordinary speed and dexterity. The tires squealed as
she backed away from the wreckage — tires astonishingly undamaged by a million shards of broken glass. She spun the auto away in a neat half-circle as if she were a well-practiced stunt driver, wrenched the Buick into drive and sped away into the night. A bar-full of patrons watched her exit with a kind of dazed admiration.
Two of the Red Goose’s more colorful habitués were brothers — King Saul and Kid Rufus — the origin of their names a mystery to fellow patrons. Magnificently bewhiskered, neither had seen a razor in years. “That was some fancy driving,” said King Saul to his brother. “I believe I drive better when I’m drunk.”
“Can’t wait to hear you tell that to some trooper if you get stopped drivin’ home from the Goose, wobblin’ all over the road.” They both chuckled.
“Hold on there,” said King Saul to his brother after a long moment. “I think you done drove us here today in your pickup?” They stared at one another, each in turn scratching his chin whiskers.
“I hope she kept up the insurance payments on the Buick,” said Leonard with surprising calm. “Good lord,” he exclaimed. “I’d better call Charley. How in the hell do I explain this disaster. And how in the hell did Mavis figure out where I’m working. I did my damnedest to keep it secret! My god,” he said, addressing no one in particular, “the woman must be psychic... crazy as a headless yard bird too!”
Humbly Submitted 11-21-18 -- Joel K.
