Mickey's Bar

            by Wendy Ung

 

            Mickey's Bar.

The crooked neon sign flickers on and off as the drizzle taps at it lightly. My eyes glaze across the sign, imagining all the regulars inside, sitting on the stools and hunching over the bar counter while Mickey cleans the glass cups with his dirty rag. Dad is probably slumped over the counter, asking Mickey for another drink. Hopefully, Mickey will turn him down and tell him to go home to see his wife and son.

"Are you ready to order, sir?" I look up to the sudden sight of my waitress, Grace, who takes out a little notepad and pencil from the pockets of her apron.

I shake my head and look down at the tired menu, "Not yet." I look back up, giving her a regretful smile. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," she says, putting the pencil and notepad back into her apron pocket. "Take all the time you need." My eyes turn away from her and back to the bar across the street.

The drizzle shifts to heavy rain, making pedestrians run towards the closest stores to shield themselves. I see a man, in a tan coat with his collar flipped up around his neck, run into the bar with a newspaper over his head.

"You're staring at Mickey's again," Grace's voice pops into the air.

Without giving her a glance, I say, "My dad's in there."

~~~~~~

            Mickey's was a place where middle-aged men came to hang out and complain about their jobs, their children, and their wives. Since Dad was a teen, Mickey’s had been in the area. Dad said that Mickey's was a family owned bar and that all the men in the family were named Mickey or something similar to the name. Dad became friends with the Mickey that was around his age and he offered the bar as a hangout spot for Dad and his friends.

            The bar was filled with thick smoke that outlined the air, but when it cleared up, the walls looked charcoaled. The smoke had settled into it to give it a new blackish-brown color. Dad and his friends played darts and hosted parties at the bar instead of at their houses. He told me his best years were hanging out at the bar with his friends.

            It was no surprise when Dad became one of Mickey's loyal regulars. Some say that Dad’s money kept Mickey's bar afloat, but that was a stretch. It was my mom's money that he liked to squander. Never his own. When I was born, Dad rushed to the hospital from the bar, but the nurses smelled the alcohol on his breath and kept him away from me until he sobered up. When it was finally the day that they could bring me home, he took me and my mom into Mickey's, showing me off to the bar patrons and pointing to some hairs already sprouting from my semi-bald head.

            "Whatcha gonna name him?!" one of the regulars shouted.

            "Well..." my mom started. "We decided -"

            "His name will be Jack," Dad replied quickly. My mom's head turned sharply at Dad and gave him a disapproving look. Ignoring it, Dad continued, "Jack Daniels."

            "That's a great name Scott," Mickey said. "In light of your new son, the next round is on me." He grabbed a glass and filled it with beer, right to the rim. He held it out for Dad to take. Dad stared at the foamy liquid in the glass and licked his lips like he could already taste it, but he felt the intense glare coming from my mom.

            Dad shook his head, "Nah. I think I'll go home with the wife and the kid. I'll see you guys later."

            My mom cradled me in her arms as she looked up, giving Dad a thankful smile. She didn't want him to spend my first night home at the bar while she was at home, tending to a newborn child. He spent about two weeks helping my mom around the house, throwing away my dirty diapers into the garbage cans, heating up breast milk, and washing me in the morning and at night before I was put to sleep in my newly built crib.

            But, he returned to Mickey's when he felt my mom could take care of me by herself. He was welcomed with open arms by the regulars, his drinking buddies. He came back late in the night and headed straight to his chair in the den, turning on the television to watch a repeat football game. When my mom asked him where we went, he told her he went job hunting, but my mom knew better. He stunk of alcohol, smokes, and lies.

            When I was four, my mom started looking for a job. She began work as a secretary for a big pharmaceutical company. She brought me to her first day at work, but it was highly advised that she should leave me at home because a pharmaceutical company is not a daycare center and it was not suited as my own playground. She had a hard time leaving me with Dad since she was absolutely sure he would bring me to the bar, but in order to feed us, she forced the dismal possibility from her head. She needed Dad to step up and show her he could be the caring father he was when I was first born.

            When my mom left for work, Dad strapped me into the car seat and drove to Mickey's. On the way there, he muttered how stupid it was for my mom to leave me with him. He parked in the back and tried to carry me into the bar, but I insisted to walk on my own. He walked slowly behind me and pushed open the back door for us to enter. I smelled the smoke and the heavy alcohol throughout the room, even though I had no idea what the smells were at the time. Dad sat on a worn out stool as I dawdled towards him. I tried to reach the stool, but I couldn't so I tugged on Dad’s leg. He only responded with a grunt. I tugged harder and he glowered at me as I brought my arms in front of me. He grabbed me by my sides and lifted me up to sit on the bar counter. My head turned to look at the dark-eyed, scruffy man with a rag in hand.

            "Is this him?" Mickey asked Dad, peering at me with curious eyes. Dad nodded. "He's grown a lot." He ruffled up my light brown hair with his rough hands. "A nice set of hair. Not far from the old man."

            Dad took a glimpse of me and smiled. "Just like the old man," he said with a nod to no one in particular.

            Late in the day, men started shuffling into the bar, clothed in ripped jeans or wrinkled suits. They chattered amongst each other, already starting to complain about their troubles at work. All I remember hearing were the phrases 'damnit', 'what do they expect from me', and 'I got other troubles to worry about'. They finally noticed me when they heard the sound of the peanut bowl falling onto the floor and my whining cry for Dad to pick it up.

            "You brought a kid, Scott?" A man, who had a pair of faded brown gloves in the back of his jeans, asked while taking a seat. "Hi. My name is Jim," he said, pointing to himself. He pointed to his left and said, "This is Frank. Eric. Robbie.-"

            "Jim. He's not going to remember your names," Dad stated as he sipped on his next beer. My hands grasped onto an empty cup and started waving it around. The banging of the cup against the bar counter caught Mickey’s attention and he immediately snatched it away from me.

"Scott!” Mickey shouted, getting Dad’s attention. “Watch your kid. He could've hurt himself.” Dad shrugged his shoulder. “You should find a sitter, Scott.”

            Dad replied that Mickey should child proof his bar. Of course, Mickey thought it was bad idea. Having to child proof the bar wouldn't bring many customers in. Then again, most of the customers were all regulars that wouldn't want to leave so Mickey relented. In order to entertain me, Dad danced, drunkenly across the bar. He and Mickey acted out scenes of the Roadrunner and the Coyote, making me laugh to no end when I heard the 'beep beep'. When I was eight, Dad let me watch him play poker at the table with Eric, Robbie, and Jim. Frank was at the bar counter, confiding to Mickey about his latest women problems.

            "What the fuck is that smell?" Jim asked, looking at each man as if they were the culprit. I looked down at myself and pulled on Dad’s arm.

            "It's probably Frank again," Robbie replied, rearranging the order of his cards.

            "Is he rolling around in shit again? Fuck." Jim shook his head, slamming his cards into the wooden table. "He expects to find somebody and he can't get a decent shower," he said as he grabbed the deck of cards. "He smells like he has a fucking disease."

            All four men laughed. Eric glanced at me and said, “I think the kid is listening.”

Dad shook his head, “He doesn’t understand.” He picked up a couple of cards from the neck and said, “What is he going to do? Tell his mom?” He laughed.

 

            "What is fuck, mama?" I asked as I sat on the neatly folded blankets on my parent's bed. My mom was ironing the wrinkles of Dad’s blue shirt when I asked. Her eyes shot wider than I've ever seen before. Not uttering any words, she continued to iron the shirt, muttering to herself how Dad was in for a scene.

            The next day, I sat on Dad’s lap, holding his cards up for him while he drank from his beer. His laughing came to a halt when he heard the sudden cry of his name and turned to the doorway. My mom was standing, angrily, with Mickey by her side. He tried to stop her from charging at Dad, but she pushed him out of the way. Dad set me on the floor and faced my mom with a relaxed look.

            "Hey honey," he began.

            Pushing Dad’s hands away from her, she said, "What do you think you're doing bringing my baby here?"

            Dad looked at me, then back at mom, "Well, this is where I go in the day. You know that."

            My mom shook her head. "Yeah. I expected you to let him go to an after school program or something."

            "It's teaching him like any other after school program," he reasoned.

            "Really? Teaching him curse words?" she asked.

            Confused, Dad said, "What?"

            "Yeah. Jack asked me what..." she peered down at me, hoping I wasn't paying attention, and whispered, "fuck was."

            Dad shook his head, "I didn't teach him that word."

            "You didn't, huh?" she said. "I guess he just learned it by himself."

            "Maybe so."

            "Scott. You son of a bitch-"

            "Whoa there. No cussing around Jack. He's just a kid," Dad said, mockingly.

            My mom swore to Dad that if he stopped babysitting me at Mickey's, she wouldn't step foot into the bar and she would leave him in peace. He quickly agreed, enthusiastically. A choice between me or the bar; of course he picked the latter. Dad kept true to his words. He stuck me in an after school program where I was forced to listen to my classmates as they talked about the school bully, Danny.

            Growing older, I expected Dad to start taking interest in my daily activities, but he never showed up to the school plays that I volunteered to act in, reliving the memories when he and Mickey performed the Roadrunner and Coyote skit. My drama teacher said that I had a natural talent for acting, but I felt that it was the account of Dad. Every emotion I felt growing up went into the plays.

My mom called me one day, the day she decided to leave Dad and me, when I was fifteen or sixteen. She asked me to go down to Mickey's to bring him home because he hadn't been back home in a while. I anxiously entered Mickey's, hoping my mom was wrong about Dad being there. Mickey came in from the bathroom, wiping his wet hands on his apron; to greet what he thought was a customer. When he saw me, he barked, "You can't be here. This is a bar, son. Not- " His eyes squinted to get a better look at me and stopped walking. "Wait. Jack?" Mickey questioned, standing right in front of me. "It is you!" he laughed harder and grasped my shoulder, shaking me to the point I had to shove his hands off of me. "What are you doing here?"
            "My dad."

"Right. Right. Right." Nodding, he pointed to the far end of the counter. “You gonna pay his tab?” He joked. I shook my head. I walked towards Dad and I smelled the heavy alcohol on him as if he had bathed in it. I shook his shoulder with my hand and when he made a small move, I jumped back, fearing he would start a drunken fight with his son like the ones I had seen in movies.

It became a routine for me. Mickey called me on Dad’s condition because he was truly worried about him. Dad was an average size for a man so I wasn’t expecting it to be hard to haul Dad out of the bar, but I wasn’t strong enough to drag him out, believe me, I tried. Mickey tried helping, but it didn’t work.  Dad seemed to latch onto the bar as if it was his lifeline, so I stayed at the bar, conversing with Mickey about what Dad did throughout the day. When Dad seemed a bit conscious, I took it as my chance to get him out of the bar. By the time I was seventeen, I had the routine memorized, knowing what to do and what not to do with a semi-conscious Dad. Mickey stopped calling, knowing I would start checking up on him on my own; I just knew I had to do it.

I asked Dad about why he stayed at the bar and why he never spent any time with me and why he didn’t find a job. I asked him, hoping that he would say at least a few words on the question. I remember one a defining day, I was perched on the stool, doing my homework when Dad started sputtering, “…Laura…can’t…sorry- the baby…Jack…” I leaned towards him, trying to make sense of what he was saying, but Dad woke up, abruptly, and saw me. “What are you doing?” he slurred.

I said, “It’s time to go.”

From then on, Dad often asked what I was doing there, but I never answered. I learned from the past that in his state, he wouldn’t remember anything I say. I helped him walk out of the bar and into the awaiting cab. It was simple enough task that I didn’t have to worry about any unpredictable actions coming from Dad.

Soon, I was about to graduate high school and was set to leave for college. No more going to the bar to find Dad, asleep on the counter because I figured Mickey wanted me to get a good college education. I was finally free, because I was an adult.

I left for college as soon as I could, intent on having my own life that was filled with friends who I hadn’t disappointed and partying. I had never done those things with Dad being a constant I had to pick up after.

Life was good, but there was a nagging voice in the back of my head with every intention to bring down the life I created. I disregarded the voice; happiness was important to me. Nothing could ruin that. I received a call from Mickey, telling me Dad got into a bad fight with one of the customers. Mickey advised that I come back home to tend to Dad, but I decided it was best to stay away so I gave my best to Mickey, told him to care of Dad, and hung up. I wasn’t going to deal with anymore of Dad’s problem when Mickey came calling.

A few years passed by with no thoughts about Dad. I married a psychologist, Julie, and had two kids who I loved. We lived blissfully in a small town where everybody knew each other. I took a job as an accountant, working behind a desk, getting people out of money trouble.

I was shocked when I saw Mickey in my office, asking me to come back home. By the look of Mickey’s face, things were the worse for Dad, he’d been in and out of the hospitals since the last time I saw him. So, I went back. I entered Mickey’s, overwhelmed with memories of my childhood and teenage years. Not surprised to see Dad where he always was. I sighed, remembering the routine I had perfected long ago. I’ll grab him by his arm and drive him home. But this seemed different somehow when Dad awoke from his drunken slumber. My grasp on him slipped as if he wasn’t there.  

“Another….beer, Mick.” he said, gripping the counter to help him sit up.

“You’ve had enough,” I said, pulling him away from the counter. “Let’s get you home.” I turned him around, noticing how pale he looked. “Come on.” I tried to grab his arm, but he swung it away from me.

“Mick. Another one please!”

“No Mickey. He doesn’t –“

“Don’t tell me what I -” He squinted. “What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted. “Shouldn’t you be off in Prince…ton…or some shitty college?” He turned to look at Mickey, who stood aside, not helping either of us. “Mick, did- didn’t Jacky leave just like his mother, huh? Always…ignoring me.”

“Why didn’t you go after her, huh? What didn’t you spend time with me outside of this bar like a normal father?” I asked, but Dad only grunted, pushing me away.  Suddenly, Dad and I were left alone in the bar. “I’m sick of this! If you’re not going to answer - I got a wife and kids. I have a good life and I don’t have time to do this. Coming every time I get a call from Mickey to come get you! Mom was right to walk out on you. You’re  nothing but a selfish drunk who nobody should ever care for. I should’ve just stayed away.” I didn’t notice the bar appeared to be cleared of the smoky cloud, of the other customers, and of Dad. From then on, I never saw him.

~~~~~~

Grace nods with a sympathetic look and decides to tend to the other customers. Her gaze lingers over to my table while pouring coffee into empty cups, but she quickly looks away when she notices the customer’s eyes on her. The customers look my way to see what or who was preoccupying Grace’s mind.

“Why do you keep looking at him?” a customer asks, watching Grace pour the coffee carefully not spilling. Grace looks down at the customer.

She shakes her head, “It’s nothing.” And says, “It’s just that…he had a hard life. His wife took his kids and left…Lost his job…” She looks over to me. “He just sits there day after day. Night after night. Staring across the street.”

            “Why?”

            “He says his father’s there.”

            “Is he?”

            Grace shakes her head, “Unfortunately, he passed away a while ago to alcohol poisoning.”

I ignore the conversation. Every so often, I look at my cell phone, waiting for the screen to glow and for it to start ringing. Ring. Fucking ring.  My finger taps onto the table. My mind screams at the phone to ring. Just ring. I glance from my phone to Mickey’s. Back and forth. When will he call?