The Cooler
by Marc Spahn
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: Starving artists, a belligerent drunk and a violent bartender.
_____________________________________________________________________
When we walked in there was a black man sitting at one of the video poker machines. He was drunk and cursing under his breath; being dealt bad hands, no doubt. He noticed our instruments as we passed him, my guitar and Fox’s case of harmonicas,
“Y’all playin’ music tonight? In here? Don’t see why. Ain’t nobody gon’ here it butchu.”
He got up, walked over to the jukebox, and put in a couple of singles. Fox and I carried our things over to the stage and set them down before having a seat at the bar. Fox lit a smoke, and then handed one to me. Joe, the bartender, walked over,
“Fuckin’ guy’s been in here all day. Talking shit, not tipping. Asking for free ones. I’ve about had it, I’m tellin’ ya.”
“Eh, let him drink.”
“Fuck him. How much money’d he put in the juke?”
“Couple bucks.”
He called over to the man,
“You got eight songs mother fucker, and when those songs are done, so are you, got it?”
“Shee-it. Bout to win this pot and then we’ll see. Rounds from the top shelf.”
“You heard me.”
Fox and I had been hosting the open mic in this dying bar called The Cooler Lounge on Wednesday nights. For the last three weeks Joe had been our only audience. No one came to play, and no one came to listen. Hell, nobody even showed up to drink. Joe didn’t care, though, and he kept us in beers all night. He was 5’10’’ and took care of himself. Balding, and otherwise ugly as sin, but he had a certain charm and was easy enough to get along with. His attire never changed; black slacks and a black or gray shirt, always with the top three buttons undone. The other bartenders told us he was connected and still “did things” from time to time. We didn’t doubt it. He was in his 50’s and had lived in Vegas all his life. The guy was full of stories, and anytime he told one that was really over the top, he would pull out his gold Star of David necklace from under his shirt and say,
“On this here. Are you lookin’? On this here, I swear it.”
The Cooler had a good run; it was a staple in the Las Vegas punk scene for a couple of decades. Angry Samoans, Dr. Know, The Supersuckers, and countless others with names both greater and lesser made their way through the bar in its heyday. Fox and I didn’t play punk, but it didn’t matter. At this point, we could have played polka off key and nobody would have twitched. The Cooler’s glory days were well behind it; the bands had long since stopped coming, and the crowds they drew found another dive. The owner was looking to sell and didn’t care what transpired until then, hence, us being able to come in once a week, bring nobody, play folk songs to the bartender, and drink for free all night.
Joe poured us each a draught,
“I can’t wait to get this bum outta here. All the money he’s dumping into that machine. He needs to put some in my jar.”
“We don’t tip either, Joe.”
“That’s different fellas, you know that. You’re providing a service with your music. And you’re good to talk to. But this…fucking guy. He’s got one song left. You two go ahead and start settin’ up to play.”
Fox and I took our beers to the stage and got our instruments out. I plugged the cables into the mixer and Fox set up the mic stands. I was tuning just as song number eight was fading out. The man at the poker machine turned and gave us a glance, then went back to his game and said to Joe without looking at him,
“I know your boys ain’t playin’ yet. I got one more song comin’.”
“You put in two dollars. That’s eight songs and I counted each and every one of ‘em. You play that last hand and get the fuck out.”
The man spun all the way around in his stool and faced towards Joe,
“I’m a payin’ customer and this joint still open and doin’ business. Spending all my money on this rigged machine and you ain’t topped my drink off in a good while. I want to hear my last song before your boys here go off killin’ my buzz!”
“You listen here you piece of shit. You’re not gettin’ another drink, and you’re sure as hell not gettin’ another song outta that juke. Lose that last hand and walk your sorry ass out while I still let you.”
He placed a club on top of the bar. I called over,
“There’s nobody here, man. We can just play a little later, it’s all good.”
He ignored me. The man stood up and started walking towards the jukebox,
“Ain’t that a bitch. Tryna kick me out? I’d love to see it.”
Joe came out from behind the bar with club in hand and made his way over towards him. The man had a dollar out and was about to put it into the machine when Joe pointed his club at him,
“Last chance, so help me God.”
The man stared at him, looked over at me and Fox, and then locked eyes again with Joe. He exhaled a short, defiant puff through his nostrils and let the dollar be sucked into the machine. Joe was pure reaction, lunging forward and braining him with the club. There was the knocking sound of wood on skull, and then a crash and shatter as the man fell back hard against the jukebox, putting an elbow through the glass display. He managed to get himself upright and put his hands up to cover his head, only prompting Joe to give these wide, sweeping, back and forth tennis swings to the man’s body and legs. Both men were grunting with each violent volley, one in pain, and the other in winded frenzy at the melee. I’d never seen more than a few awkward fistfights, and even Fox, who had done time for assault, squirmed a bit on his stool. I wanted to stop it but all I managed was this unconvincing,
“Joe, man. Come on…”
The guy was tough, drunk or not. He tucked in and got down low, backed up against the jukebox, and turned his guard in on each of Joe’s swings as they came. He was able to throw the odd, desperate jab here and there, but it didn’t make a difference. In the end it was too much and he went to the floor, curled up tight and covered his head. Once he was down, Joe relented and gave a tired kick before stepping back. He was looking down at the man and panting,
“How many times, Clem? How many times have I warned you? Come in here with that mouth of yours. Now you know.”
I didn’t know whether to feel better or worse that he knew the guy by name. The man was conscious, but in bad shape. His arm was all cut up and bleeding from where it went through the glass, and his face was lumped up and over. He was writhing a bit, and moaning insults at Joe. It took a minute, but he pulled himself up and limped over to his stool at the poker machine. He was touching his face and then looking at his fingers, checking for blood. There was some coming from his nose, but not as much as was coming from his arm. He used a handful of napkins to wipe his face and elbow, and then lit a cigarette.
“You know I’m gonna need stitches. And you payin’ the bill when I get ‘em.”
Joe snorted and shook his head; he looked over at us and pointed at the man,
“This guy, I’m tellin’ ya.”
He wiped his brow and walked back behind the bar. We watched as he washed the club in the sink; then held it up to the light and turned it once all the way around before wiping it dry with a towel. He looked at us as if to give the go ahead. I nodded at Joe, looked over at Clem, and then turned to Fox. He gave a half smile and pulled a harmonica out from its case,
“Biggest crowd we’ve had so far.”
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: Starving artists, a belligerent drunk and a violent bartender.
_____________________________________________________________________
When we walked in there was a black man sitting at one of the video poker machines. He was drunk and cursing under his breath; being dealt bad hands, no doubt. He noticed our instruments as we passed him, my guitar and Fox’s case of harmonicas,
“Y’all playin’ music tonight? In here? Don’t see why. Ain’t nobody gon’ here it butchu.”
He got up, walked over to the jukebox, and put in a couple of singles. Fox and I carried our things over to the stage and set them down before having a seat at the bar. Fox lit a smoke, and then handed one to me. Joe, the bartender, walked over,
“Fuckin’ guy’s been in here all day. Talking shit, not tipping. Asking for free ones. I’ve about had it, I’m tellin’ ya.”
“Eh, let him drink.”
“Fuck him. How much money’d he put in the juke?”
“Couple bucks.”
He called over to the man,
“You got eight songs mother fucker, and when those songs are done, so are you, got it?”
“Shee-it. Bout to win this pot and then we’ll see. Rounds from the top shelf.”
“You heard me.”
Fox and I had been hosting the open mic in this dying bar called The Cooler Lounge on Wednesday nights. For the last three weeks Joe had been our only audience. No one came to play, and no one came to listen. Hell, nobody even showed up to drink. Joe didn’t care, though, and he kept us in beers all night. He was 5’10’’ and took care of himself. Balding, and otherwise ugly as sin, but he had a certain charm and was easy enough to get along with. His attire never changed; black slacks and a black or gray shirt, always with the top three buttons undone. The other bartenders told us he was connected and still “did things” from time to time. We didn’t doubt it. He was in his 50’s and had lived in Vegas all his life. The guy was full of stories, and anytime he told one that was really over the top, he would pull out his gold Star of David necklace from under his shirt and say,
“On this here. Are you lookin’? On this here, I swear it.”
The Cooler had a good run; it was a staple in the Las Vegas punk scene for a couple of decades. Angry Samoans, Dr. Know, The Supersuckers, and countless others with names both greater and lesser made their way through the bar in its heyday. Fox and I didn’t play punk, but it didn’t matter. At this point, we could have played polka off key and nobody would have twitched. The Cooler’s glory days were well behind it; the bands had long since stopped coming, and the crowds they drew found another dive. The owner was looking to sell and didn’t care what transpired until then, hence, us being able to come in once a week, bring nobody, play folk songs to the bartender, and drink for free all night.
Joe poured us each a draught,
“I can’t wait to get this bum outta here. All the money he’s dumping into that machine. He needs to put some in my jar.”
“We don’t tip either, Joe.”
“That’s different fellas, you know that. You’re providing a service with your music. And you’re good to talk to. But this…fucking guy. He’s got one song left. You two go ahead and start settin’ up to play.”
Fox and I took our beers to the stage and got our instruments out. I plugged the cables into the mixer and Fox set up the mic stands. I was tuning just as song number eight was fading out. The man at the poker machine turned and gave us a glance, then went back to his game and said to Joe without looking at him,
“I know your boys ain’t playin’ yet. I got one more song comin’.”
“You put in two dollars. That’s eight songs and I counted each and every one of ‘em. You play that last hand and get the fuck out.”
The man spun all the way around in his stool and faced towards Joe,
“I’m a payin’ customer and this joint still open and doin’ business. Spending all my money on this rigged machine and you ain’t topped my drink off in a good while. I want to hear my last song before your boys here go off killin’ my buzz!”
“You listen here you piece of shit. You’re not gettin’ another drink, and you’re sure as hell not gettin’ another song outta that juke. Lose that last hand and walk your sorry ass out while I still let you.”
He placed a club on top of the bar. I called over,
“There’s nobody here, man. We can just play a little later, it’s all good.”
He ignored me. The man stood up and started walking towards the jukebox,
“Ain’t that a bitch. Tryna kick me out? I’d love to see it.”
Joe came out from behind the bar with club in hand and made his way over towards him. The man had a dollar out and was about to put it into the machine when Joe pointed his club at him,
“Last chance, so help me God.”
The man stared at him, looked over at me and Fox, and then locked eyes again with Joe. He exhaled a short, defiant puff through his nostrils and let the dollar be sucked into the machine. Joe was pure reaction, lunging forward and braining him with the club. There was the knocking sound of wood on skull, and then a crash and shatter as the man fell back hard against the jukebox, putting an elbow through the glass display. He managed to get himself upright and put his hands up to cover his head, only prompting Joe to give these wide, sweeping, back and forth tennis swings to the man’s body and legs. Both men were grunting with each violent volley, one in pain, and the other in winded frenzy at the melee. I’d never seen more than a few awkward fistfights, and even Fox, who had done time for assault, squirmed a bit on his stool. I wanted to stop it but all I managed was this unconvincing,
“Joe, man. Come on…”
The guy was tough, drunk or not. He tucked in and got down low, backed up against the jukebox, and turned his guard in on each of Joe’s swings as they came. He was able to throw the odd, desperate jab here and there, but it didn’t make a difference. In the end it was too much and he went to the floor, curled up tight and covered his head. Once he was down, Joe relented and gave a tired kick before stepping back. He was looking down at the man and panting,
“How many times, Clem? How many times have I warned you? Come in here with that mouth of yours. Now you know.”
I didn’t know whether to feel better or worse that he knew the guy by name. The man was conscious, but in bad shape. His arm was all cut up and bleeding from where it went through the glass, and his face was lumped up and over. He was writhing a bit, and moaning insults at Joe. It took a minute, but he pulled himself up and limped over to his stool at the poker machine. He was touching his face and then looking at his fingers, checking for blood. There was some coming from his nose, but not as much as was coming from his arm. He used a handful of napkins to wipe his face and elbow, and then lit a cigarette.
“You know I’m gonna need stitches. And you payin’ the bill when I get ‘em.”
Joe snorted and shook his head; he looked over at us and pointed at the man,
“This guy, I’m tellin’ ya.”
He wiped his brow and walked back behind the bar. We watched as he washed the club in the sink; then held it up to the light and turned it once all the way around before wiping it dry with a towel. He looked at us as if to give the go ahead. I nodded at Joe, looked over at Clem, and then turned to Fox. He gave a half smile and pulled a harmonica out from its case,
“Biggest crowd we’ve had so far.”
About the Author
Cincinnati-born
Marc Spahn is of Scottish heritage.
Currently living in Taiwan and working as an English teacher, he is at
heart a musician and writer. You can
hear his music here on SoundCloud: https://soundcloud.com/winkingowl