Two Cheers for the Barman

Our conversation that evening was punctuated by talk of a dream the Barman had in

which he wandered a vast and distant wilderness only to end up wintering alone in a dark secluded cabin; "the only thing in the damned lonely place," he said, "were two book collections which rested on shelves symetric on either side of a cold hearth like the wings of a great raven." "I remember the collections were almost identical; both black, emblazoned with gold lettering. But after looking more closely, I noticed there was one distinct difference. One collection was entitled Kristol, and the other, labelled Howe."

Digressing as he often did when the bar volume dipped he described the end of his dream: "I remember vividly I needed to get warm so I had to start a fire in the hearth with the books." "So," as he cooly wiped the counter for an approaching customer, "I remember being warmed by a fire fueled only with the works labelled Kristol."

"And in the light of that warmth,” he said, “as the cool darkness descended,” he jeered,

“I then read the full un-singed works of Howe with an empty belly and a full heart.” "Your so full of shit, your teeth are brown sonny," I said.

“Irving a neocon deserves a little hearth time” he scoffed, as he measured obscenely a jigger of self-administered sauce (and one for me too) as a nurse might administer drugs to a patient; like clock-work.

“Now I want a tip for this freebie here bud,” he said; his beady eyes gazing like a rat upon the moon. Most stay only for the casual conversation, but I know him well enough to be privy to the fact that this Barman drinks a shot to the clock to hide from himself and the others, a sadness I estimate ever implicit in his lowly nature.

He’s a smart kid, and he knows that if he lets the patricians see the servants sadness they win. Then I win.

As before, so it is again, the Patricians trump the Plebeians.