Happy Hour at the Grown Folks Bar

By

Pamela Ebel

“Do you need some ice?”

Cliff Simms leaned over the bar and held a scoop of ice cubes out to Robin Carter, who sat staring at her glass of Old Overholt on the rocks.

“No thanks Cliff. I have enough ice to smooth the rye a bit.” She smiled and held the glass up. “See?”

“I didn’t mean ice for your drink. It might help with the…” He reached his hand toward the egg sized bruise on Robin’s cheek that wasn’t quite hidden by her auburn hair. She backed away with a flinch and Cliff pulled his hand back quickly.

“It’s okay Cliff. I’ll put some ice on it when I get home. Thanks for the thought though.”

The clock on the wall behind the bar came to life suddenly as an ancient Cuckoo appeared and announced that it was 4:00 p.m. Across the room a sign in the window lit up in red, white and blue neon with a flashing message that “It’s Happy Hour at the Grown Folks Bar.”

There was a loud cheer from the crowd standing at the other end of the bar room. Sticks and balls were flying around the pool table and the sticks and balls attached to the men in their red ball caps grew larger every time another round of drinks appeared.

“You got him Slim!”

“Yeah, Slim go ahead and sink the 8 ball so we can start on the Happy Hour specials.”

More laughing and comments and then, total silence as the man leaning over the pool table called the pocket and the 8 ball rolled down the table and disappeared. Then a great cheer as the tall man slapped the back of his losing competitor and took three hundred-dollar bills off the rail.

“First Happy Hour Round is on me, Cliff!”

Jeff Slim Carter emerged from the sea of red ball caps, pulling his off to smooth a thick mane of black hair. He looked down the bar at Robin who had turned her attention back to her drink.

“Be sure to give my wife a fresh drink too. Maybe it will improve her mood. What do you think, Robin?”

He moved to her side and yanked Robin’s shoulder toward him.

“You need to fix your hair better. That little bruise is showing. Wouldn’t want the gang to get the wrong idea.”

Robin winced as Slim pushed his fingers into her shoulder.

Cliff appeared with a fresh rye on the rocks, even though she had barely touched the first one, and a bourbon and coke for Slim, who smiled broadly as the front door opened.

 “Just the man I’ve been waiting for. Derek, how you been? Cliff, get Derek whatever he wants. Do you have something for me?”

“Sure, do Slim. Right here!” Derek handed over a small paper bag.

“My Happy Hour Pills! Robin, put this bag in your purse. Derek, we can all go over to Carol’s. She’s having her usual Friday Open House and there is always plenty of booze and new faces, if you know what I mean. Robin here, usually just sits and nurses one drink all night. Maybe tonight you can do something besides sit like a stump!”

Slim pushed Robin’s shoulder sharply, causing her to slip off the bar stool. The two men laughed as she struggled to get back up.

 “Let me do one thing and then we can leave. I got a hundred-dollar bill here says I can clear the table in under two minutes. Any takers?”

One of the men stepped up and placed two fifties on the rail and everyone made a space for Slim. He picked a cue stick and then let the challenger break the balls. With a timer selected everyone grew quiet, all eyes on the table.

 Everyone, including, Cliff was looking at Slim or staring at watches. Everyone except Robin. Suddenly a cheer went up as the pool table was cleared in a minute and thirty seconds.

Another round of Happy Hour Drinks was ordered and Slim downed another bourbon and coke at the pool table. Returning to where Robin sat, he pulled the paper bag out of her purse, placed it in his jacket pocket and downed his remaining bourbon and coke.

“Time to go to Carol’s. Get your coat.”

“I don’t feel well. I want to go home, please. You can just drop me off and then go on over.”

“Taking you home is going to take me twenty minutes out of the way. Either come with me to Carol’s or find you own way home.” He grew loud and sneered at her.

“Alright, I’ll get a taxi. I just don’t feel well. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you’ll be really sorry later tonight, Bitch. But I need to get going. I’ll see you guys in a while.”

 He saluted the sea of red ball caps, shot Robin one more threatening sneer and went out the door.

She heard his Harley fire up and watched through the window as he screeched out of the parking lot. She turned back just as the bartender picked up Slim’s empty glass, rinsed it out and placed it in the dishwasher.

“I am going to the Ladies Room, Cliff. Back in a moment.”

Robin walked down the hallway to the bathroom and looked backed to see that no one else was coming. She entered and locked the door behind her. Inside the stall she took out a tissue containing two empty pill capsules, dropped it into the toilet, pushed the handle and watched as it swirled rapidly downward and disappeared.

Back at her seat at the bar Robin looked at the clock again as Cliff offered to give her a ride home.

“In twenty minutes, it will be 6:00 p.m. and another Happy Hour will be over for another Friday night and my shift will be over, too. I would be glad to give you a ride and spare you the cost of a taxi.”

“Thanks Cliff. That would be great!”

 The next Friday Robin entered the bar just as the Cuckoo made his appearance and announced it was 4 p.m. The red, white and blue neon sign blinked to life indicating that it was once again Friday night “It’s Happy Hour at the Grown Folks Bar.”

The room grew silent as the pool players and their audience of red ball caps stared at her. Finally, one man stepped out, removed his cap and offered her the group’s condolences for the death of her husband.

The paper had reported that on Friday evening a week ago, Jeff Slim Carter had lost control of his motorcycle and crashed into Tillman’s Gorge dying instantly. An autopsy report indicated that he had ingested a lethal dose of barbiturates along with alcohol a half hour or so before the accident, causing him to lose consciousness. The police traced his movements to a local bar, where the bartender confirmed that he had consumed four bourbon and cokes before leaving. The article noted that his wife did not leave with her husband because she was ill. Funeral arrangements were pending.

Robin pulled Slim’s red ball cap out of her purse and handed it to the man. Then she took out a hundred-dollar bill and placed it on the bar.

“I know Slim would have wanted his cap retired here and I know he would want to leave you with good memories. So, Cliff, please give a Happy Hour round to the house in honor of my husband.”

Everyone cheered and raced to place their order. The man who had accepted the ball cap hung it high on the cue rack and everyone toasted Jeff Slim Carter.

Cliff gave Robin her rye on rocks. She took a couple of sips and looked at the Cuckoo Clock.

“I have to get going. I have a pot roast in the oven and I don’t want it to burn.”

She stood, raised her glass to the red ball cap hanging on the cue rack, took a quick sip of rye, set it on the bar and walked to the front door, taking one more look at the neon sign announcing “It’s Happy Hour at the Grown Folks Bar.”

Cliff called out, “Pot Roast is my favorite.”

“I know. I’ll see you about 6:30.”

Then Robin opened the door and disappeared into the night.

Unclaimed Property!

by

Pamela Ebel

 “Two Hundred and Fifty Thousand Dollars!”

Angelica Barsini watched as a clerk for the State Treasurer’s Office placed the last stack of Bearer Bonds back into the steel bank box, locked it and smiled at her.

“An incredible find for our Unclaimed Property program. This is one of the largest monetary amounts we have returned to the rightful owners since the program was created. More incredible is that it sat in your attic for eighteen years with no one discovering it until last year.”

He pushed the box, the key, and the Claims Closure Form across the desk to Angelica. She signed the form and returned it to the clerk.

“Yes, it is quite amazing. We went back and tried to go through the house four weeks after Katrina. The water had finally returned to the Mr. Go but the mud, debris and the bodies that were still there were just too much for my mom. We took the few things she wanted and since the attic was basically on the ground after the house washed off the foundation, and considering the fact she never went up to store things, we saw no reason to search there.”

“Your father is, or was, the original owner of the bonds. Didn’t he tell your mom about them? Why wouldn’t he have taken them with him when the hurricane was sure to hit in the Ninth Ward?”

Angelica stared at the box.

“He was my stepfather and he refused to leave. He stayed and was washed away in the flood waters. We never found him and he never told us about the bonds.”

Angelica kept her composure as she silently remembered the bastard:

‘He would have never let mom know he had anything of value. He let her cover all of the bills for the house she had bought before he married her and moved in. Even after I begged her not to, she put him on the title and he still insisted it was her property, that he just ‘stayed’ there. He said odd jobs around the house paid for his ‘room and board.’ Where the SOB could have gotten his hands on those bonds is a mystery to me.”

She looked at the clerk and smiled.

“I really can’t imagine when or where he got those bonds. But I’ve been away at school for several years.”

“Well, water under the bridge, uh, sorry about that. It’s over now and as the only heir you’re entitled to everything.”

“Thank you for your time and assistance.”

She stood and picked up the bank box.

“Wait, you need to go retrieve the chest. We have some men who will help you take it to your car.”

“Chest? What Chest?”

“It was found under a pile of mud and rubble about three years after the flood. It had your dad’s name and Naval ID on the top, It’s still locked and in pretty good shape. It’s been sitting in storage all this time until we could set up this program. I am sure your dad would want you to have it.”

“He was my stepfather and I forgot about it. Where is it?”

“Just head over to the warehouse across the parking lot and show your claim form to them. Someone will get it for you.”

Walking across the lot Angelica remembered that chest well. Her stepfather would take her into the attic, starting when she was about five, while her mom was at work. He told her she could play in the chest while he did more than let her play.  Even that young she knew it was wrong. But he said if she told, something bad would happen to her mom.

For years the man molested her every chance he got. She always managed to prevent him from penetrating her body. Unfortunately, the penetration of her mind and soul were harder to prevent.

In her teens, Angelica made up her mind to tell what was going on but by then her mother was battling cancer.  

“Caro, I am so sorry you do not like your father. I don’t know why because he is such a good man. I need him now that I’m sick and you are going away to college soon. Please try for me.”

She couldn’t take away the man who had become the ‘rock and soul of her survival’ as her mom called him, so Angelica said nothing.

Graduating from high school at seventeen, she moved to California to stay with relatives and attend college. She visited as often as possible as her mother’s cancer grew. Finally, in her senior year the phone call came:

“Angelica, it’s Aunt Louise. Your beloved mother and my only sister, Francesca, passed last night. Father Corlini gave her the Last Rights and she cried out for you.”

“Where was he, aunt? Was he there?”

“He wasn’t there. He has a new, young woman over in the Garden District. He spends his time with her. Her father has a large corporation and the new woman lavishes gifts on him. We saw in the paper that there was a problem with some kind of bonds missing. We don’t have anything to do with that. Please come home!”

Angelica returned for the funeral as Hurricane Katrina bore down on the city. She went to her mother’s house the night before landfall to gather some personal mementos. Sitting at the bottom of the attic ladder was the chest.

Frozen with fear and shame Angelica stared at it. Then she walked over, turned the key in the lock and yanked the chest open. Inside lay several of his Navy service weapons and his discharge papers. There were also several of her childhood dresses and her Raggedy Ann doll. She had always taken it up with her and clung to it as he touched her, his breath smelling of cigarettes and booze. Picking up the doll she heard the front door open.

“Well, well. It’s my precious Angelica. And still holding the doll that gave you so much comfort while we played in that chest. I thought you would probably be at the funeral and come here. So, I thought we could play some games again without fear of your precious mom finding us! What do you say?”

He came up to her and Angelica could smell the cigarettes and booze on his breath.

Eighteen years later she stared at the chest in the back of her car.  After dark she returned to her family home, where much of the debris had been removed. But closer to the levee, bulldozers continued to clear the land for the new houses to come.

Parking near a pile of debris, Angelica pulled the chest out of the car and over to the levee. She took a chain from around her neck and removed the key she had worn for those eighteen years.

Fitting it in the lock she opened the chest. His perfect skeleton stared up at her. The WWII KA-Bar knife still protruded from where she had shoved it into his heart that night.

Angelica pushed the chest on its side and the skeleton rolled out in parts. She removed the knife and tossed it into the water. Then she picked up the bones in bunches and tossed them after it. The skull was last to go. It didn’t leer at her or smell of cigarettes and booze. With a great yell she released it into the swirling water knowing it and he would soon be out in the gulf sleeping with the sharks.

She replaced the chest in the car and returned to the city. Two weeks later the doorbell rang at her Napa, California home. The UPS truck unloaded a crate into Angelica’s backyard.

Opening it, she removed a small chair. Then what was left of the chest, now a pile of wood, was tossed piece by piece into the fire pit.

“Hello Angel. How’s my favorite fiancé? And what is this you’re burning?”

A man smiled down at her, offering a glass of champagne.

“Hello Jeff. Thanks for the drink and let’s toast to eliminating the last unclaimed property.”

From her seat in the chair made of reclaimed wood from the chest, Raggedy Ann’s button eyes gleamed as the flames rose and she smiled.

Pamela Ebel has been published in Shotgun Honey, The BOULD AWARDS 2020 Anthology, as well other venues. Her poetry has appeared in the Delta Poetry Review. A native of California, she now concentrates on tales from her original home state and tales from the highways of the South. She also knows, like the Ancient Greeks and the Irish, that as a southern writer you can’t outrun your blood.

She has turned to writing full time as of 2020, obviously either perfect or bizarre timing, and this will be her fifth career. She lives in Metairie, Louisiana, with her husband and two cats.