Old Air
Step through the weathered French doors into the clubhouse dining room. It smells like old air. A gilt frame mirror hangs precariously on the wall near the door. Try not to look into it. The dining room is empty, but the tables are set. At the center of each, a little electric candle flickers. On the far end of the dining room is a bar. Behind the bar is the bartender. She is smoking a cigarette. Her form is encompassed within a nimbus of blue haze. Behind her are two large windows. If they weren’t smudged, there would be a view of the golf course. Hanging on the wall between the two windows is a fatigued painting of an autumnal mountain scene. To the left of the bar is a pair of batwing doors. Behind them is an ill-lit kitchen.
The bartender spots me. She says: “Sit where you like. Or maybe here at the bar.”
She pats her hand on the powder-blue Formica laminate. I sit at the bar.
She hands me a menu. “What’ll you have to drink?”
“Just water, please.”
“The water here is no good. How ‘bout some water of life?” She holds up a bottle of John Jameson’s finest and gives me a knowing wink.
“How about tomato juice?” I say. “You have tomato juice?”
“All we got is Bloody Mary mix.”
“Okay.”
While she is getting my drink, I look at the painting hanging on the wall behind the bar.
“You like that picture?” she says.
“Yes.”
“It came from the ashes of the Jolly-O fire. You remember the Jolly-O, don’t you?”
To play it safe, I say I do.
“So you know that Jolly-O was some fire,” she says, “some fire alright.”
A man emerges from behind the batwing doors. He appears to be in his late sixties. He does not look like somebody who works in a kitchen. He’s wearing a white polo shirt, khakis, and a tweed flat cap. On his feet are a pair of Monterosso whites. He walks over and sits down next to me at the bar.
He smiles in a friendly way and asks: “Have you been out on the course today?”
“No, I don’t golf.”
“That’s okay, that’s okay. Maybe you would like to start. Today would be a good day to learn how to play the golf.”
“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea. I can’t hit a ball straight. I’ve tried.” I point behind the bar. “I might break a window.”
“That’s okay, that’s okay,” he says. “Those windows are Plexiglas.”
“Do they ever get hit by golf balls?”
“All the time,” he says.
I have my doubts—nobody was out on that golf course when I drove up—but the bartender is nodding in solemn agreement. She slides a highball glass of Bloody Mary mix in front of me and takes a skillful drag from her cigarette.
A long pause. The man from the kitchen directs his full attention on me. The bartender joins him. I turn mine to the menu. I’m not hungry. I wasn’t planning to eat anything. I just wanted to see what the inside of this place looked like. From the outside it looked old and quaint, maybe a worthy subject to write about. After all, this is the magical Land of Rip Van Winkle. But now I’m sitting at this sketchy bar with a couple of strangers who are expecting something from me. So I say: “I’ll have a grilled cheese.”
“Is that it?” the bartender says. “Just grilled cheese? You want some coleslaw with it.”
“No thanks.”
“How about some fries?”
“No thanks, just the grilled cheese, please.”
“He’s just gonna have grilled cheese,” the bartender says to the man. He’s still looking at me with keen interest.
“Maybe a tomato on that grilled cheese,” the bartender says. “You like tomatoes, right?” She gestures at my drink.
“Sure. I’ll have grilled cheese with tomato.”
“He’ll have tomato with that grilled cheese,” the bartender says to the man.
The doubt must be all over my face. The man puts a friendly hand on my shoulder and says: “That’s okay, that’s okay. I’m going through those doors over there to make your lunch. While I’m doing that, you enjoy your drink and think about the golf. You’ll do that for me, won’t you? Think about the golf?”
I nod.
The man gets up and walks toward the batwing doors. Before he vanishes into the kitchen, he turns and says: “You’re really going to enjoy this grilled cheese. And we’ll talk more about the golf.”
A destiny now appears fixed.
©John P. O’Grady
Originally appeared in The Mountain Eagle on March 5, 2021
