The Old Piano Tavern
Zac Ryder
He worked the room like a politician, floating from conversation to conversation telling clever jokes, quoting Thoreau and talking baseball. His plastic wife struggled to keep up as the duo paraded their deep pockets around the bar.
In the six months since the Old Piano Tavern had "come under new management," my liver and I had seen the clientele change dramatically. A musky neighborhood bar, once proud of its fresh peanuts and dollar rails had become a breeding ground for young, urban professional armed with palm pilots and five year plans. Gone are the days of nine-ball, firm handshakes and cheap neon signs. The true character, and characters of the bar had been replaces by soft candlelight, scratch handicaps and expensive cigars. No longer a place to unwind and escape with friends, The Old Piano Tavern had shamelessly become a hot spot for getting noticed and being seen.
Two clean cut navy blue suits shuffled through the door. The red tie picked his way through the crowd, desperately trying to place an order with the bartender. Meanwhile, the green tie, detoured by an unexpected pat on the back, seemed uninterested in the whereabouts of his companion as he blended in with the other suits. The red tie finally made his way up next to me where he demanded an "Absolute Peppar Salty Dog" which I later learned was nothing more than Vodka and grapefruit juice. He leaned up against the bar resting his elbow casually on the edge. Without making eye contact, the red tie mumbled a quick "thank you" and began sipping gently through the tiny straw before slithering off into the shadows. Three drinks later a tall brunette sat down on the stool to my left and promptly ordered a Perfect Manhattan with two cherries. I struggled to avoid eye contact. But her centerfold looks, along with my drunkenness, were begging for a witty remark. Just as I found the courage to catch her attention, an equally stunning woman whisked her off towards the door.
Lesbians.
It wasn't my night.
After a few more rounds, I paid off the tab, stopped by the men's room, and staggered outside, vowing never to return again. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk waiting for a valet to bring their cars around. I stood on the curb hoping to hail a cab. A little black Porsche came whipping around the corner before coming to a screeching halt at my feet. The door popped open and a thick gold chain with sideburns burst out from behind the wheel. It was quite a spectacular entrance.
He circled around the front of the car and tossed me the keys.
"Park her up front, all right?"
I stood in disbelief, laughing as he swaggered up the stairs and into the bar.
Coolly, I drove off into the night, uptown three blocks to the Boomerang Club. My little black Porsche was a big hit with the ladies.
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