Shannon

After another grueling day of laying asphalt in the white desert sun Shannon wanted a beer. Cathedral City, unfamiliar territory to the mere itinerant road worker, had little to offer, and so the Beerhunter sports bar would have to suffice. Shannon sauntered achingly into this dim shrine to beer and professional sports. The half-full bar, its cool softness and generic familiarity, beckoned. And so Shannon eased himself into a solitary barstool. Eight televisions of varying sizes displayed several sports events, from NFL to NHL to PAC 10 football to preseason NBA to rocket fuel drag racing. Shannon coughed up the last remaining bit of dust caught in his throat and ordered a Bud. The bartender was a squat Hispanic fellow, very stout, and very cheery. Reminded Shannon of a tour guide he had in Hawaii once, a jolly guy who taught white people the proper method of pineapple slicing. But the bartender sensed something odd about Shannon's carriage. He carded Shannon, and when Shannon feebly drew out his wallet with aching hands the bartender eyed him askance. There was something odd about this road worker. Suddenly the cheeriness in the bartender's boyish eyes vanished, was replaced by Dick Tracy sleuth cunning. Shannon was taken by surprise.

"Why you so nervous?" asked the bartender.

"Hmmm?" and Shannon made a grimacing shrug, hoping to get the situation over with and have his beer. But the bartender wasn't finished.

"Are you sure this is a real ID?"

Shannon struggled for something to say, something manly and cool, but nothing came. So he said the wrong thing instead: "Haven't you ever seen an Arizona license before?"

The bartender shifted into conflict mode.

"Yeah. It's been a while though. And there's definitely something strange about you, guy. You seem awful nervous."

Shannon was suddenly overcome with the desire to leave and forget about this little sports bar in Cathedral City. "Are you going to give me my beer or not?" he asked, eyeing the bartender with even more discomfort. Nothing threatening at all.

"Get out of here." The bartender threw Shannon's wallet at his chest and pointed firmly at the door. "Don't you ever show your face in here again. Understand?"

So Shannon was back out in the desert. The sun had turned auburn red, and was falling behind the wrinkled old hills on the horizon. With his head pounding, bent down to the sandy sidewalk, Shannon trudged past strip malls and grocery stores to his expensive little hotel, expensive to him at least. Alone in his room Shannon felt too restless to remain, too angry to go out. "Fucking Palm Springs people," he thought. He considered grabbing a beer at the nearby store and bringing it back to his room where he could watch sitcoms in peace. But every idea seemed bleak. He knew he wouldn't make it long at this road work job. It was too lonely, and he was tired of trying to relate to the other workers, who seemed to have already established their own fraternity, complete with its peculiar sensibilities, sensibilities Shannon failed to appreciate. He was the only outsider.

He flung himself sideways onto his enormous bed, which smelled of old people's bodies and cheap cigars, and he tried to think about women. Any woman from his past, any woman who in his mind might offer him some companionship at this lonesome time, this empty evening, one of many to come. He felt himself falling slowly back through the mattress, and he dove into the shattering white pool in his head, and ate shit. His mind was a treadmill that never got anywhere but was constantly racing; the fact of the matter was that Shannon was just plain bored. How depressing. So he sat up and felt he had to do something. Putting on his shoes and numbly shoving his room key back into his pocket, Shannon went out again.

This time the air had a chill to it, no longer baked by a relentless daytime sun, and Shannon wished that he had grabbed a sweater on his way out, something that he had considered but not done. He walked through two stoplights and found himself once again before the Beerhunter. Shannon really wanted a beer. He also felt guilty about his own conduct, like he must have done something real weird to make the bartender act that way. Perhaps he could make amends. And Shannon imagined himself, the bartender, and the other patrons all laughing together in the warm comfort of the bar, or rooting for the Cowboys. Or better yet, maybe the bartender wouldn't be there any more. But if he was there, would it even be worth the risk of embarrassment if he got eighty-sixed again? Shannon decided not to go in. It wasn't worth it. So he kept walking. He walked to the Albertson's. Nothing there. He wandered around the Longs Drugs, read a Mad Magazine at the newsstand, and felt pathetic when he left without buying anything. Then Shannon wound up back at the Beerhunter. This time he heard the crowds of people inside, men and women who all knew each other, who were business consultants and school teachers and tire shop owners. Shannon had a ten dollar bill in his wallet, and he wanted to spend it. With courage renewed by the fruitlessness of his evening so far, Shannon asked himself what he had to lose and swung open the door.

Inside was a din of bodies and music and sports and laughter and heated conversation, all enveloped in bitter-tasting smoke. Shannon found the only free barstool and sat down. To Shannon's relief the bartender this time was a woman with straight hair and a cute nose. He ordered a Dewar's on the rocks and stirred the ice with his swizzle stick while occasionally taking exalted sips of the ambrosial whiskey. He'd just started bonding with an arousing hockey game when he felt a rough tap on his shoulder. Gripped with fear, Shannon spun around on his stool ready to get booted again by the bartender. But the man who tapped his shoulder was just a patron, a tall professional-type guy with slicked-back red hair and a trimmed red mustache. He was obviously drunk.

"This is my seat," he said. And the man whistled at the woman bartender. "Hey Lane! I thought you said you'd save my spot!"

Shannon was dumbfounded. "Uh," he mumbled, "I can move....Sorry..."

But Lane came to the rescue. "Sorry. My bad." And she poured the man a half pint of Bud. This subdued the man's hostility, and he went back to a table crowded with other similar men. Lane paused, smiling apologetically, but with a semi-conspiratorial grin, and she said to Shannon, "I saw you get kicked out today. Don't worry about it. That other bartender -

Leonard - he's just a touchy guy, but he took off work early tonight. Stay here as long as you want, Mr. Arizona."

Shannon managed to thank her somehow. He was surprised at how grateful he felt towards this woman. After watching a San Diego Trojans game he slurped down the rest of his Dewar's and a much longed-for beer. He left Lane a good-sized tip and strolled back to his hotel room feeling cold but refreshed, ready for sleep. "Mr. Arizona." He liked that. When back in his room he got undressed, brushed his teeth, watched a little more football, set his alarm clock, and turned out the light. And then it hit him, that restlessness that wouldn't leave him. Shannon lay there in the dark, lost upon his sea of a bed, alone on a flat plane. Again he felt himself falling backwards into a white glass pool. He lay there thinking about how he'd like to kill that bartender, Leonard, about how he'd like to kill the man with the red mustache.