Last night I arrived at the Tempus Fugit at around 1:45.
Whiskey, my 11-month-old golden retriever had metaphorical ants in her
metaphorical pants and used her cold, wet nose to nudge me awake.
Whiskey’s not the sort of dog to cry wolf. When she says she
needs to go for a walk, I listen. So I quickly threw on a pair of jeans, a grey
sweatshirt I’ve had since high school, a pair of running shoes and walked the
20 minutes up town to the Tempus Fugit.
There was a time, not so many years ago I suppose, when I
could cover the distance to the Tempus Fugit in half that time. I walk slower
now. It’s not the infirmities of age, the creakiness of my knees or even the
result of my increasingly dour disposition. It’s more I like to see where I’m
going—even at night, even over a well-trod path. I rush all day at work and at
life, when I walk, it suits me to take my time.
There’s an ancient Spanish palindrome that makes sense here.
“La ruta nos aporto otro paso natural.”
My Spanish may be on the rusty side of non-existent, but I translate that as
“The path provides the next natural step.” In short, let some things come to
you. Receive them. It might just work.
The Tempus Fugit was uncharacteristically crowded when I
showed up. And by crowded I mean there were two older men sitting at a small
table against the back wall nursing each a Pike’s Ale (The ALE that won for YALE.)
There were only the two of them, and they weren’t playing cards but I thought
immediately of Paul Cezanne’s painting, “The Card Players.”
I’m lucky enough to
have an interpretation of that painting in my home--a signed lithograph by
Raphael Soyer in which he adapts Cezanne to his grittier, more melancholy
style.
I took my usual seat at the bar and Whiskey her usual spot
on the floor. Whatever schpilkas had afflicted her was gone now. Now, she
rested.
The bartender slid me my usual, an eight-ounce juice glass
of Pike’s and he brought Whiskey her usual wooden bowl of water. In only a
moment he brought over a small
bowl of peanuts for me and pushed over a large glass jar
filled with pickled hardboiled eggs, something I never have and never will
sample.
The bartender began, as he usually does.
“Dante’s Canto XXX in the “Inferno.”
I nodded. My Dante is rustier than my Spanish.
“What ring of Hell is that? Bad cable service?”
“No. Hell is too good for cable companies. It’s the
Eighth Circle. The ring reserved for Impersonators, Counterfeiters of Persons
or Money. Falsifiers of words.”
“I know the sort. My business is positively teeming with
them.”
“Puccini features Gianni Schicchi in his Triptych “Il Trittico.”
“The one with “Il mio babbino caro.” Callas
The bartender refreshed my Pike’s and continued on his way.
This is yet another reason I love the Tempus Fugit. Your glass never runs dry.
“Gianni is a worm. He impersonates a friend, he writes
himself into a Will, so he can inherit his friend’s horse. In other words, he cheats and
steals. He connives. He canoodles. He’s a sham, a fraud, a fake and a phony.”
"Some people deserve to burn in hell." I emptied my second.
"Some people deserve worse."
"Some people deserve worse."
I nodded.
He wiped the already spotless bar.
After a few moments I slid a $20 across the polished teak.
He wiped the already spotless bar.
After a few moments I slid a $20 across the polished teak.
"On me," he said, as usual.
And Whiskey and I walked, slowly, home.
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