The bartender greeted me hello, gregarious for him, then hustled around the woodwork to fill Whiskey's bowl with life-giving waters. He then returned to his station and pulled me a Pike's (the ALE that won for YALE!) and began the evening's disquisition.
"I've been thinking about Whiskey," he said.
"The libation, or the pup?"
"The pup, of course," he continued. "I don't need to think about the drink. She thinks about me."
We laughed and he filled my six-ounce juice glass with another squeeze of suds.
"She turned three on Saturday," I told him.
"Three-year-old Whiskey. She's been coming here since she was knee-high."
"Well, technically," I unctuoused, "she's still knee-high."
"Glibness and facility are unwelcome here," he joked. "The Tempus Fugit is a place of long pauses and searching for words. Our dialogues are more like O'Neill than Mamet, and I'd thank you to," he paused for a good minute, "to remember that."
I nodded back and talked instead to my Pike's. I always liked what it had to say.
"Let me recite," he recovered, "a short ditty that was at one time popular in these precincts that has, through the vagaries of the ages, fallen into sad disuse and, I'd say, even atrophy. It is a poem about Whiskey."
"The libation?" I nodded.
He continued.
"If the ocean was whiskey and I was a duck
I'd dive to the bottom to get one sweet suck
But the ocean ain't whiskey and I ain't a duck
So we'll round up the cattle and then we'll get drunk."
"Bad use of the subjunctive," I offered.
"Entirely besides the point. Now if there are no more interruptions, I'll continue.
"Beefsteak when I'm hungry red liquor when I'm
dry
"Yet somehow she tolerates me." I pulled two twenties from my wallet and slid them across the teak.
Greenbacks when I'm hard up and religion when I
die
They say I drink whiskey, my money's my own
All them that don't like me, can leave me alone
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die
Sometimes I drink whiskey, sometimes I drink rum
Sometimes I drink brandy, at other times none
But if I get boozey, my whiskey's my own
And them that don't like me, can leave me alone
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die
My foot's in my stirrup, my bridle's in my hand
I'm leaving sweet Lillie, the fairest in the land
Her parents don't like me, they say I'm too poor
They say I'm unworthy to enter her door
It's a whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If I don't get rye whiskey, well, I think I will die
Sweet milk when I'm hungry, rye whiskey when I'm dry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die
I'll buy my own whiskey, I'll make my own stew
If I get drunk, madam, it's nothing to you
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die
I'll drink my own whiskey, I'll drink my own wine
Some ten thousand bottles I've killed in my time
I've no wife to quarrel, no babies to bawl
The best way of living is no wife at all
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry If the whiskey don't kill me, I'll live till I die
Way up on Clinch Mountain I wander alone
I'm as drunk as the devil, oh, let me alone
You may boast of your knowledge an' brag of your sense
'Twill all be forgotten a hundred years hence
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, you're no friend to me
You killed my poor daddy, God damn you, try me."
They say I drink whiskey, my money's my own
All them that don't like me, can leave me alone
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die
Sometimes I drink whiskey, sometimes I drink rum
Sometimes I drink brandy, at other times none
But if I get boozey, my whiskey's my own
And them that don't like me, can leave me alone
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die
My foot's in my stirrup, my bridle's in my hand
I'm leaving sweet Lillie, the fairest in the land
Her parents don't like me, they say I'm too poor
They say I'm unworthy to enter her door
It's a whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If I don't get rye whiskey, well, I think I will die
Sweet milk when I'm hungry, rye whiskey when I'm dry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die
I'll buy my own whiskey, I'll make my own stew
If I get drunk, madam, it's nothing to you
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die
I'll drink my own whiskey, I'll drink my own wine
Some ten thousand bottles I've killed in my time
I've no wife to quarrel, no babies to bawl
The best way of living is no wife at all
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry If the whiskey don't kill me, I'll live till I die
Way up on Clinch Mountain I wander alone
I'm as drunk as the devil, oh, let me alone
You may boast of your knowledge an' brag of your sense
'Twill all be forgotten a hundred years hence
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, you're no friend to me
You killed my poor daddy, God damn you, try me."
"Somewhat defiant," I answered "for Easter Sunday."
"Yes," he admitted, polishing the hardwood and pulling me another Pike's. "But a fitting way, I think, to say 'hat's off' to the pup."
"She is a remarkable creature."
"She sees all and says nothing."
"Yet somehow she tolerates me." I pulled two twenties from my wallet and slid them across the teak.
He pushed them back and returned across the counter a small wrapping of cellophane with a dog's treat inside.
"If the whiskey don't kill me, I'll live till I die."
Whiskey and I walked, somberly and safely, home through the night.
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