The Tin Bar

I couldn’t bear going home yet, so I had the taxi drop me at the Tin Bar. I hadn’t been there since the day I left. In ten years, it hadn’t changed a bit.

“Bobby? Is that you?” The bartender knew my name. He also realized that I didn’t recognize him. “It’s me, Jimbo. From high school.”

“Jimbo?” He must have gained a hundred pounds. “You look great.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” He placed a mug of beer in front of me.

“I actually go by Robert now.”

“Whatever you say, Bobby. I mean Robert. So, how’ve you been?”

“Good.” I took a drink. “Real good.”

“I heard you moved to the big city to become a musician or something.”

“A writer.”

“A writer? I’ve never met a writer before! Let me buy you a shot.” He filled two shot glasses with whiskey. “To Bobby, the writer.”

We clinked our glasses and downed the fire water. I did my best not to choke.

“So, what have you written? Anything I know?”

“I’ve gotten a few things published. Mostly online.”

“Another shot?”

“Sure. Why not? Actually, what the hell.” I placed a hundred on the bar. “Keep them coming.”

“Big bill from a big city boy. Writing must pay well.”

I broke into laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“People think writers make money.” I took another shot. “That’s what’s so funny. Do you want to know a secret?”

“Can’t promise that I’ll keep it.”

“Most writers are pretentious assholes.”

He flashed me a puzzled look. “I don’t know what that word means.”

“What?” I smiled. “Asshole?”

“No.” He poured another shot. “Presentious.”

“I know, I know.” I took the shot. “I’m just pulling your leg, bub.” Bub, I hadn’t used that word in over a decade. “Pretentious: it’s when somebody thinks they’re more important that somebody else, even though they’re probably not.”

“I think you mean liberals.” Jimbo let out a hearty laugh.

I followed suit. He made a valid point. “You see, I write these stories and send them to these literary magazines but nobody ever publishes them. I swear, if you don’t have an MFA from some fancy university, I don’t think they even look at them.”

Jimbo took a shot. “If they’re all a bunch of pretentious assholes like you say, then why do you care so much?”

“I just want to be validated. I want them to realize that stories don’t have to take place in Catholic Schools or have characters that are abusive ex-boyfriends from England. I want them to realize that stories can take place in dive bars like this, and have characters like you, and me.” I chugged the rest of my beer. “Maybe that’s what I’m doing wrong. Maybe I’m not writing about the wrong things. Maybe I’m writing for the wrong audience. Maybe I should be writing for regular folks, like you.”

Jimbo smiled. “That’s a good idea, but there’s only one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Regular folks like me don’t read.”