Rafael Gomez ©2000
The end chorus of Led Zepplin's Kashmir caught his attention as he entered the bar. It erupted from the jukebox, located in the center of the room, like some medieval dragon, spewing musical fire upon everything it encountered. An old, gray bearded man was playing the role of bartender and was serving a drink to a ragged and inebriated man.
The stranger took a seat at the bar and the old man glanced up at him from his humored conversation with the drunk. He cleverly passed the drunk off to the muted hockey game that was playing on the television strategically placed in the upper right corner of the bar.
"What'll it be, Mac?" he said strolling the stranger's way. The man looked at the selection of liquors and brews that the bartender had on tap. Just then the track ended on the jukebox and was replaced by a Beatles tune.
(Once there was a way, to get back homeward. Once there was a way, to get back home. Sleep pretty darling, do not cry...)
"...and I will sing a lullaby." The stranger finished. The bartender smiled slightly and rephrased his initial question.
"Beer? Liquor?"
"Hard choice," the man said. "Where I'm going they won't have alcohol." He looked at the silver plated beer taps the protruded skywards from the back of the bar.
"What's on tap?"
"I got Bud Lite, Coors Lite, Killian's Red, and regular Bud." The stranger took his coat off and let it rest on the barstool next to him.
"I'll take a Bud Lite." The bartender pulled a glass from the rack under the bar and poured the brew into the glass.
"Got a name?" He asked placing the beer on the bar.
The stranger smiled, slightly then reached into his coat pocket for the package of cigarettes stowed there. With the religious routine of a longtime smoker he produced a lighter and lit the cigarette with one swift motion. The mysterious Zippo lighter that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere disappeared again. He took a long drag and just as the bartender was about to turn around, he spoke.
"Kurt. The name's Kurt." The bartender looked at him confusedly for a moment, and then realization flooded his face.
"Nice to meet you, Kurt. Everyone in here calls me Buck." Kurt took another drag from the cigarette. Buck reached under the bar and produced a package of aluminum ashtrays. He placed one in front of Kurt.
"You know," he said placing the beer on the bar. "That Lennon kid came in here one time and had a beer." The stranger smiled.
"Really?" Kurt said with humored interest. Buck chuckled to himself. He looked in the doorway as the drunk stumbled out.
"I kid you not. It was in 1979. I was just about to close the bar for the night and he walked right in and took a seat at the bar. I says to him,
‘I was just about to close up for the night.' He had looked up at me and I noticed his glasses right away. They were those circular jobbies that a lot of the kids were wearing then.
‘Can I get a drink?' he asks, sort of sad really. I walked behind the bar and pulled out a glass.
‘What'll it be?' After some contemplation he chose a Coors. I served it up and he drank it slowly, all the while me talking to him about the time that Elvis was here and the party he had. He finished his beer and paid for it with a five spot. But it was what he said, as he was leaving, that really startled me. I can still remember it.
‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.'
Then he disappeared out the door. I thought the whole thing had been strange but that took the cake. I mean, I didn't know who he was but at the moment I don't think I would've cared. When I opened the bar, the next day and read the paper, I nearly had a heart attack. I see his face in the paper under the headline, John Lennon Murdered.
It seems that he had been shot at the time that I saw him in here. Strange, huh?" Kurt shook his head and finished his drink. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray. The jukebox went silent.
"Strange story, old timer. But I guess you have a story for everyone who comes in here." The old man smiled a bit and took the empty beer glass from the bar. He then began wiping the bar with an old polishing rag.
"One of my talents I guess. I may even tell of you one day, even though I didn't catch your last name." Kurt put on his coat and headed toward the door.
"Cobain." He said walking through the door. "Kurt Cobain." The old man smiled and locked the door after him.
"Good Night."
*Poem by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
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