Old Men Drink Scotch and Water

Malcolm MacGregor tossed his briefcase on the front passenger's seat
and glowered at the dashboard clock as he got into his car. It was
after nine p.m. already. Good Lord, he hadn't realized that the meeting
had run that late. "Those blowhards from advertising tend to run off at
the mouth as much as they tend to run over their budget," he muttered
disgustedly to himself as his car pulled out of the parking lot and
onto the frontage road. His blue Corvette eased down the frontage road,
then shot onto the expressway with a burst of speed. God, he loved his
car! It was youthful, stylish, and the women really admired it. Yeah,
it was his toy. "At least the traffic's light now," he whispered, still
angry but trying to snatch some solace from the late night meeting that
had wrought such havoc upon his normal routine. It had even deprived
him of Happy Hour at the CASTAWAY.

The CASTAWAY was one of the bars whose neon lights glow invitingly just
off the expressway. The CASTAWAY'S neon logo was a barefoot beachcomber
sitting contentedly on a sandy isle with a drink in his hand. Above him
a palm tree rose to challenge the somber ebony emptiness of the
evening.

Happy Hour had become Mac's social life. Until seven p.m. he could
drink two Coors Light for the price of one and let the pressures of his
job slide from him like soapsuds and dirt under the barrage of a warm
shower. His ex-wife, Marcia, could never understand that. Happy Hour
was his "humanizing" session, but to her it had always been a challenge
to her feminine wiles. To think that he would want to spend time in a
tavern rather than hurry home to her, upset her. Maybe she would've
been happier if he would've driven straight home and slapped her around
a bit, like so many husbands do. He'd seen so many women hanging on to
abusive husbands as though they feared by letting go they would plunge
into a bottomless abyss that would swallow their screams in an eternity
of freefalling fear.

Yeah, she hadn't liked his cattin around a bit either. She couldn't
understand that a guy had to go out and prove himself as a man on
occasions, just as he has to do at work everyday. What else could he
say? At least they hadn't made the mistake of having a kid or two
before their marraige disintegrated.

Oh well. She'd remarried soon after. "She's probably even happy," he
murmured, hoping maliciously though that she wasn't.

He was almost fifty now. Either he was getting older or his job was
getting tougher. Some days he felt like the sullen, half-crazed bag
lady he'd see sometimes during the morning rush hour as she'd be
ramming her shopping cart forward against the flow of pedestrian
traffic. There were more and more lonely ass-dragging mornings.
Mornings he felt awash and adrift in a swiftly moving current of
humanity. Mornings he felt as confused about his own relation to the
universe as the blind man on the street corner must as he senses the
schools of people darting indifferently past him.

Yeah, he was pushing fifty. Still in good shape though if you
overlooked a little greying above his temples and the beginning of a
spare tire around his gut. "It isn't how old you are," he reminded
himself mentally. "It's how old you feel. And I can still run with the
best of them."

It was half past nine when Mac picked up the CASTAWAY'S sign in the
darkness. "No sense in confusing my car," he muttered, smiling smugly
at his wit as he pulled off the expressway and made his way into the
bar's parking lot.

"You're late, Mac," Mike, the tall, dark-haired bartender chided him,
tearing his gaze away from the gorgeous blonde co-ed with the nice rack
that he was seducing conversationally just long enough to acknowledge a
regular customer and good tipper. "I can get you two beers for Happy
Hour price yet, though."

"Thanks," Mac replied as he looked around, hoping to spot a familiar
face. Mac missed the regular crowd. This late in the evening it was all
mostly college kids with a smattering of older yuppie males who were
there sniffing after the younger "meat." Even the music had been turned
up louder. The "stop for a couple after work " crowd was gone. Glenn
Gehringer of the thick brown mustache, the flirtatious mind-set and the
acutely cynical political insights had long since found someone to go
home with. His barstool was now occupied by some pudgy-cheeked,
rodent-faced fat kid wearing a college fraternity shirt. Jake the
Laundryman had cleaned up his act and gone home, and "Chip," the
Frito-Lay driver had long since departed, taking his Viet-nam stories
home with him. Yeah, like a chameleon the CASTAWAY had put on a
different "night" face and Mac felt like his watering hole was a
stranger now rather than a friend.

Mac hunched over his two beers at the bar as if hoping to leave the
raucous crowd of college kids behind him. He studied the familiar faces
on the shelves of the bar just in front of the mirror. At least THEY
never changed. Jose Cuervo, Yukon Jack, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels. They
were all there. A constant. Just like Happy Hour. There was even a
bottle of Cutty Sark. Mac's old man liked his scotch. He called it
"chasin the skirt" when he'd stop at the bar for a scotch and water
after work. Once Mac asked his dad what he meant by that, Mac's dad, as
proud a Scot as you'd ever want to meet, whispered, "It's from Burns,
laddie. Dinna they not teach you bout him here i tha new country?" Then
he launched into a boisterous recital of "Tam O'Shanter," a poem about
a drunken Scotsman who comes upon the devil and some witches cavorting
and dancing. He's so taken by the beauty of a witch in a short outfit,
a "cutty sark" that he bellows his approval. This ill-timed
indiscretion caused the evil dancers to give him chase. Mac smiled as
he remembered his father's rendition. Mac wasn't much for poetry
himself. No time or patience for it. Then he remembered what Mike the
bartender had said to him once after he told him about his father and
his love of reciting Bobby Burns while in his cups. "It's the old men
who drink scotch and water," he said slyly. "We young studs, we've got
to stick to our beer."

Mac checked himself out in the mirror. By God, he looked pretty good
yet. No college punk anymore. More distinguished. Mature. Yeah, that's
it. More mature. Marcia should have stood by him for God's sake. "I'll
be she hasn't got as good as me at home right now," he wagered to
himself, comparing himself to Marcia's second husband who took delight
in ballroom dancing, oil painting and in staying home with her. Not
much of a life for a man.

Mac looked up into the mirror as the barstool beside him was occupied
and a strong scent of perfume began to seduce his nostrils. She was a
fine-looking bitch, a real stunner. Yeah, she was dressed to the hilt
too, showing enough cleavage to leave no doubt that she had substantial
"assets." Oops, she was looking in the mirror too, and she caught him
savoring those mouth-watering melons of hers. She smiled though. That
was a good sign, and then she asked him, are you here on
business?"

"No" he smiled as he turned to talk to her face to face. "Just a bit
later than usual. That's all."

She turned her barstool to sit facing him, and as she did one of her
legs brushed against him. She had long blonde hair that tumbled like a
stream of sunlight down her shoulders, and she was wearing a satin
teal-colored blouse with a black skirt that was indecently short. He
glanced down at the leg that was pressed against his, moving slightly
now in an erotic message of arousal. Then he looked up at her face.
God, she was YOUNG. So Beautiful, too.

Mac thought to himself. "I guess I've still got what it takes," as he
looked triumphantly at her. Her soft pink lips parted just enough so
that she could moisten them with her tongue. Then she whispered, "my
name's Tara."

"Mine's Mac," he gulped. "Malcolm MacGregor." He reached for his second
beer in a desperate attempt to buy time to think of what to say next.
Mike the bartender looked over at him, smirked, and winked at him. Then
he whispered something to the blonde that he'd been hitting on and they
both glanced over at him, then laughed.

"May I buy you a drink, Tara?" Mac asked her. May as well get down to
the basics, he thought. Man, she was gorgeous.

"I'm not here to drink," she said coyly. "I'm looking for something
else, and figure that maybe you are too." She slid her leg slowly,
languorously along his and said, "I hope we can work something out
between us."

"I've nowhere to be tonight," Mac assured her. "Do you want to leave
right now or have a drink or two first?"

"You got a couple hundred bucks on you?" Tara asked, her voice suddenly
changing to brusque and businesslike.

Mac looked at her dumbly for a moment, not comprehending at first, the
shift in the conversation. Then it dawned on him.

"You mean....you're a hooker?"

She looked at him impatiently. It was the look of frustration that you
might see a worldly sister give her naive young brother. "Yes," she
whispered. "A working girl. I ain't got time to sit and drink, Mac. Do
you want to get it on with me or not? I've got my van out in the parking lot."

"I..I've never had to pay for it before," Mac assured her, stammering
slightly.

"Well. you will me, Mac, if you want me. Do you think I'm hustling an
old guy like you for the fun of it?" She looked at him, suddenly
contemptuous. "I've got tuition coming up and a payment due on my
Mercedes. Did you really think I'd hit on you if there weren't a payday
in it for me?"

Mac pulled away from her as though she were a prophetess forecasting
the end of the world, and stumbled slightly as he rose from his
barstool and fled. He dared not look back. To think that she saw him as
an old man was a sucker-punch to his pride, his manhood and a
frightening harbinger of a decline into impotency, a nursing home,
spoonfed meals and a drool-bib.

Mac's pride forced him to drive past the CASTAWAY the next evening. He
needed a drink though, so he looked for another sign that looked
welcoming. He saw promise in a sign that read KOZY KORNER that hung
above a red brick building adorned with a faded Schlitz beer sign.
Yeah, he remembered Schlitz. "You only go round once in life, so you've
got to grab for all the gusto you can get." Yeah, that looked
promising.

Mac opened the door and was greeted by the smell of stale beer and
cigarette smoke. The long bar was scarred by burns and rings of stain,
and the interior was dark and devoid of people other than a couple of
elderly pensioners sitting with a cribbage board between them and a
husky, grey-haired stevedore of a woman bartender who sported as many
tatoos as the wrestler who calls himself The Undertaker.

"What do ya want, buddy?" she demanded.

He looked around glumly at the silent jukebox. the faded caricatures of
the Hamm's Bear behind the bar and the rows of dusty liquor bottles.
Yeah, there it was, the old Cutty Sark. Yeah, he'd chase the
skirt.

"I'll have a scotch and water, I guess." Mac sighed, as he gazed in the
dusty mirror behind the bar at the forlorn expression on his middle-aged
face.