The Old Man

Vicky picked up the three shot glasses and three beer glasses from the bar where the three men had been sitting. She was glad they were gone. They'd been jerks with her, and though she'd served them two shots of their best bourbon and two beers each, they'd only tipped her a dollar -- a dollar tip for over thirty dollars worth of drinks.

What was worse was the guy on the outside with the football jersey. He'd grabbed her left breast just as she was sitting their second round of drinks on the table. She'd almost dumped his shot in his lap, and now wished she had. He'd just laughed and said if she didn't want her tit squeezed, she shouldn't show as much cleavage.

Vicky's actual name was Victoria, a name her mother loved because it sounded regal, or so she told Vicky when the other girls teased her about it. As she grew older, she began to hate the name. Victoria sounded old and stuffy. To everyone except her mother and father, she became Vicky. She liked the way Vicky sounded -- short and cute -- and also thought it made her seem playful. Playful was important when she was just out of high school and looking for a man to spend her life with.

She'd found that man, or so she thought, in Ricky Masters. Ricky was a couple of years older than Vicky's nineteen when they met. He was a large man, tall and muscular, and was proud of the fact he'd been scouted by several college football teams. Ricky didn't talk about many things other than his high school football days. He did like to tell her about his construction job. Ricky drove heavy equipment for a local contractor and always told her he'd own the construction company some day. That seeming drive to succeed and his good looks impressed her, and when he asked, she said she'd marry him.

Now, Vicky was forty seven, and when she looked back, Ricky had been a huge mistake. Their marriage had started off well with a honeymoon to Mussel Shoals, or at least, that's what she thought then. Back then, she'd have said they made love twice a day. Now, she knew that really, Ricky had just used her twice a day. She couldn't remember him doing anything to give her the same pleasure.

Once they set up housekeeping, Vicky had tried to be a good wife. She kept the house clean, washed their clothes, and always had dinner ready when Ricky came home. She never refused his attentions even when she didn't feel like being intimate.

Ricky didn't hold up his end of the marriage. He did work, but construction jobs depend on the weather. If it rained, Ricky didn't work, and if Ricky didn't work he was usually at Ted's Bar drinking beer, spending their money, and telling everybody about the touchdown he scored that took the team to the state championships.

When she started coming up short of money to pay the bills, Vicky took a job as a waitress. She was pretty, had a young girl's slender figure, and she made up for the low wages with tips. The extra money tided them over the days when it rained or the winter months when it was too cold for construction.

They'd been married a year and a half when Ricky came home from work early. Vicky asked if the company had stopped work for some reason. Ricky said no, he'd quit because the construction foreman had told him to do something that wouldn't have worked.

Vicky didn't say anything, but she was worried. Without Ricky's paycheck, they couldn't afford pay the rent and eat too. The next day, she asked her boss if she could work more hours and he scheduled her for two more days a week. It still wasn't enough, but it would help. Ricky had assured her he'd look for another job as soon as he took care of a couple things around the house.

Two weeks later, Ricky was still sitting on the couch watching television, and Vicky pawned her engagement ring in order to pay the rent. When Ricky noticed it missing from her hand, he was furious. Their fight that night ended when Ricky stormed out of the house, got in their truck, and spun the tires as he left the drive. Vicky was nursing a bruise on her face and another where he'd grabbed her arm.

Vicky called her father once Ricky left. Half an hour later, she was sitting with her mother and father and explaining what had happened. Her mother tried to be sympathetic. Her father just said, "Victoria, it's not going to get any better. I talked to the construction company owner to see if I could convince him to give Ricky a second chance. I found out Ricky didn't quit. He got fired. The owner said Ricky had been missing work and when he did show up, he smelled like beer. He couldn't have someone like that driving heavy equipment. The best thing for you to do is to divorce him. We'll help you pay the lawyer if that's how you decide to go."

Ricky didn't show up for the hearing. Vicky heard later that he was at Ted's Bar again. When her father took her to have Ricky sign the papers, he didn't even read them. He just scrawled his name, threw them back in her face, and called her a worthless bitch.

Vicky had lived with her mother and father until she'd saved enough money to afford her own apartment. The waitress job paid enough for her to live and a few clothes if she did well with tips.

Vicky didn't think about another man for a year, and even then, she was very cautious. She'd made one mistake and she didn't want to make another. She dated a little, mostly with men who came into the restaurant. After three of them tried to get her into bed on the second date, she stopped going out with any of them.

The years that had gone by so slowly when Vicky was in high school seemed to speed up as she closed on thirty, and they kept speeding past faster and faster as she aged. It seemed as if one day she was twenty five and still had the figure she'd had in high school, and the next she was forty six and carrying some extra pounds in her breasts, thighs, and hips.

She looked around one day at work at the other waitresses and realized she was old enough to be a mother to most of them. She'd heard them talking in the break room about how much they earned in tips. They were doing better than she was even though she had more experience. There could be only one reason.

Vicky found the bartending school in the phone book, and called the number for information. She hated asking her mother and father for the money for tuition and the state license, but she promised to pay them back. Her father just laughed and said he was happy she was doing something to better herself and not to worry about the money.

Three weeks later, Vicky had a diploma from the bartending school and a license from the state that allowed her to serve alcohol. All she needed was a job bartending.

The bar didn't look like much on the outside, but Vicky thought the inside was charming. It had been built in the late forties when the GI's were all home from the war and had jobs and money to spend. Some of that money they spent taking their wives or girlfriends "out on the town". For the couples within walking distance, "out on the town" usually meant "The Lacy Club".

There was a tiny dance floor in one corner of the long, narrow bar, and against one wall was the bar proper complete with a brass footrail and real wood paneling on the front. The back bar was straight out of a prohibition era movie with a long mirror and rows of bottles with chrome pouring spouts. On the other side of the room were tables and chairs for four with red and white checkered tablecloths. After her interview, the manager said he'd get back to her in a few days.

Vicky was overjoyed when the manager called her at work and asked when she could start. She said two weeks and he asked if she could start in one. Vicky thought about her waitress job and the young girls. They wouldn't miss her that much.

"OK, I'll start in a week."

Her workday was from three to three. Twelve hours was a long time to be on her feet and working, but the pay was ten dollars an hour and the manager said she'd probably bring in another ten or twenty an hour in tips. The first week, she averaged about twelve dollars an hour in tips. Once the regulars met her and got to know her, that increased each week until she was putting two hundred dollars in her purse every night. She repaid her father and mother the second month, and then went shopping for new clothes.

The man who walked through the door and up to the bar that afternoon had white hair so Vicky knew had to be rather old, but he didn't act old. He walked with spring in his step and with the stride of a man confidant in himself. He took one of the barstools and said, "I'll have the usual".

Vicky asked him what the usual was. He put on a pair of glasses, looked her up and down, and then laughed.

"I guess I do need to wear my glasses all the time. I thought you were Herb. Now that I look closer, you're a lot nicer to look at than Herb. You're new aren't you?"

"Yes, about two months."

"What's your name?"

"I'm Vicky."

"Well, Vicky, my usual is scotch neat, but I want the good stuff Herb always kept under the counter. Glen-something I think it was."

Vicky smiled.

"Maybe Glenfiddich? I have a bottle of that."

The man slapped his hand down on the bar top.

"That's it, Glenfiddich. Wonderful stuff. Goes down smooth as a woman's thighs and tastes about as good. Oh...Oh...I'm really sorry about that last. I didn't mean any disrespect or anything like that. It's just an old saying. When you get to be my age, sometimes you forget things like that aren't acceptable anymore."

Vicky grinned.

"You won't embarrass me or offend me. I'm too old to think that was anything more than what you said."

The old man made a show of wiping his brow.

"Whew. Thought I was in big trouble there for a minute. I'd hate to make a pretty girl like you mad at me. Pretty girls usually run the other way when I'm around anyway, and I don't need to be chasing any more of 'em off."

Vicky laughed then.

"I can't believe women run away from you."

"Oh, but they do. I think it's because when you get to be my age, you tend to say what you think. Some of 'em don't like what I say much."

Vicky quickly checked the bar and tables. It was only three thirty and the after work crowd wouldn't be in for an hour or so. Harry, the manager was in his office. She and the old man were the only other people in the place besides Barbara, the table girl. It wouldn't hurt to talk with this man for a while, and he was interesting.

"So what would you say that would make me run away?"

"Well let's see. Usually they run off if I tell 'em they're too fat or too skinny. When you get to be my age you don't have time to mess with a woman you can't get your arms around or one that doesn't have any curves.'

The old man sipped his scotch and then grinned at Vicky.

"Couldn't tell you that though. You're not fat, and your curves are the kind of curves I like -- nice and round and soft looking, the kind a man likes to snuggle up with on a cold night."

Vicky laughed again.

"You must be the only man in the world who doesn't want a woman who looks like she's still eighteen."

"Well, those young things are OK for some men, I guess, but I want enough woman I can hold on while I'm...well, you know, and don't smile. I still can."

He chuckled.

"Well, it's been a while, but the last time I checked, I still could."

Vicky laughed again.

"I think I better just take your word for that."

He grinned slyly and raised his eyebrows up and down.

"You know what they say -- once you go old you'll find out it's gold. You change your mind, all you have to do is tell me. I'll be here every day for the next few months."

With that, the old man drained his glass, laid a ten dollar bill on the counter, and then stood up.

"Keep the change", is all he said before he turned and started for the door.

Vicky looked at the bill on the bar and then looked at the man again. She could tell his shirt had been washed many, many times. The tips of the collar were frayed and the color was a little splotchy in places. His jeans were the same way, washed enough times they were almost white in places, and the cowboy boots he wore were scuffed and the heels were rounded until they almost weren't there.

"Mister, I can't take this money."

He turned and walked back to the bar.

"Why not? It's a good bill. I made the bank girl check it with one of those ink pen things before I let her give it to me."

"I know it's good. It's just that it's too much. Your drink was only three dollars."

The old man scratched his head.

"Damn, this hasn't ever happened before. What would you say is a good tip for a three dollar drink?"

"Usually it's about a dollar, maybe a dollar and a quarter if you like the bartender.

"Dollar and a quarter, huh? I don't like change much. It pulls my pants down and I have to keep pullin' 'em up. I think I like you though. What would you say to two dollars?

Vicky grinned.

"I don't know. Thank you?"

"Two dollars it is then."

Vicky handed him a five dollar bill and he put it in a wallet that looked ready to fall apart. He waved then and walked out the door.

As she lay in bed that night, she wondered about the old man. He seemed to be OK mentally, or at least he didn't ramble on about something. Their conversation had been interesting and funny, and she suspected he'd intended it to be that way. That he'd nearly propositioned her was proof of that. She seldom got asked that directly by any man, let alone by a man who looked to be in his seventies.

Judging by how he dressed, he couldn't have much money and yet he'd been ready to give her a seven dollar tip for a three dollar drink. Maybe he'd just gotten his retirement check and was celebrating. It probably wouldn't happen again.

The next afternoon at three thirty, he walked through the door again and went straight to the bar. Vicky walked up to him and smiled.

"The usual?"

The old man grinned.

"You remembered. Damn, sexy and smart too. Where were you when I was thirty?"

Vicky smiled as she reached under the bar.

"I don't know. How old are you?"

"I'm seventy four."

She chuckled.

"Well I'm forty six, so I'd still have been in diapers."

She poured the shot into his glass and put the bottle back. The old man took a sip and then sat the glass down.

"Story of my life. When I was young enough I thought the hot ones were too old. Now the hot ones like you are too young."

Vicky laughed.

"If you think I'm hot you need new glasses."

"Nah...when you get to be my age you see things a little differently, that's all. Oh I see the curves a woman has. I told you about a woman's curves yesterday didn't I? Yeah, thought I remembered telling you that. When you get to be my age, sometimes you forget things or make 'em up, so I wasn't sure.

"If her curves are like I told you, that's a good start, but it's not the main thing I see. The main thing is how her face looks."

Vicky smiled.

"So how does my face make me look hot, even if I'm not?"

The old man sipped his scotch and then studied Vicky for a while.

"Well, it's hard to put into words, but it's there. It's your eyes for one thing. They kind of have some fire in them. It's the fire in the eyes that makes for fire in the bed. If you had red hair instead of brown, that'd help too, but your eyes are enough."

"That sounds like a line from a romance novel."

"Wouldn't know about that. Never read one myself. The covers are pretty good though, well the ones with half-naked women anyway. You read many of 'em?"

"No. They're just fantasy. The perfect guy never meets the perfect girl, and they don't live happily ever after. It never works that way in real life."

"It sounds like your speaking from experience."

"Yes, I am."

"He was that bad?"

"Worse than I could have imagined."

"But the second man is better, right?"

"There isn't a second man."

"Why not? I'd think men would be begging a beautiful woman like you to go out with them."

"After Ricky, I couldn't trust my judgement any more. Could we talk about something else?"

"I'm sorry Vicky...it was Vicky, wasn't it? Yeah, that's what I remembered. When you get to be my age, you like to talk, that's all. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Well, I've wasted about enough of your time, so I'd better be going. Is five still all right with you?"

The thought just popped into Vicky's head and she amazed herself when answered with that thought.

"It will be if you tell me your name."

The old man grinned.

"I don't tell many people my name, but I like you, so I'll tell you. It's Bryce."

Vicky watched him walk out the door. His shirt was different, but his jeans and boots were the same. So was his face, well, not different really, but she'd looked closer today. The first day she'd figured he was just an old man who lived in the area and decided to stop off for a drink. Though they'd talked quite a bit, she hadn't really looked at him. Today she had.

When he was twenty, he'd probably have made a young girl's heart skip a beat or two. Now, he was still a handsome man in sort of a rugged way. His face looked strong with the firm chin and his eyes were deep blue pools. When he'd talked about her being hot, the laugh lines around his eyes and the sparkle in them told her he was truly enjoying himself. When he'd asked about her marriage, his eyes and face had turned kind and understanding.

She'd thought he was joking when he asked where she'd been when he was thirty. Now, she found herself wishing she'd been thirty when he was thirty.

Over the next three months, Bryce came into the bar at three thirty every day except Sunday when it was closed, and every day, Vicky poured his shot of Glenfiddich. Every day they talked while he sipped his scotch.

After a month, Vicky caught herself looking at the clock to see if it was time for him to come in, and if he was even a minute late, she started to worry. After two months, she started polishing a shot glass at three twenty five, and poured the shot at three twenty nine. Bryce would walk through the door, sit down on the stool and pick up the glass as if he'd just set it down. He always started the conversation with the same question.

"So, how's my Vicky doing today? Fighting off the men would be my guess."

Vicky would laugh and say, "in my dreams", and Bryce would chuckle.

"You and I must have the same dreams then, 'cause I'm always chasing you in mine. Don't know what I'd do if I ever caught you."

After that, the conversation would continue as it would. Sometimes it was more of them teasing each other. Sometimes it was more serious. The last Saturday in August it was serious.

Bryce sipped his scotch, then looked at Vicky.

"Vicky, I have to go out of town for a while. It might be a month or so before I get back. You're closed on Sunday. Could I buy you dinner on Sunday night?"

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Well, I keep telling you I like you. I just thought I'd show you I really do. Where do you like to eat?"

Vicky laughed.

"I usually eat in my kitchen. I don't like being in a restaurant by myself, and besides, it costs too much to eat out."

Bruce smiled.

"Well we could do that, I guess. I could have something delivered. Not pizza, though, or mexican. I used to be able to eat both, but when you get to be my age your stomach doesn't take too well to all the spices. Maybe Chinese? I know a great little Chinese place that delivers."

Vicky later thought she must be getting old too because she kept saying what she was thinking.

"I'm not a big fan of Chinese food. Tell you what. Instead of you taking me out, what if I make us dinner? It'll be like a going away party for you."

Bryce grinned.

"You're inviting me to your house. Wow. That hasn't happened to me in years. I accept. Do you want me to bring anything?"